Reaching You
Author's notes: Secret santa gift for Findus on tumblr. Propt: FrUk, Historical, Friendship, allies.
December 23rd 2018
He arrives at exactly 11:48pm. The sound of knocking in pointed ignorance of France's doorbell tells the nation exactly who is at his door before he even has it open.
Smiling, France reties his robe as he stands and slowly meanders over to the front door. He purposely takes his time, grin only growing as the knocking becomes louder with three sharp thumps.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
France suddenly pulls the door open, fast enough to catch his guest off guard, fist still raised for another hard hit upon the solid wood of the door.
"Bonjour l'Angleterre."
England frowns, hand dropping and eyes narrowing at France. A look Francis knows to mean 'you did that on purpose' and responds with his own smug grin.
Arthur huffs and all but throws his travel-sized suitcase at France, causing the man to stumble back as he fumbles to keep a hold of the load suddenly thrust upon him.
"Always a pleasure to see you too Frog." He doesn't wait for an invitation, marching straight on in the second France is out of the doorway.
Francis blinks at the tone, head turning to follow the grumpy man now stomping into his kitchen. He drops the case by the door and follows, silently studying his guest.
If England notices his staring, he doesn't comment on it. Instead Arthur appears fully set on raiding France's tea supplies, cups and tins clanking with more force than necessary. He practically attacks the taps, water spraying off the side of the kettle as he thrusts it under the flow.
Leaning against the doorway, France's eyes narrow as he watches the furious display, taking in the tense hunch of the blond's shoulders, the deep scowl marring his features, the harsh movements of his hands, and the nearly inaudible grumbling that rises and falls like rough waves through the silence of the house.
"How was the train?" He dares to ask.
"Fine." Arthur snaps back.
Francis's concern only grows at the short response. Slowly, France ventures over and turns off the tap. Then carefully, as if he half expects to be attacked as well, he takes the too full kettle from England, pouring out the excess water before setting it back in its place to boil, and turns to Arthur. The man stands rigid, head bowed and hands griping the counter so hard his knuckles are white.
France knows that look well, knows the danger in it, knows the fury barely contained by it, knows the risk in approaching it. He's been on the receiving end of it more time than he cares to count. Heard the spiteful words that spill forth from it, seen the fire burn everything it touches, felt the force of blows that come from it.
And yet…
"What's wrong? Tell me." He invites it.
"What's wrong? What's wrong?! Take your goddamn pick! The shit-show that is my government, Brexit, my boss? What's wrong you ask? What's wrong? Fucking everything!"
France thinks he can see it, the fire. He can feel the heat of it against his skin, watches as it burn through the man before him, scorching his words and threatening to consume him entirely.
And yet…
"It's not all bad." He smiles, something soft and open. No tricks, no teasing, just them, here and now. "You've still got me."
His words come like a downpour, dampening the raging fire. Not completely, but enough. Enough to breathe, enough to cool the heat, enough to see through the flames.
"You?" He sounds incredulous. "What good are you? You can't change my shitty government, can't control my boss, can't convince the rest of the EU. You're with them," He spits the word, fire regaining control as he grows in volume, "so no, I don't 'still have you'!" The sharp rise in his voice can't hide the break in it.
Green eyes stare, wide and flickering with something more that fire. And France knows this too. It took him years, centuries to see it. Far longer than either of them should have waited to look, to see beyond the barriers that govern them, a truth they both knew but were to afraid to pursue.
The words ring in the silence as loud as church bells. I don't still have you! France knows the danger, knows the fire.
And yet…
He also knows the fear behind it, knows the pain within every word. He sees the fire made to protect burn him far more than those around him, sees the heat suffocating him as it pushes everyone away.
And in those eyes, so wide and so afraid, he sees a little boy, scruffy and scared, holding his sleeve, a silent plea of eons ago echoing across time to him now.
"You do." His words are soft, gentle, but with the strength of a thousand burning stars. He is not the only one that can burn. "You'll always have me, March won't change that."
Green eyes watch him, words silent but doubt still swirls within.
"Remember the promise we made? In the darkness of the tunnel?"
Eyes drop and the forgotten kettle whistles so loud the next words are almost swallowed by it. Almost.
"I remember."
Francis grabs the kettle with one hand, the other lifting Arthur's chin until he meets his gaze once more, and he smiles. "Tea?"
"Has it really been twenty years?" England sighs over his tea.
"How time flies." France jokes.
Silence stretches between them for a time. Not like before, but comfortable. Pleasant. Their fires extinguished, peace reigns throughout the house. Then, "How can you be so sure?"
The question is quiet, almost a whisper, but Francis hears it loud and clear.
"Because." He smiles, a look conveying all his heart for his next words, "I love you."
The confession is met with a chocking cough and tea splashing as Arthur splitters into his cup.
"You what?!" England gasps.
Francis doesn't shy away or back down. "I love you."
It's like watching old film skipping as France can see the range of emotions and thoughts running through Arthur's mind playing out on his face, jumping around and spinning in the chaos of Francis's words.
It's here, a little after midnight on a chill day in December, drinking tea in his kitchen, that he says it.
"I love you, Arthur." He says it again, feeling how the words dance across his tongue.
He had been thinking for a while on the best way to finally tell England, finally admit to what they both know but have been skirting around for far too long. He had thought up a dozen different scenarios, in increasingly more lavish setups.
But this, he thinks, is perfect.
Arthur's face is bright red, hands clutching his cup to the table to stop them from shaking. And if there was ever any doubt in France before, he's certain now.
"I love you."
"Stop saying that!" Arthur cries.
"Why?"
"Because it's ridiculous!"
"Maybe. But it's true. Angleterre, Arthur. I. Love. You."
There's defence in those green eyes. Walls built up over centuries to keep the word out. France shook those walls to their foundation twenty years ago, and now, Francis is doing it all again. He recalls the promise made a generation ago. Remembers the day clearly…
May 12th 1988
"Are you mad?" England quirks an impressive brow at France across the desk.
"Non, quite the opposite actually. Just think about it."
"You want me to compromise my territorial defences by building a tunnel under the channel to mainland Europe?" The 'you' is left unsaid, but heard all the same. "Yes," England drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm, "why didn't I think of that, I can't see anything wrong with that. What a marvellous idea. Truly inspired."
France tries very hard not roll his eyes at the predictable refusal, after all, it's not the first time Arthur has turned the idea down. He's been trying on and off since the 1800's to convince the man to bridge the gap between them, for commerce, for politics, hell, even once or twice as a damn power play. Never though, for reasons he is reluctant to admit exist beyond such.
But England is an island nation. And a stubborn man.
"No." His voice resonates firmly within the small office.
Slumping back in his seat, Francis sighs.
"Come now Arthur, the world is changing faster everyday. Do you really want to be left behind?" It's a dig at his pride, at his very existence, and England rises to the bait.
"I have gotten on just fine without a land connection to the rest of you lot for centuries. I see no reason why that should change now."
France frowns, shifting tactics.
"I'm not asking you to connect to the whole of Europe, not if you don't want to. But don't you want actually do something with our improved relations? After all, the Entente Cordiale still stands…" He trails off at the end, the previous vigour of his words dying in his throat.
He must be careful, they've drifted into waters dangerously close to matters best left unsaid. They're both silent for what feels like an age, the unspoken meaning of the words ringing in their ears is almost deafening.
Trust me.
With a deep breath, England nods. It's small and short, and Francis thinks he might have imagined it until the man speaks, breaking the tenuous silence.
"Okay."
"Huh?" France blinks, completely surprised by the sudden agreement. Truth be told he was prepared to fight much hard to try to convince Arthur than this.
"You're right, the world is changing. And we can only survive if we learn to change with it." The grin he gives France can't quite be called a smirk, it's far too pained to be such. But it's message is clear to Francis all the same.
Months later, construction of the tunnel began on his side, then in December, England joined in.
A week later, France receives a drunken phone call from England. The words a garbled mess of nonsense conveying only one thing: fear.
That was the day they agreed begin a venture that would change everything between them, France just didn't know how exactly until years later.
December 1st 1990
France finds himself in the cold darkness of a tunnel not yet complete, dressed in rugged boots, a fluorescent vest and a hard hat. He stands here, off to the side of a crew buzzing with excitement, filled with nothing but nervousness for reasons that are beyond him.
For the past few months he's been like this, filled with a sense of foreboding that he can't quite place nor shake no matter how hard he tries. And he's not the only one.
He knows, standing on the other side of the rock wall before him is another crew of equal excitement, and a man even more nervous than him. While France had only recently started to feel this nervous energy, he could tell something has been off with England for the past year or so, and it's only gotten worse with time.
He had asked what is causing it, when the twitch in his hands and the restlessness of his mind had grown to become too loud to ignore, he went to the one person that might have an answer; China.
The elder nation had taken one look at him and smirked. That look of knowing something he sees as obvious, and lording the secret over others.
"You find out soon enough." Yao had drawled, then left the room, matter closed as far as the he was concerned.
It took awhile, but Francis eventually figured it out. Connected every beat of his racing heart and twitching fingers to the milestones of the tunnel growing ever closer to meeting the English side. Arthur must have figured it out, France thinks, of course he did. He knew from that first week, knew it in a way only an island could.
So here he stands, watching, hardly able to stand still as the chip chip chip of rock being broken away echoes down the tunnel.
Chip, chip, chip, clunk.
His breath leaves him in a rush. Around him voices, both French and English, cheer at the success, but France is deaf to the sound. His heart thumps loudly as something within him shifts, almost imperceptibly. A connection made, a bridge built, an island no longer.
There are cameras and there are handshakes, then the clink clink clink returns louder as the tiny hole is widened. And widened. And widened.
Bodies move and voices speak, but all France can see, can think of, is the green eyed man staring back at him through the opening, the connection.
The world continues to spin around them, but they might as well be alone down here for all they notice. And in this moment, this piece of time cut out just for them, words spill from Francis's lips without his input.
"You're not alone any more."
And it seems the same can be said for Arthur, as he stares, a look akin to a rabbit that's just been saved from the wolves filling his eyes.
"Not just an island now." His voice is a whisper of shock and realisation all in one.
France smiles, something about this- this sense of nationhood he never knew they possessed makes him giddy. He reaches out, hand's hovering for a moment before finding their place on England's shoulders. What sea once separated now stands connected between them.
He feels he should do something, say something to cement this moment between them in time itself.
"You're not alone." He repeats, "as long as we have this, you'll have me."
There's something delicate and hopeful in those green eyes that makes France's heart soar.
He's not nervous anymore.
May 6th 1994
France stands to the side of the presidential delegation, watching as England walks past with his Royal party, there's something guarded in those green eyes that makes Francis itch to pull down.
Today the tunnel is officially opened, yet for all the celebrations, France can't help but to notice Arthur is anything but happy about it. Spiralling costs and public displeasure'll do that to you.
But six years of joint work has finally come to an end, and France thinks that that should be as good a cause as any to celebrate. Expect no matter how many times he tries to throw a wink England's way, or catch his arm to have a few friendly words, the man shrugs him off at every turn.
They follow their delegates around for the day, at the beck and call of their bosses, but mostly there for show. France listens to the speech's, a few words here or there catch his attention, but mostly his eyes are on the back of a scruffy blond head. It's not until England's Queen says something that gets both their attentions that they meet eye to eye across the room.
"The French and British peoples, for all their individual diversity and ages-long rivalry, complement each other well—" she pauses, casting a subtle look to Arthur that Francis almost misses, "better perhaps than we realise."
The fact that her words are spoken in French only seems to add to her point, and a message Francis can't decipher is directed at the green eyed nation. Arthur must understand it though, as he ducks his head and his Queen smiles, clearly pleased with the result.
Maybe, Francis considers, she's right.
He chooses not to dwell on it further. The rest of the night passes in wine filled celebration, but not before he catches a part of his own boss's words, "-when Britain and France work together they achieve great things."
Great thing indeed.
December 24th 2018
It was through that very tunnel Arthur came to him today, the man's odd fear of flying making it the quickest route between them. Three hours and twenty minutes from house to house to be exact. They've danced around each other long enough Francis thinks. He thinks of all the times in the past he's dodged the issue, turning to jokes and pokes at each other instead. Of all the times he could have said it, of all the times he turned away, thinking nothing more of the flutter in his belly or the race of his heart.
Age old friends spending a rare Christmas off together was how this night started. Now it's up to Arthur how it ends. Will he build back up his wall, plug up the holes and block out the world once more, or take a chance and and leave the bricks loose, spaces wide enough for Francis to slip in…
The man stares down into his cold tea as if it hold all the answers he seeks. Maybe it does, Francis thinks, Arthur has always been one for magic, and divination is one of his party tricks. Drunk party tricks, but tricks all the same.
Finally he looks up and Francis holds his breath. That same delicate and hopeful look of years past echoing in his green eyes.
"One hundred and twenty years." He says distantly.
"Eh?"
"I remember one of the engineers saying that the lining of the tunnel is designed to last for one hundred and twenty years." He smiles, softly at first then growing bolder as he talks, "It's been twenty and the world hasn't ended. What's another century between nations?"
Francis grins, bright and happy. Because he knows England. He knows Arthur. And this is Arthur, this is his way.
His I love you too.
Author's notes: And then England got up and made some more tea…
This was fun, I'm bad at romance but that won't stop me writing it! Anyway Findus I hope you like this short fic just for you :)
Headcanon time: I think nations would be aware of when new land connects are made to other nations, and England, as an island nation would be more acutely aware of the closing connection and it kinda scares him. Not that he'll admit it, at least not sober anyway. After all, England was historically very against any sort of land bridge to mainland Europe believing it to be a security risk. Something along the lines of 'the sea is out ultimate defence, why would we risk compromising that?' not to mention they just didn't want to work with the French on it. But yeah, I think the tunnel, as relatively small as it is compared to the nations, would have been an important turning point in the FrUk relationship.
Historical notes: those are direct quotes from the Queen and the French President at the time. (The Queen totally ships them) The tunnel ended up going over budget by 80% and people were not happyTM. The tunnel is built to last 120 years and today you can get from London to Paris in a little over 2 hours or so. Also they didn't quite meet in the middle, England tunnelled further than France. America has also considered it one of the seven modern world wonders. And one of the first proposed tunnels from the 1800's included a rest point to change horses and a air port on a sand bar in the middle.