"France. France. France!"

"Hm?" The blonde lifts his head up and surveys the country opposite him with a raised eyebrow. "What is it, Suisse?"

Switzerland glowers at him, groans into his hand and moves to stand up.

"I give up with you. Honestly, I think you forget you represent one of Europe's biggest powers." The shorter blonde straightens his suit jacket, rearranges his tie and tucks his hand into the pockets of his trousers. "I take it nothing I just said even came close to penetrating that thick skull of yours? No? Wonderful. Now I'll have to pay to fly Maurer out to talk with Hollande."

When he receives no response, Switzerland turns to survey the older nation and stares at him for a long moment.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Switzerland sighs, turning back and sitting down opposite him, taking in his listless form as he traces invisible lines on the surface of the table. "Seriously, it's actually concerning. Usually you've attempted to flirt with me by now. Or mocked my accent."

"It's nothing." France replies as he slumps back in his chair, untying the dishevelled ponytail at the back of his head and fiddling with the ribbon. "There's just something I need to do today, that's all."

"Would you like me to pretend to be interested so you can talk to me about it?" Switzerland replies, looking at his watch for a moment. "You have, oh, an hour, at best. I have a meeting with Norway and England this evening to discuss his relationship with the EU, and I need to leave for Oslo by five."

"Oh. I didn't know. I'll let you go, then." France murmurs, standing up and tugging his tie away from his neck.

Switzerland raises his eyebrows at him.

"I don't need to go now. I'm not walking there. You can talk to me."

France sighs, presses his fingers to his temples and looks at the other blonde through his hair.

"It's nothing, really." He says tersely, looking at his phone only to deflate again. "It's just... today is my anniversary with Arthur, and he hasn't acknowledged it. Not even a text or a phone call. I suppose he's forgotten."

"How many years has it been now?"

"One hundred and nine."

"Give him time." Switzerland moves and pats him on the shoulder. "I'm sure he's as busy as you are. He won't have forgotten."

France hums thoughtfully, pats the top of Switzerland's hand and stands up.

"Thank you, Suisse. I do appreciate it." He smiles, but it's half-hearted and the shorter man can tell. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes. The meeting of Europe in Zagreb next week. Remind Monaco for me, would you?" Switzerland says with a small smile. France nods, smiles and shakes his hand and leaves the room. Switzerland watches him go, waits until he's out of earshot before he presses a few buttons on his phone and presses it to his ear.

"What is it?"

"You have half an hour, at best. I kept him talking as long as I could. He seems really upset, so I'd tread carefully if I were you. Tell Belgium and Veneziano to meet me on the Champs-Élysées. Good luck."

"...Thank you. You didn't have to help with this, Switzerland. I know it's beyond your usual habits, so thanks."

"Now now." Switzerland laughs in the back of his throat as he climbs into the car waiting for him outside. "What are friends for? You didn't name a court after me for nothing."

"You will never let me forget that, will you? Anyway, I'd better be off. I sense an angry Frenchman bearing down on me and I'd rather you didn't overhear the consequences."

"I'd rather that too. I'll see you next week, England."

"Yeah. See you, Switzerland."

"Right, you two. Out." England bustles Belgium and Italy out of the kitchen and towards the hallway and the door. "I appreciate the help and I will give you full credit if asked, but Francis is on his way and I'd rather you didn't bear witness to the fallout, thank you very much."

Belgium laughs, tugging her coat onto her shoulders and catching Italy as he trips over his own feet.

"Thanks." England hesitates for a second, kisses them both once on the cheek. Belgium links her arm with Italy's and opens the door to let themselves out. "Switzerland is waiting for you on the Champs-Élysées."

Italy immediately starts chirping something about galleries and chocolate that Switzerland had promised him, and Belgium pats him on the arm and leads him to their car.

England has just enough time to change into his best suit and waistcoat, light some candles and the fire, before the key is twisting in the lock and France is in the hallway, sighing and mumbling to himself.

"I suppose he really did forget."

He pushes open the doorway to the dining room, planning only to collect himself a glass of wine, and finds himself confronted with a full table of candles and flowers, laid out for two.

"I didn't." England's voice rises from the corner of the room, where he steps out from the shadow to stand in front of France, holding out a glass of wine in one hand and a single rose in the other. "Here. It's your favourite."

France laughs wetly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and reaching out for the wine with the other.

"Honestly, I'm insulted you thought I'd forget you." England laughs, leaning forward to tuck the rose into the buttonhole of France's shirt, sliding his fingers up his throat to cup his cheek and kiss him slowly. France sets the wine on the table and slides his hands around England's waist.

"Tell me you didn't cook." France mutters against his mouth as he pulls away to brush England's hair away from his eyes. "I love you and all, but your cooking might just be the final nail in my coffin."

"Er, no. I asked Belgium and Italy to help. I told them what you'd like and they helped me make it all." England admits sheepishly, tugging his fingers through his hair.

"I thought you had a meeting with Switzerland and Norway." France muses after a few moments of kissing softly.

"That's what he told you?"

"Pardon?"

"When I found out you were meeting Switzerland today, I called him and asked him to stall you as long as he could so we could prepare. I guess he told you we were meeting tonight. We're not, by the way. I doubt Norway even knows he was involved."

"I hate you." France mumbles, pulling England back for another long, tender kiss.

"No, you don't." England barely moves away as he whispers against his mouth. "You love me."

"You're right, I suppose I do. And you love me."

England cuts him off with another kiss, cupping France's cheeks almost reverently.

"I do. Happy anniversary, sweetheart."

"Mm. Je t'aime."

France's last coherent thought is that England looks beautiful in the soft glow of candlelight.