Companion piece to both Not Falling or Feeling (part 39 of the FtF series) and Love is a Verb (part 38 of the FtF series).
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25th September, 2009; London, England
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It has been raining all evening; never more than a light drizzle, but persistent enough that France is sodden in more ways than one when England discovers him slumped, boneless and dissolute, on one of the hard plastic chairs set out on the pub's terrace.
It's nearing midnight, and the sky is clear enough that the darkness hasn't retained a single speck of the day's muggy autumnal heat. All but the hardiest of souls had retreated once the sun sank below the horizon, and even the drunkest had sought shelter not long afterwards.
France thus sits alone, his thin shirt stuck as close as paint to his skin, soaked to an obscene transparency that reveals the dark outlines of his nipples and the whorls of hair that lie between. He appears to be surrounded by a thin fog: the ember-bright patio heater at his side raising a mist of steam from his damp trousers, and his breath crystallising against the gelid air in light billows as wispy and insubstantial as curriform clouds.
Both of his arms hang lax at his sides, fingertips almost brushing the paving stones below, and the cigarette precariously balanced between the index and middle fingers of his right hand has burnt almost down to the butt, though the long tower of ash it's supporting suggests that France hasn't taken a drag from it since the first to get it to light.
"You're going to have to move, Frog," England says as he approaches him. "It's nearly chucking out time."
France's head bobs unsteadily as he turns it towards England, like a balloon that's only loosely tethered to the anchor of his shoulders. His eyes are so heavily lidded that they almost look swollen.
"Non," he says at length; sharp, unapologetic, and with all the pouting truculence of a thwarted toddler.
England groans. "One of the bouncers will be round to pick you up and throw you out soon enough if you don't."
On most other nights, he'd be cheering them on from the sidelines, but here, on home turf, such things can often prove politically and professionally troublesome. England's bosses seem to expect him to act as a babysitter to his fellow nations when they visit on business, and allowing one of their closest allies to be manhandled would be seen as a dereliction of duty.
"I don't care," France says, again in French. His voice has a thick, nasal quality to it that hints of an incipient cold, which is a natural and just consequence for not having sufficient good sense to come in out of the rain, as far as England's concerned. "Just leave me here."
That said, he sinks even deeper into his seat, his legs splaying out in front of him and his head falling to rest with an audible thump against the top of the backrest. He gives a small mewl of pain then, like some kind of wounded animal, even though England finds it difficult to believe that he could have felt the impact at all through the twin shields of alcohol and his thick skull.
England hasn't the time for his melodramatics, either figuratively or literally.
"Come on," he says, grasping France's wrist. "Up you get."
Somehow, England always forgets that France is stronger both than he looks and than England ever gives him credit for. He breaks England's hold and then catches his hand, all in the same quick, easy movement. His skin is incongruously warm.
"France," England hisses in a warning that goes unheeded.
Instead, France raises their linked hands to his eye-level and studies them with all of the careful consideration of a botanist faced with what he thinks may be a new species of plant.
Caught in a moment of self-defeating curiosity, England peeks at them too. He sees nothing but their differences: France's fingers are long and thin where his are sturdy; his nails are square-cut by clippers at a short, practical length, whereas France's are elegantly curved at their tips and buffed to a faint shine. They do not fit together well, which comes as no great surprise.
He tries to step away, but France pulls back with equal force, miring them in a stalemate.
"France," England tries again. "If you don't let go of me right now, I'll—"
France's grip loosens in an instant, but before he releases England completely, he presses a brief, dry kiss to his palm. His stubble bristles and his lips are slightly chapped, leaving a ghostly itch in their wake that England tries to rid himself of by scrubbing his hand vigorously against the front of his jacket.
"What the hell was that in aid of?" he snarls.
At first, France's only answer is a silent one. His gaze is penetrating, and it wanders so languidly down England's body that he feels as though his clothing is being stripped away by it, piece by piece.
Eventually, France gives a airy little sigh, and asks, "Why has it never been the right time for us, Angleterre?"
He doesn't sound unhappy, merely inquisitive.
"Because I dislike you, I find your advances repugnant, and you've been in love with my brother for near half our lives." The explanations come swiftly, without hesitation, even though only two of them are true.
Or perhaps two of them are lies. England cannot even be sure of that himself.
France's mouth twists into a sneer of distaste. "I have never been in love with Scotland."
Three lies, then.
His and France's mutual enmity is so ancient that the weight of their shared history as ground away most of its sharp edges, and what remains now is so well-worn that it's comfortable enough these days to be almost indistinguishable from wary affection, at least on England's part.
The hatred that rakes its sharp and scalding claws through his chest now is something he has not felt for many years. He doesn't know whether it's stirred on Scotland's behalf or his own, for all that he has suffered because of the relationship he had always assumed his brother had with the frog.
It probably doesn't matter, either way.
"Scotland might think differently," he forces himself to say, even though he can barely gulp down enough breath to form the words properly.
"If he does, he's a fool," France spits. "I have never promised him anything. Not one thing. Not ever. I don't know where you and your brother have got that ridiculous idea from. After everything Pays de Galles said yesterday—"
He cuts himself off abruptly with a sharp click of his teeth. His colour, already high, darkens yet further.
"What?" England asks impatiently. "What could Wales possibly have to say that would upset you so much that you'd try your damnedest to drown yourself out here?"
"I'm not upset." France shakes his head. "I'm just tired. Have you any idea how exhausting it is? Fighting the same battle for centuries, and all the while knowing that you will likely have to give up some vital part of yourself when it finally does end, whether in victory or defeat?"
England doesn't understand what he's referring to, and he isn't sure he wants to, either.
"Look, if you're tired then surely the best cure is to go back to your hotel," he says, sensing an opening he might do well to exploit. "Things always look better after a good night's sleep."
France laughs; a high, grating sound that is entirely devoid of humour. "Trite, Angleterre, but I believe you may be right." Astonishingly, he starts straightening himself up out of his sprawl. "I can't imagine that they could possibly look any worse, after all."