A GLASS OF WINE
He's in quite a mood tonight. He can feel the familiar pin pricks of nostalgia pervading upon his consciousness as he takes a sip of the fragrant burgundy.
Magnifique!
The bittersweet tang of finely aged wine bleeds through his senses. The scent. The taste. The all too familiar laxness burrowing into bones as he all but melts into the couch – pajama bottoms and all.
He is comfy.
Cozy.
Warm.
Feeling oddly poetic.
All the more fuel to make the fire of nostalgia burn.
Amongst the gray fog he will wait
Full of emerald fire with a glow so faint
Held by brambles and rocks so sharp
His voice echoes with enmity like a broken harp
His memory sings of untamed lands and marsh.
Bright feral eyes of youth snarling and hissing like an angry wildcat, his strange tone drips with unintelligible words of what he can only assume to be dislike.
"Who are you?" Gaul asks, his blue eyes never daring to stray. The eyes shine through the mist, curious and suspicious. He dares to take a slow cautious step further into the coiling gray of shadows and greens, the child backs away bristling in turn.
"I mean no harm!" he calls out only to receive a low warning growl as twin fires throw him a baleful glare. His voice snarls – far too small to be a sign of any harm.
At least, that was he thought at first. Scrawny. Short. His head akin to a nest full of leaves and twigs. His eyebrows, very heavily defined.
Little did he know of the chaos that wild child will bring upon the world – it was rather unnerving to be honest, for such a small thing to grow so big.
"You don't belong here!" the strange child says, surprising Gaul of his clarity for Gaul does not speak this land's language.
So how, he wonders only to realize why.
A nation, just like me, he realizes, now, full of awe and wonderment. He rarely accompanies Rome on his journeys across the waters – preferring to listen to the romanticized tales of wilderness and savagery (a woman with eyes as green and feral as the child before him... clashing swords and angry sneers as her long braided hair whip around like a vicious snake with each flurried strike of her spear) – he was happy that he did.
He looks up, suddenly realizing his wandering thoughts only to his disappointment, find the strange nation gone.
They met again, under Rome's house and rule –the child more sullen than angry. More bitter than feral. Different in a certain sense, but still very much recognizable. A bit taller. More flesh on the bones. Unusually silent. Eyes still bright green yet less of the burning fire he saw on that one foggy day when he ventured briefly out of Rome's sight.
He no longer hears the stories of the wild woman with green eyes.
The years pass and shift, they grow and change. They acquaint themselves with each other to the point of eerie familiarity.
Promises.
Broken promises.
Rarely kept ones.
Their dynamic becomes ever so confusing and connected.
Until this day, he continues to insist.
I regret nothing.
Gone was the light once bright
Squashed and trampled by hate and fright
Bitter seeds the once pure heart now dark had sown
Crushed away by a creature of mint and magic blown
Eyes half-lid immersing in centuries old memories of Gaul and Albion, he takes time to follow the strands of the past, deeply meshed and twisted by age.
He hates feeling so old.
He hates how reminiscent he becomes on such unexpected times.
He hates how he never seems to be able to fully let go of the past despite the passing centuries.
But then again, the act is a commonality among their kind.
Like Angleterre's magical friends, for example.
England is a child of magic and it will be a very cold day in Hell if he ever decides to renounce their existence. In fact, it is ever clear that those creatures hold a special place in the island nation's heart – perhaps the only place left within him that is untouched and child-like.
France still has the Sight and he knows. He still sees the glowing lights fluttering about England's land and how the nation is almost always accompanied by a flying mint-colored rabbit if he is home.
He always had a thing for rabbits, he muses, recalling at the images of a smiling child surrounded by lights and glitter. His lips curl into a small smile when the memory lingers on the day Albion met his first rabbit. It was the first time he saw the child genuinely smile for something so non-magical.
He should have known to treasure such things. For such smiles are long gone.
"You are awfully quiet, Albion," he observes, fully expecting – at the very least – a bristling retort only to meet still cold silence in turn.
He frowns, the wistful smile now gone. He remembers that night all too well. Rome carrying a bleeding Albion after the child nation ran away again. He recalls the thundering beats of his heart, afraid for the unconscious boy.
"Get some clean water and bandages," Rome orders them (Hispania and he) as he places Albion on the bed. They quickly scurry away, fearful of Rome's stern tone and dark look.
One always knows when the Roman Empire was angry.
Not the type to keep emotions at bay. Always loud, expressive and rude.
It is when he is quiet that one should worry, for there is nothing more frightening than a brooding empire waiting to explode.
His usual grinning features gone, his dark brows furrow while his lips thin with unspoken emotions. Albion's eyes flutter open, his lets out a loud grating gasp and a cough so strong his small frame shakes.
"Leave us!" Rome barks, dismissing them with a stern glare as he shut the door behind them.
To this day, France still doesn't know what exactly happened. Only inklings, never the full story. It was only centuries later that England hinted that it was a family matter and he shouldn't bother with such things for the British Isles are actually getting along nowadays– if you call constant jibes and wrestling matches 'getting along'.
"Gaul, do you fear death?" Albion asks, startling him. It's been more than a week since Albion spoke to him. His voice detached and cold, his gaze straying into some far away land – it made him uncomfortable.
"W-What? W-Why would you ask such a thing?"
"Why should I not?" he quips with one thick brow arching in question. "Are you not curious?"
Because it is horribly morbid of you and no, I am not curious, he wants to say but refrains.
Death is a rather uncomfortable topic for young nations. They inherently know they cannot die so easily, but they have no desire or curiosity to experience it.
"It was horribly painful you know, dying I mean," Albion confesses, a sliver of vulnerability appears only to be hidden away by the slight tilt of the head and haughty demeanor.
He pales at the admission, "y-you mean, Rome –"
"Rome? Ha!" Albion scoffs, "I wish," he whispers more to himself as he shifts his gaze towards the distance only to narrow and darken with such bitter hate.
It took a long time for England to regain his usual vocal attitude. However, instead of finding new ways of crossing the wall, he was usually found venturing into the deep forests and never returning for days on end.
Rome was unusually lenient with those little adventures unlike in the past where England was all but shackled to the room to prevent him from escaping and joining his savage brothers.
"Leave him be," Rome says as he spies his worried gaze.
"He will come back when he is ready," he adds and Gaul only nods, curious of Albion's new found freedom.
One day he decides to follow him. Into the deep dark woods full of mist and shadows, he hides behind a thick tree full of moss and age. He gasps at the sight before him– hundreds of lights swirling about, along with the sound of laughter.
It was him, dancing with bright green eyes and happy.
Actually happy.
How long has it been since I saw him smile? How long has it been since actually talk? How long – he asks himself so many questions only to feel his chest burn as a heavy weight settles at the pit of his stomach when he fails to recall any recent date of it.
He turns back, leaving Albion with his fae.
The next day, when Albion returned, he forcibly shoved food down his throat and told him to eat because he looks like walking stick. Albion growled and he growled back.
It erupted into a wrestling match and ended in bruises.
The laughter and the teasing came later.
Much later.
"Gaul… going to the woods for a few days… want to come?"
Amongst the lands and riches be
He grew and grew but never free
Caged by shackles none could see
Only to be freed by the songs of the sea
He cannot deny that every nation has had their moments of arrogance and conceit. They cannot deny that. Even the young ones cannot deny that.
But their arrogance today is nothing compared to that of the past. Europe is a prime model of it. They were powerful immortals with heady influence at the mere touch of their finger tips. Worshipped and prayed upon like living deities.
It does not take a genius to figure out that such monotony brews of idle and strange thoughts.
On England's case, it was him leaving his unsuspecting Welsh brother in charge to go on gallivanting on pirate ships stealing gold and leaving a trail of broken hearts (human and nations alike) with each passing port.
He is no fool. He does not call the man the 'Erotic Ambassador' for nothing.
He reveled in his freedom. He thrived in the chaos. For the first time in a long time, he allowed the shackles of nationhood to break as he fell head long into the red abyss of lust and adventure.
It was just the world needed, rampant teenage nations, he snorts recalling how it was not only England alone that fell prey to the beckoning sounds of freedom. There was Spain. Prussia. Portugal. Almost everyone decided to take a little break from nationhood.
"You were all a bunch of self-entitled dicks."
As America so eloquently puts it.
The pot calling the kettle black, are we not Amerique?
The glass clinks. The wine pours. He cannot help but note how much redder real blood truly is. Wine looks far too thin and feels far too cold to be blood. It does not cake and flake. Nor does it burrow under your nails and cling to your skin after a long hard battle. It does not linger for centuries on end, no matter how many baths, lotions and soaps one uses – the scalding thick sticky feeling of it in your hands remains.
Wine stains.
Blood.
Blood taints.
He holds his hand up against the fire and wonders if his fellow nations feel it too.
He finds him. Away from the clanging chaos of battle. Away from the pained cries of their men. Away from the river of blood painting the deck dark.
In a different time and era, he would have deigned a greeting. His fingers curl upon the sword hilt as he rushed for the attack taking in the nation's unprepared counter. His lips curl his teeth bare and sharp as he drove into the weak defense.
"How like you, to be so defenseless, mon lapin."
England snarls –full of indignation and bite. The sight delights him as he pressed the blade further against his enemy's blade.
"Come now, no one likes a poor loser. Just admit it and accept you fate as French territory," he croons, his voice soft and sweet with a hint of reprimand.
Oh, how those emerald fires burned.
Of course, in his brief distracted observation, England manages to get a better grip and push him back. But not before gracing him with a butt to the head.
And practically everyone knows just how hard-headed the little island nation can be.
I still have the bumps to prove it, he chuckled in momentary amusement.
He lets out a groan of pain, momentarily blinded as the smaller nation takes advantage delivering a swift kick to the side sending him breathless.
He hears his ribs creak and crack. England wastes no time and tackles him reversing their positions.
"The Hell I will. But perhaps you will become English territory for me, Frog," England whispers breathy and rough against his ear, he gasps when long rough fingers wraps around his throat. Their eyes meet – too close, too intimate – and for a moment he lost himself in the swirl of emeralds and gold.
"Yield."
He grins and rasps.
"Never."
Bit by bit did the ice slowly melt
Emotions once foreign now eagerly felt
Only to be crushed by harsh destiny
Gone again the light till perhaps, infinity
He was never the same after Elizabeth. When his beloved queen died, his grief was so palpable even from across La Manche.
He grew more isolate and taciturn as the days passed.
Never a good sign when it comes to him.
It didn't help matters when he was to serve a Scottish king in her place. He even demonstrated his displeasure by taking up piracy once more.
"Fitting, is it not? I took the seas for her and I return to it for her."
The king welcomed it – allowing him to take his grief to the seas instead of the delicacies of court politics.
It took a few years before anyone realized that he truly meant to give up his nation and people.
The very thought of England fading into the waves like foam makes his heart twist.
It took a navy and a year's worth of searching before the British brothers managed to drag him back to English soil.
But perhaps his greatest hurt came from Alfred.
Not America. Not the nation. But the boy who smelled of sunshine and wheat. The boy who smiles so bright and hugs so tight your ribs threaten to crack. Yes, that boy.
"Why are you here?" violet eyes narrow in suspicion as he gives the young colony a small smile.
"A visit," he explains making the boy frown and glare. He quickly notes how similar Matthieu can be to Arthur when angered or offended. They sport they same glare and distinctive scowl.
"That look does not fit you, mon petite," he chides hoping to lighten up the mood.
"Why are you here France?" he speaks as cold venom drips, "have you and America not done enough? The revolution was won, now leave him be!"
France tries coaxing once more, and to his surprise, the colony refused to budge.
"No."
"I'm not going to hurt him, Matthieu."
The child scoffs.
"Of course not, you already did!" he barks as he slams the door to his former guardian's face leaving him in the cold.
Yet he grew still ever ruthless and cold
The sun never setting, the stories told
All harshness and angles, softness gone
So much damage, they remained undone
"It is not like you to be so lost in thought, Amerique," he says, watching the blue eyes brighten with alertness, no longer fogged and muddled by unspoken brooding.
"Is something wrong?" his brows furrow with worry, as the usually talkative nation kept mum.
"They won't talk to me. Mattie won't even let me near him anymore. Arthur doesn't even bother showing his face," he admits as his eyes darken with memories of harsh rejection.
"Aren't you trading now?" he asks, confused how Arthur managed to keep his distance from the young nation.
He expected a lot of bristling from England's end. Harsh words and sharp glares. Never cold indifference. Especially with a child he had held so dear, but then again…
Is it not whom we love the most who are the hardest to forgive? he thinks, briefly going back deeper into the past when England spoke those three words to him.
"I hate you."
"Good, I hate you too."
That fateful event sparked a litany of wars, betrayal and tears. Scars and blood. Victory and sacrifice. History has marked them. Conjoined their destinies into one strange tapestry of alliance and animosity.
For they are England and France.
It is written upon their lands and their people.
They fight together and against each other.
Entente Cordiale. A Cordial Agreement.
"I'm trading with the British Empire. I'm more likely to see all three of them together than him. They don't like me either," Alfred frowns, dejection clear upon his features. He reaches out, gently patting the boy's back as Alfred chokes out a sob clearly near his limit of holding his emotions in.
"They said I went too far," his jaw tightens as his hands curl into tight balls on his lap.
"I hardly think Arthur's brothers are the best source considering how their relations are with him," he scoffs and frowns, "Hush… hush, I am sure England with come to terms with your separation from him. You will grow and he will learn and move on. Take it from me, that little rabbit will come around," he assures, gathering the upset boy in his arms allowing him to take shelter, away from politics and conflict, it is just him and Alfred.
After their moment of comforting silence, he speaks.
"Do you regret it? Fighting for your independence."
"What! No! Of course not, it's just that –"
"Then, there's your answer. I'll be blunt Alfred. Relationships are never solid. Our kind does not have that luxury. Enemies today allies tomorrow, it is hard but we must learn to accept how fickle humans can be."
Yes, the life of a nation is both beautiful and cruel. They will have the luxury of seeing their people rise and improve. Weather out the harshest storms, stomp out the wildest of fires. They get to see humanity's highest moments as well as its lowest and most cruel.
"Mattie called me America. He never –"
"Alfred."
"I just want my brother back, Francis. I. want. him. back."
"And you will. Listen, you were both hurt during the war. You both bear wounds and scars. They may hurt now but they will heal. Just give it time."
"And Arthur?"
"Only time will tell, mon petite. Only time…"
He never had the heart to tell him that England had always been the most cruel and unforgiving when hurt. He knows where to punch, push and poke. Never enough to break, but just the right pressure and barb to make one's heart clench and bleed.
And one day his sleeping heart awoke
Beating, damaged and broke
Tears fell like steady streams
Eyes opened to the sight of moonbeams
The World Wars changed them all. A change so sudden that everything went off kilter and continued spinning until every single one of them was on the floor confused and trying to figure out what in the world was happening.
Some were ripped apart, wounds corroding and marking through their flesh as they scream and beg for everything to stop. Some rose better than ever.
They remember the times when such things pumped more adrenaline and heat through them like nothing else. Now, now, war held nothing but nightmares and blood.
Bombs.
Trenches.
Camps.
Everything was chaos. He felt himself fall.
Hard.
Trampled and broken underneath surrender and defeat.
His wounds bled and festered like a cancer spreading through his veins as his people fell back and hide.
La Résistance française.
That was his only reminder that he was still fighting. He did not just lie down to lick Germany's boots. He did not fully surrender. A part of him was still fighting.
Still alive.
He wakes up bandaged and bruised. He could feel his infected wounds closing up and the bleeding stop. His blue eyes flicker open, gauging the scene before him.
Paris.
He was in his capital. Another contribution to his recovery. He takes one harrowing breath, the air felt different for some reason, lighter, fresher.
A ridiculous thought.
Maybe this is all a dream, he concludes as he notices the flowers perched at bedside – red roses and white lilies. He thinks.
His vision was still patchy and blurred, a lot things happened in those camps and he prefers not to delve further into those dark dark times.
"You're an idiot."
It was a harsh rough whisper barely audible in his current state but despite that his body already reacts towards the other nation's presence.
Angleterre. He takes in the fellow nation, he looked unusually healthy. Bright green eyes, he was thinner sure, but he still had that posture of superiority and confidence France no longer has the energy to sport. He looked well, healing and fighting.
To be honest, he didn't know if he should feel happiness or anger. Happy Britain is alive and well or angry because he is. It is so damning, how he, the one who gave up ended up worse than the one who struggled and fought through the bombs and rationing.
"Don't. Stupid, Frog! Do you have any idea what you put us through?" displeasure vibrates through his frame as he continues to rant about his cowardice and inability to follow through the plan. "You were to meet me in London. You were supposed to be there! You told me! You promised me! Dammit Francis I thought –
He thought what? he wonders as he took notice of the strange inflection and gasp that cut of the rest of the sentence. He looks again, a bit harder, a bit longer and sees. A tiny spark of vulnerability and worry, a bit of the edge and roughness pushed away for him to discover just how badly weakened and hurt England was.
I'm sorry.
"No, don't you dare give me that look. You are not sorry. You are never sorry. Just rest up, hopefully, you'll recover better now that you're here." He bends down to fluff his pillows, France catches the bandaged chest and bruises. Now that he's nearer he could make out the redness of his eyes and the gauntness of his pale features.
England was not well.
"I'm going out to run some errands, I'll see you in a bit," he says before grabbing his cane – grip firm and steady for support – and took leave.
It was just moments after Arthur returned with a bag of croissants did he notice that he never spoke a single word since he woke up and that England, proud haughty England, spoke to him in prefect French.
Dreams and reality mix
All knew there was no easy fix
None can tell how this story so strange will end
Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend.
The pen dips against the paper eliciting a crinkling sound along with the soft snaps and cracks of firewood, the ink stains its thin surface as he ended the verse. His lips move in silent whispers, mouthing a words as it rolls out upon his thoughts.
"Never thought of you to be so depressingly poetic, Frog."
He starts and turns, meeting a pair of curious bright emeralds while he fights through the stutter that threatens to spill from his mouth.
"A-Ah, mon lapin. Home so early," he grins, face flushed and warm, whether it's from the wine or the mere prospect of his poetry being read without his notice by the very subject of it, he does not know.
"It's almost midnight you dolt," he points out while Francis casually steals a glance at the old grandfather clock at the corner. His eyes widen in realization.
Mon Dieu.
"Oh my, I must have been too lost in thought to notice," he laughs it off, gracefully evading the scrap of poetry held between the other nation's clutches. How it got from his lap to its current destination is a mystery to him.
The wine is getting to me.
"This is unusual of you, Frog. I expected you to be in bed, hogging all the blankets and leaving me to freeze my balls off," he says crudely as he shook off his coat and scarf but still leaves the Frenchman with a few layers to undress.
"Honhonhon, I am flattered mon lapin, you know me so well."
A tie slips through his fingers as he playfully curled his arms around the other's waist.
"You're not spying on me, are you?" he teases, pulling Arthur closer making their eyes meet while their forehead brush and their breaths mingle.
The belt buckle chinks.
"Please, you're just horribly predictable," he scoffs but he slips his arms around the other.
"Am I now?" he smiles – soft and gentle – and pulls away with the piece of wrinkled ink stained paper held between his fingers.
Success!
"We both know the real answer to that," he snorts and moves in to grab some of Francis' wine while he gives the Frenchman a long contemplating look.
We aim to be predictably unpredictable.
Arthur sighs and takes a sip, "You worry too much sometimes".
"Maybe you're rubbing off on my rosbif," he teases making the other scoff and tell him not to think too much or his brain with fry.
"Oh? Yours must have been burnt into cinders then… just like everything you cook," he counters, and Arthur smacks him lightly on the shoulder as he casts him an irritated glare.
"You're pushing it, Francis."
"Desole, mon coeur, old habits die hard," he shrugs and takes the glass from Arthur and pours himself more wine but not before leaving a quick kiss upon the Englishman's lips.
"True… but for the record, your story does have a better ending," Arthur says as he hold up the paper, Francis reaches and Arthur steps back, pulling out a pen and scribbling on it before handing it back to him.
Francis reads.
His heart flutters and swells.
"Believe it or not, France, I did get my happy ending. And I am more than willing to go through the rest. Happy or otherwise," Arthur whispers, his hand warm against his cheek as he sports those rare smiles of his before taking the glass and draining it dry.
"Now, I'm tired and we both need to sleep," he declares and tugs at Francis' sleeve.
"Bed, now."
Francis smiles and follows.
The next day, he wakes up to read it again. Trace his fingers over the stains and marks of ink and smiles.
Dreams and reality mix
All knew there was no easy fix
(None can tell how this story so strange will end
Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend.)
Yet this strange twisted story did end
A happy finish of love and cheer none can contend.
-end-
A/N: This is my FrUK Gift Exchange for theawesomehero on Tumblr. I apologize for any overlooked mistakes in grammar and spelling.
