The strange nobleman called Francis Bonnefoy is a favorite of the king, frequently invited to dine at Versailles where the other nobles in attendance look on in polite confusion as he eats as though he hasn't eaten in months, as though he is but a commoner, a peasant, a starving beggar. He often eats more than do half the nobles in attendance combined.

But when he says his farewells and takes his leave, he is still hungry.

00000

"Ah, bonjour, mon petit lapin!"

France struts into the meeting room like an exotic bird, preening in his fancy and expensive clothes. He looks more like he's about to attend an opera than an economics meeting. Neither of their bosses could attend this time, so there's no one to stop England from snapping, "Shut up, frog."

France smirks when he notices England's thunderous scowl. "Don't tell me you are still upset because I helped little Amérique defeat you! Ah, the look on your face when you saw Lafayette at the head of the Continental Army…" France chuckles. "There are no words to describe how exquisite it was, Angleterre."

"I thought I told you to shut up, you wine-loving git!" And just like that, the original political reason for the meeting is forgotten as the two Nations fall into their usual pattern of argument.

To England's surprise, however, they're scarcely at it for fifteen minutes before France breaks off and sways on his feet. After a dizzying second his knees give out, and England swoops forward in alarm to catch him. He knows something must be horribly wrong when France doesn't even take advantage of their closeness to grope his rear end.

England stands still for a moment, unsure, before he remembers the guest rooms up the stairs and the kitchen down the hall. It takes more time than he would like to drag France up to one of the rooms, but he manages it. Then England tucks France into bed and, after a moment of thought, runs back down the stairs to make some tea and scones.

Just because they're enemies doesn't mean England would kick the stupid frog out while he's sick.

When England returns to the guest room with a tea tray in hand, France is at least sitting up in bed, eyes open, expression…devoid of perverseness. But now that England is looking for it, he sees that France is pale, his face gaunt and lined. There are even dark bags under his eyes - perhaps the most shocking of all, considering how vain France usually is about his appearance.

England sets the tea tray down on the bedside table and pours France a cup before pouring one for himself. "Here," he begins, holding out France's cup. "I also made you some scones, even though you never - "

And before he can finish France has knocked aside the cup and pounced on the plate of scones, making England's jaw drop. The plate is empty is just over one minute.

Then France looks up at him, a little bashful, and says, "Do you have any more, Angleterre?"

England's mouth is still hanging open; he can't quite believe what he's seeing. All he can come up with to explain it is that things must be worse than he thought across the channel. But England is still a gentleman, so he sets his teacup down, says, "I'll be back in just a moment," and darts back to the kitchen.

France eats the second batch of scones a bit more slowly, while England sits on the edge of the bed and feels self-conscious every time France catches him watching his face for signs of trouble. But there are none, and for a few minutes the two Nations drink tea in companionable quiet.

The fourth time England inadvertently meets France's eyes, he forces himself to make conversation. "So, how is the, er…" He coughs a little and looks away again. "How is your royal family?"

The question seems to catch France off guard. "They are all well; little Prince Louis had a fever recently, but he has recovered."

"Oh…and how is the French Army? Still as weak and cowardly as ever, I suppose?"

France smiles, though his eyes look tired. "Yes, the army is the same as it has always been."

"Oh. Well, that's…good, I suppose."

France laughs quietly. "Thank you for the food, Angleterre," he says, "but I fear I have imposed on your hospitality long enough for one meeting. Now it is time for me to return home."

England jumps to his feet. "What?" he exclaims. "You, crossing the channel? In your condition? Absolutely not, I won't allow it!"

"And how do you think your boss will react when he finds you've kept me on as a houseguest?"

"Yes, but you…But I…" England trails off, turning red.

There is a moment of awkward silence before France stands up, leaning close to kiss England's cheeks, one after the other. "Angleterre…" he whispers with a smile, slow and seductive.

England's breath does not hitch; of course it doesn't.

Then France says, "Don't be fooled: I may have eaten your food, but it still tastes atrocious."

England scowls. "And I still hate you, frog."

"Of course you do," France chuckles.

England only manages to get out a "What's that supposed – " before France cuts him off with another kiss, this time on the mouth. This is another pattern – not as frequent as their arguments, but just as familiar – and it's easy for England to adjust to the change in atmosphere. One hand goes straight to France's hair while the other fists in his shirt, and England is eager and impatient, yes, but also relieved. This is the France he knows: not the worryingly ill-looking one who eats scones without being forced, but the confident, seductive, beautiful one who smells of roses and wine, and, beyond that, of language and economy and war.

But all too soon France pulls away (and England most certainly does not whimper in protest). "Angleterre," he gently reminds, "I still need to leave."

"Oh," says England. "Yes. Right." The fist in France's expensive silk shirt slowly loosens, and England stares down at his feet. "You'll…return before too long, won't you? I mean, I certainly don't care at all for your company, but if something happened to you I would be…that is to say, I would feel…" He scowls and crosses his arms, turning away, still staring fixedly at the floorboards. "Look, just recover quickly, you miserable frog."

France takes his hand and kisses it. "Oui, je me guérirai," he murmurs, "afin que je puisse vous revoir, mon amour." He gives England one last smile, this one softer and warmer than the others. Then he is gone, leaving England alone and feeling strangely hollow.

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Before a decade has passed, news reaches England of the Reign of Terror.

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Notes and Translations:

The Marquis de Lafayette was a French military officer who fought in the American Revolutionary War and was a friend of George Washington's. While there were other French soldiers in the Continental Army, of course, Lafayette is probably the most well known (at least to modern Americans).

Prince Louis Joseph, the eldest son of King Louis XVI of France, was seven years old when he died of tuberculosis of the spine in August of 1789. One of the symptoms of the disease is fever.

"Oui, je me guérirai…afin que je puisse vous revoir" = Yes, I will heal…so that I can see you again." (The use of the future tense and subjunctive mood are rather more literary than colloquial, but the story does take place in the 1780s. Any French speakers more familiar with late 18th-century syntax and grammar are welcome to correct me.)