Pour Toujour

Inspired by a Prompt fill in Tumblr of Axiul's. I didn't see a fic like this or the plot ends up this way, so if I am copying an another idea, then, I am completely sorry. I assure you I was not aware if there is.

England twisted his wrist in a fluid circular and gentle motion as he tapped the tea bag against the delicate china, the silver teaspoon tinkling. Scooping and pressing the tea bag against the glass ware, extracting the herbal essence and flavor, his senses were soothed by the musky and heeding scent of his favorite beverage. With practiced fingers, he dropped two sugar cubes and a dollop of milk into the hot beverage, making little to no splash as the two sweeteners hit the liquid with a soundless plop.

He lifted his teacup with ease, his pale long and slender pinkie jutted out as his standards of etiquette demanded –but really, it was just out of centuries induced habit of his. The rest of his fingers curled against the rim, not at all minding the steaming and scalding liquid inside the cup, he moved with practiced ease across his lonely manor. Along the way, he had picked up a copy of one of the thick leather bounded novels that was gathering dust at the third shelf of his library, cradling it on the crook of his arm, simply and content on relishing in the solitude in his simple two-story Victorian home at the suburban Brook Green, London.

He made it to his parlor, easing himself into his favorite rustic Wing-back armchair, which is still incredibly comfortable even after years of use. Humming slightly as he set his warm tea on the side table at his right. Curling into the spacious chair, covering his legs with a plaid and multicolored quilt, he opened the olden novel, crinkling his nose as dust particles flew at the slightest of wind. He had turned on the lamp and had opened his windows beforehand, the gusty spring winds caressed his short ashen and messy hair into slightly knotted tangles, tickling his cheeks.

Time passed, absorbed into the novel full of fantasy and mystery, he jumped at the familiar and beloved ringtone of 'God Save the Queen' at his phone, which was in his pocket, he frowned, grumpily wondering who on Earth could that be. He slid off his previous position of his legs folded below him and his back hunched and was supported by a peach tasseled throw pillow. Peeling the warmth of the quilt off him, silently groaning at the loss of the perfect comfort it had provided. He fished out his phone, his eyes focused in alarm at the caller ID. 'Prime Minister' it said, its bold white letters shining clearly in his face in contrast of the filtered dimming darkness of his room as clouds outside loomed in.

He pressed the 'accept call button', holding the phone to his ears. "Hello? Arthur Kirkland speaking."

His Prime Minister draw in a nervous breath, her exhalation rattled the line, "Arthur?"

"Stupid frog." England grumbled to himself as he jiggled the spare keys of Francis' home - which hidden was under the second pot of Rose shrubbery to his left. He dusted off his clothes, partly tired from his restless trip on the Eurostar. He adjusted his grey waist coat, fumbling slightly over the large porpoise buttons and fussing over his dark jacket. He grimaced at the sight of Francis' home, a three story modest manor, with a front lawn graced with roses and lilies.

"Frog!" He banged the door, its wood rattling on its hinges. He frowned deeply when Francis did not even so answer. The house was completely silent. He banged the door again, waiting for Francis to make any response before using the spare key.

"Frog? France? Francis! Get your arse off to whatever inanimate object has the unfortunate fate of your flat arse on its face and open the fucking door!"

He sighed, it seems that the frog was being his stubborn wine wanker self, refusing to answer. He whammed the door extra hard, "Alright Frog," He yelled through the door, "Whether you like it or not, I'm coming right in!"

He unlocked the door with a click, its sound resonating throughout the eerily silent home, he frowned a little deeper, his thick eyebrows furrow in genuine concern. The hallway was dark and still, the noon sun filtered through the opened door, making his shadow on the pale walls of Francis' abode. He walked through the hall, his light steps reverberate in the absolute stillness, making him shudder and tense his form.

He gripped the long baguette that he had bought along the way, thinking that the frog enjoy some-NO. He does not care for that pontificial amphibian, he was just... a gentleman, yes, the perfect English gentleman, who had soley thought on being polite, not that he would stoop that low. The pale brass coloured pastry was squeezed in a death grip as if seeking out reassurance. He put his suitcase by the wall, leaning it on the table that stood there.

Blithely and stealthily creeping through the halls, using the baguette as if it was a sword, his mouth curling in dreadful anticipation. Treading faintly, barely making any sound, except for his quiet breathing, he turned to the right, checking the living room for any signs of France, seeing there is none, he proceeded to do the same things with the overgrown blonde Kermit's beloved large and untouched kitchen and grandiose yet barren dining area.

With every step he took, he felt his heart beating loudly, blood whizzing by his ears, the pool of dread in his stomach intensified. Walking in a sidle manner, he climbed up the stairs, pausing every three steps to observe and hear anything. On halfway through the flight of stairs, that was when he heard something.

Thud.

Hurrying up his pace, he tensed his arms, holding his baguette in an offensive stance. He placed his hand on the porcelain colored wall, steadying himself. Then there was another thud, he froze and held his breath. He then heard groaning from down the hall, Arthur ran towards the sound, quickly finding it to be the door on the end of the corridor- Francis' bedroom.

"Ah, shit" He muttered under his quietest breath.

He drew in a shuddering breath, wishing not for the first time for a gun. He kicked down the door, panting heavily, ready to strike out if necessary with the long hard bread that the French had prided so. But the sight that greeted him made him falter.

There was a young boy, around the age of seven or so, with golden long hair and a pair of azure eyes that looked unto him with surprise and fear. The boy was wearing a blue tee that was clearly too big for his petite frame, then familiarity struck him, that was Francis' shirt. He stood still in silence and gaping at the boy. The boy took a step back, whimpering under his breath, then Arthur realizes that he was still using the baguette as if it was a threatening weapon. He lowered the pastry, clearing his throat awkwardly, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment.

He slowly approached the boy, frowning when the boy flinched but did not move. He knelt gently in a fluid motion as if he was approaching a cornered animal. He swallowed and drinking in the frighteningly familiar features of the small child, a young and repressed memory played in his head of green untouched vast meadows and a swirling blue tunic and haughty yet tinkling laughter reached his ears. He then spoke in a small gentle but unsure voice.

"Francis?"

The boy's eyes widen in surprise but then quelled back, sparks of fear taking over his eyes, he whimpered, "Etiam?" who was this strange man?

Arthur went blank for a second before wiring his mind for a translation.

Yes.

He shocked himself by on how instinctive on how he had interpreted the word was before slapping himself and internally cursing for his stupidity on not remembering that the word was Latin.

How could he forget on how he would always run away from the elderly bishop, screaming at him to attend latin classes but Arthur avoided the mortal man like a plague in favor of frolicking his days on the vast green meadows and bask under the light of the golden sun, stumbling upon France along the way, who was making a long daisy chain among the dewy grass. The older nation would pout, his eyes would focus on him and a delicate eyebrow raised before bursting with melodious laughter and teasing him on his escapades.

Arthur felt a sigh of relief left him, his eyes boring into the mauve ones. He then whispered the word, the name whose bearer had always been there for him, his joyful and carefree childhood days revolved around it. "Gaul?"

The child whimpered once more, taking a step backward. He repeated in a smaller voice, "Etiam?"

Arthur stowed away the baguette, putting the bread on a nearby vanity desk. He smiled slightly at the child, "Don't worry, poppet." He said soothingly and gently. "I am like you."

Arthur chuckled ruefully, not quite believing the sight before him, bringing a hand to run through his messy hair, his verdant eyes sparkling, grinning boyishly.

Francis' eyes widen considerably at the sight, flushing slightly at the strange yet incredibly handsome man. Francis bit his lip, leaning into his right leg, the dark shirt he wore swished around his ankles. The French nation was then suddenly filled with a sense of familiarity, then it hits him. Absinthe irises, short ashen hair and frighteningly familiar bushy eyebrows. Mon Dieu...

The English nation, rubbed his neck and held out his hand, "Don't be afraid, poppet. My name is-"

The young child held his hand shyly. Arthur froze, taking in the softness of the golden hand in contrast to his pale and calloused one, he have never thought to see the day for France to be that bashful, he always thought that the frog never had even the audacity to blush bright vermilion in his whole stupidly long immortal life. The French nation smiled a toothy grin, pink still dusting his cheeks, he softly said, "Albion..."

Arthur froze, it had been far too long since he had called by that. Francis smiled.

After contacting the French government and the DGSE using his phone, he immediately checked France for any injuries.

"Are you hurt?" Arthur asked the shrunken nation, emerald eyes boring into the cerulean ones, dead serious.

Francis continued to stare, drinking in the sight of the now bigger country, before gulping and nodding in shy affirmation. The Englishman pursed his lips and glanced at the French frog's room. The room was in a pale ivory color, a king-sized bed with mussed red wine bed sheets and ruby comforters that were on the brink of falling over the bedside, the desk by the alabaster white french window remained untouched, there were empty wine glasses littered on the side table, some filled with water.

It was dark in the spacious bedroom and noon sunlight filtered through the panes feebly. Arthur turned back to the other nation, seeing that the nation was staring at him in such intensity that made him blush, he instinctively scowled and lightly glare at the child. Francis in return smirked at him slightly, yet Arthur fully know on what does it mean.

Child or not child, the French Kermit was still the same overbearing pompous peacock of a frog that lived to both annoy him and tease him. And in return, the English nation lived to curse and wage war against the haughty and supercilious troglodyte. And love him.

Arthur blinked rapidly in bewilderment at the traitorous thoughts before scowling in extreme and desperate denial, his cheeks warming up again against his will.

Francis had no recollection of the man before him. The last thing he remembers was sleeping in his quilted and woolen bed in his humble cottage at the Normandy countryside after day spent with a certain little English barbarian across the channel, who had scowled and cursed at him for ruining his land with his 'uncouth and boorish' presence - but the little cloaked Britannic province of Rome accompanied him into the proliferous brise-soleil leaves of the nearby jaded forest in search of wild berries anyway.

But seeing the man scowling, his slightly rounded yet defined cheekbones were red, the very familiar scowl were on the very same soft pink lips, and the bushy eyebrows furrowed in their own anger, the French nation was absolutely reassured that the man was completely and undoubtedly his little Albion.

Arthur snapped out of his traitorous-thoughts-were-not-absolutely-true, he focused his mind on how on earth did the French wino became his seven year old self again?

He turned to the boy, pursuing and jutting his lips once more. He said in an unsure tone, carefully choosing his words. "Francis, what is the last thing you remembered before...waking up in this home?"

Francis paused for a moment, remembering hard. "Well, before I woke up this...strange place, " The French nation said 'strange' warily, "The last thing I remembered was that I was going to sleep after spending the day with little barbarous Albion," The boy received a glare at the statement, making him chuckle before continuing. "We were doing the usual teasing, our banters and such and spent the day picking wild berries...I could distinctly remember him calling me an 'uncultured depraved plebeian' on that day." The boy raised an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation at that rude insult.

Arthur was trying to keep a straight face, chuckling internally. He let out a small snort before disguising it to be a cough, he congratulated his four year old self for that wonderful insult, it was quite good, considering his young mind.

Francis cleared his throat, crossing his arms and huffing in anger. Arthur bit his lip, "Err...Right. Well, let's see... Don't you remember..." the Englishman bit his lip in thought, trying to search an event that the French nation would remember. "...the Norman Invasion?"

Francis shook his head.

"The French revolution?"

Arthur swallowed thickly, "The American Revolution?" Without looking at the child, he continued listing events.

He then began to narrate in a ramble, "The Hundred Years War? Waterloo? World war I? World war II? The German Blitz?"

With each listed event, the French nation just looked at him as if he had grown eight heads.

He then took a pause, drawing a shallow breath, his stomach churning, making him nauseous. He was getting desperate, he wanted to know if France had remembered anything.

"Jeanne?"He pointedly looked away, steeling himself for the undaunted anger, closing his eyes in fear for the sight of the grief-stricken face of France.

There, he said it, he dropped the ultimate bomb.

It was quiet for a moment, Arthur continued to pointedly look away. Then a small yet incredibly smooth hand touched his balled fists in a gentle sweeping motion, thumbing his wrist. The English nation turned back to the child in surprise who looked at him with a very puzzled expression, his head tilted slightly in question.

'France doesn't remember anything. Francis does not remember.' Arthur thought in a daze.

France tugged the hand of the mysteriously grown Albion, confused and greatly concerned with the man's stupor. Albion was wearing a strange collection of clothes, black breeches, a white short tunic with a collar, and somewhat a vest that is tight fitted and is not leather- it looked soft, it must be fabric, with strange large fumbling buttons attached, how strange indeed.

"Francis, do you remember me?"

Francis perked at the attention, and answered it with a childlike innocence -even though the imperious French simpleton was not even the slightest. "Of course!" He then falters in thought. "Of course! I think... You act like my little Albion, stubborn, barbarous," The French nation received a scathing glare, to which the boy just chuckled once more. "You are obdurate and conceited. Your hair, your eyes, and your broussailleux brows are identical with my little Albion. You must be him!"

Arthur sighed in weariness, brushing off those indirect insults, he sat at the bed, the sheets rumpling as he sat on it, internally groaning at the satisfying sensation of sitting after a long period of standing. France also followed in suit, capered with a little twirl as he sat beside the English nation.

"Mon petit lapin? Est-ce que tu vas bien? Avez-vous finalement été fâché?"

"Don't call me that, you narcissistic dimwit." That was all Arthur had cared to answer.

"So you're not?" Francis whined with a playful disappointed tone.

"Shut it, you deviant cretin."

England finally stepped back into English soil, giving him that refreshing surge of energy that made him less tired than he originally was. Stepping out of the cabbie, the driver who was a forty year old man, accepted the fee without a fuss. The man grumbled as he unload his suitcase and a knapsack that he had packed before leaving that frog land that everyone calls France, not referring the lovely people, but the unlovely personification. In the knapsack, he had packed numerous olden tunics and a few and only breeches that France had owned from their childhood time, which were found in the frog's attic, stowed away, gathering a five hundred years worth of dust.

Francis was now in his arms, his head resting on his shoulders, his long marigold hair spilled over, sleeping as innocently as France could. He had knocked out France with a strong sleeping spell since the child was getting pretty annoying and flaunt-y.

He was pretty sure that this was illegal and under the category of kidnapping, but at the moment, he did not care - and no one really knows about it, so he was good.

"Sir, where to put it?"

Arthur turned to the driver, smiling gratefully. The man was silent and an old-fashioned, had a burly figure and speaks gruffly.

"Just here, thank you." England gestured to his side.

"Alright, I'll take my leave."

"Farewell."

"Goodbye also."

The driver stepped into his cab, driving into the busy road ahead without another word, leaving both nations on their own. Arthur looked around the neighborhood, it was fairly deserted save for an elderly couple, clinging to each other on the other side of the sidewalk. Thankfully and miraculously, the sun was out and shining brightly with little specks of clouds dotting the sky and robins were singing a tweeting tune.

Arthur then looked down at the sleeping nation, shifting him around his arms. Surprisingly, the French man - now reduced to be only a boy - was not that at all heavy, light in weight and was slim. Not that he had noticed, he had always liked the French nation's eyelashes. Francis had voluminous lashes- blonde, thick and sweeping, brushing his rosy pinched cheeks and golden complexion, he was certainly not bad looking.

Letting that sink in, he felt his eyes widen and look away in fear of the bursting of warmth on his cheeks- dammit.

'Checking out France? And in his child-weird-transformation-shrunken state? That's a new low, Kirkland. Congratulations.'

France grumbled in his sleep, his grip tightened on his blazer. His golden locks tickling the Englishman's cheeks, his cheeks pressed against the slim yet toned shoulders of the English nation. Arthur sighed and inhaled deeply the spring air, smelling the scent of fresh creek water and mingling lilies that always seems to linger in the air.

"You are tres mignon, mon petit Albion..." Francis whispered in his sleep, dreaming of the rolling hills and autumnal fronds swirling around them, and little Albion sleepily blinking and curling into France's side, France had to look away in fear of his heart bursting in pure happiness, smiling so wide and for so long that it had hurt. He bit his lip to prevent giddy squeals from escaping, his hand curling into Albion's ashen and choppy hair, relishing in the incredible softness.

Meanwhile, Arthur has a hard time on not dropping the fucking child unto the concrete and be done with it.

'That damn frog bastard, always playing with his feelings.'

Arthur blinked once, then twice, then thrice, feeling his cheeks set aflame.

"What do you mean feelings? Feelings, yeah right, pfft. The only feeling I felt for that nitwit is loathing." Arthur declared outloud, biting his lip and adjusting the slumbering child in his arms, it sounded more like he was convincing himself.

"Hmm... Albion, are you talking to your imaginary friends again?" Francis yawned, sleepily blinking at the man. The French nation genuinely did not clearly hear on the musings of the bushy-brow endowed man. 'Was it about fillings? Rye bread with a helpful serving of custard on top sounded good right now.'

Arthur spluttered and glared at the French nation, even the frog was half-asleep, he still finds ways to mock and piss him off. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, his emerald eyes glowed and turned into enchanting shamrock green as he chanted in old English and Latin.

The hair behind Francis' neck stood up, his arms pricked up in goosebumps, his breath hitched. He then fell into the comforting and tranquil darkness of sleep.

Francis woke up to a stray ray of soft late afternoon light, temporarily blinding him as he blinks out the sleep out of his eyes. Rolling out of the bed, he smiled contentedly, his eyes still half lidded with sleep as he nestled into the covers more. Then the pattering of rain echoed through the room, its rhythmic tapping relaxed him, making him close his eyes one more, vaguely aware that sleep has already left him.

So this was what they call a sun shower. How queer.

Then he was aware that this was not his room.

'Where on Dieu's world was he?'

He looked around in blind panic, barely able to keeping his whimpers in. He sat up in a blind haze, staying in the spacious bed, the cream covers falling to his clothed torso, he shivered, the cold biting wind splayed its cold nipping hold unto his arm.

He looked around the room, it was nothing grand, yet it was simple and elegant. It's light daisy colored walls contrasted with the burgundy carpeted floor, a plain bedside table, and a wooden desk.

One thing caught his eye.

It was extremely strange and foreign for Francis to see a painting of some sorts, it was too skilled and perfectly done, its style in incredible detail as if it was under a lifetime of scrutiny and meticulous planning. It was framed in a very delicate looking yet sturdy wooden frame and some kind of hard leather strip balanced it against the oak surface, it was simply fascinating.

The picture shows a man of his early twenty autumns old or so, with cutting and sharp emerald eyes, thick brows, and a pale complexion, his mouth stretched in the slightest for a rueful smile, in the background was a scenic spring morn, the sun framed his lean form in golden and red hues that made him look angelic more than he is.

There was another 'painting' of the green eyed man, wearing a sophisticated striped some kind of long tunic coat, white shirt and a clothed vest. But this time he was not alone, he was flanked by two taller but younger men, both were nearly identical at first glance unless you look deeply. The right one had sky blue eyes, some glass and wired contraption perching on his cleft nose, he had wheat golden hair with a stubborn strand sticking out. While the left one had magenta orbs shying behind the same glass and wired contraption, also perched upon the clefted nose, he had long wavy hair that reached behind of his ear, reminding France of his own yet there was a strand of long curled hair on the top of his head.

Both were very young and very handsome, with chiseled features, square jaws and broad physique.

And the third image again was of the green eyed man and another man, he was a littlest centimeter taller, he had golden skin that glowed in contrast of the paled skin of the other man. The green eyed man was wearing some kind of camouflaged nut brown military uniform, tattered, torn in different places, it was stained with blood, he was wearing patches of bandage on his defined features, he was crying in relief and smiling so widely that Francis thought that the man's face would split into two. While the other golden skinned man was severly injured, his arm in a splint and he was leaning heavily against the shorter man, he had dark bags under his eyes, his cheeks hallowed in malnutrition, the man's long golden hair was ragged and choppy, yet the man was still smiling and his eyes that could rival the ocean twinkled in undaunted relief and happiness.

It was extremely fascinating on how this image was astoundingly done, such skill was unsurpassed, it was too unreal for it to be true. The photo was special, he could feel it. It was unique and worned out fondly, it was not colored but in black and white.

Yet he was able to see the splay of colors that painted the scene. It was like a memory.

After all, Francis had an eye for the finest details and art, he relished himself in indulging of sketching with a inked quil and mixing whatever dyes to form new colors - if he wasn't bothering his petit lapin.

'...Albion?'

Then memories came flooding in, Albion appearing, suddenly as an adult. A day before, if he could remember, he woke in a strange place that terrified him for what seems to be forever, after absorbing in that the room was not his homely and wooden cottage by the Normandy countryside, then Albion who miraculously grown up, bursts into the room with a large and lengthy bread, waving it like a cutlass.

It scared him shitless, and it was quite overwhelming for him to process.

At that time, a knock was on the door, making him jump in surprise, he tensed on the bed and his toes curled in anxiety. The man who had been portrayed at that perfect painting peeked in, his lips in a slack line. Francis froze, staring at the man with fear. The man was not looking at him, Francis thinks that the man was not even aware that he was awake already.

And so, France held his breath.

Author's note:

Etiam- yes (latin) since I think that little France would speak latin since he was a Roman province for a long time during his halycon and childhood days.

DGSE- Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure (Foreign intelligence relating to national security)

broussailleux- bushy (French)

Est-ce que tu vas bien?- Are you alright? (French)

Avez-vous finalement été fâché?- Have you finally gotten mad? (French)

You are tres mignon, mon petit Albion- You are very cute, my little Albion

Ehh, I'll continue to write another day. Least to say, I am extremely exhausted from school, with my level being dubbed to be the hardest and busiest in all of Junior High, so good luck to me. Yay.

By the way, I promise to continue this, the second chapter would be the last one, so in that way I wouldn't be reaaally procastinating like my other fics.

REVIEWS? YESSS.