If anyone had to guess, most would say that England had more work and more diligence than France. Most would say that he does more as a nation and France is just a lazy wine drinking pervert. But they couldn't be more wrong. Delving into their lives would show anyone that France has so much on his plate that he can barely breathe and honestly it's a huge surprise to anyone that he is as flirty and fun and carefree in public as he is. He always looks pristine and beautiful and has a kind way of speaking, even if it is in a more risqué way.
If one were to spend a day in one of their homes whilst both were occupying it, they would see France cooped up in his office with piles of paper and a sore hand along with a sweaty brow and his silky blond hair tied back in a high ponytail. He always scribbles away for hours while England had finished his work that morning and would currently be sipping tea in the kitchen.
This day was no different; the windows left open to let in the summer air as the sheer white curtains puffed up and fluttered with the breeze. England sat in the living room reading an admittedly wonderful novel suggested by America, while France was sitting at the low coffee table beside his feet, swamped with paperwork.
"Why don't you put that down for a while and do something you enjoy? I bought groceries. Go cook something."
"I cannot just abandon these things Arthur, it is important. Plus my boss will absolutely kill me if I don't finish these budget forms by tonight."
"You stress too much. This stuff wouldn't seem as hard if you'd pace yourself."
France let out a sigh and buried his face in his hands, shaking his head and groaning. It was a typical discussion they had and even though they both knew how it would go every time. Surprisingly they did not fight in the house because for some unknown reason, that the other nations have given up on trying to figure out, they get and unnatural urge to diminish each other in front of others. However, here on these quaint summer days they rarely had an argument, opting to simply enjoy one another's company.
England chose not to carry on, instead getting up to put tea on for them both. He at least wanted to take care of the other if he refused to take care of his own self. He thought to himself, as he put the kettle on the stove and leaned against the counter, about how much things had changed. He used to loathe France. His language, his food, his face, his accent, his voice, the way he dressed, everything. It only changed when the Frenchman grabbed his wrist during a fight and kissed him with such a passion that he'd never seen him put forth with any of his other lovers. He never thought that one single instant of contact could make him feel like he was floating, but it did, and it changed everything.
Now, he loved everything that he used to hate, and spending this time with the man he loved was something he'd never give up, even if the other was absorbed in his work a lot of the time.
Once the kettle boiled and the tea steeped, England brought the tea out to the living room to find France's face lying on his paperwork; his eyes slipped shut and his breathing slow and serene. With a chuckle, England set down the cups and grabbed a throw blanket, wrapping it around France's shoulders. Once he was sure the other would not wake up, he went into the bedroom and pulled out his camera, along with the folder of small Polaroid photos that he kept close to his heart. England then went back out into the living room to sit on the floor next to France, sliding under the blanket along with him and reached up to pull the tie from the almost undone ponytail perched on France's head.
After the blond waves fell into the man's face, England brushed the locks away and smiled, taking the time to touch the stubble and soft skin on France's cheeks. He'd always thought he was so pretty.
Then, quickly before the other woke up, England snapped a picture of the sleeping nation, pulling the picture from the slot on the front to wave it around in front of him. When it developed, he grinned and admired it, peeking to the side to look at the real thing.
However, the object of his affections had woken up, staring incredulously at the photo in England's hands.
"Why do you take those photos? And why do you insist on taking them when I am so undesirable?"
England smiled and leaned over to kiss France's nose, carding his fingers through the blond hair.
"You're prettier when you're not trying to impress anyone."