Baby Kisses
"Oooh! Angleterre!"
"Bloody hell," England muttered. He thought about slipping off his rock and hiding behind a bush, but he sensed it was too late. The Frog had seen him. Sure enough, within moments he was swept into an embrace from behind by the young nation. England felt his stomach flip over. "Get off me!"
"How is mon petite Angleterre today?" France asked, pressing his cheek against the top of England's head. England felt his cheeks heat up and he began to thrash about.
"I said let me go!" England finally managed to connect one of his tiny fists with France's hip and the boy dropped him. "Oof!"
"That was really uncalled for, Angleterre," France said reprovingly, glaring at England resentfully.
"Don't be such a girl," scoffed England, picking himself off the ground and dusting the front of his cloak. "I barely touched you!" France pouted and England felt a shiver run down his small back.
"I came to see if you wanted to go paint with me," he sulked. His actual plans had also included mocking England's lack of painting skill and maybe even dunking him in a can of paint. But there was no reason to mention that, was there? "But it looks like you're just going to be a mean little beast."
"As if I'd want to go paint with you!" Arthur snapped. "My sister doesn't even paint! You're such a sissy!" France smiled at the mention of England sister, which Arthur immediately decided he didn't like. Fortunately he sobered up at being called a sissy.
"At least I'm not a shrimp!" he trilled, standing up on tip-toe. England walked over and kicked France in the shin.
"Ow! Sacre bleu! What was that for?" France howled, holding his leg.
"For calling me a shrimp, tart," England replied smugly, folding his arms. Take that, France! No one calls me a shrimp! Except for Scotland…and Wales…and The Roman Empire…France doesn't get to call me a shrimp!
"You're a rotten little monster!" France announced, fighting off tears. His leg throbbed with pain and he couldn't for the life of him understand England's obsession with beating on him. France was perfectly happy to exchange stinging insults and nothing else. "I'm going to find Ireland!"
And he ran off.
"That's right, you run away, frog!" England yelled after him, shaking a fist. But inwardly, he cringed at the idea that his sister's company was preferable to his. Why do I care? He's just a stupid frog. He wouldn't know a decent country if it captured him. Besides, he's bloody annoying.
"…and then he kicked me in the shin! Look, there's a big bruise already!" France finished dramatically, lifting up his tunic to show off the large purple splotch.
"Uh-huh," Ireland grunted. She grabbed a tree branch and hoisted herself into it to get a better view, her bow gripped in one hand. "Wow, that's really something France," she said flatly, not even looking at him. She peered off into the distance, tracing something invisible with her free hand. "I think we're close." She dropped down from the tree and kept onwards, France following closely at her side.
"Your brother is the worst," France proclaimed loudly.
"France, as much as I'd LOVE to hear more, could you please shut up?" Ireland said, turning to look at him. She had a burning focus in her dark green eyes that France recognized well. "We're close to a deer sleeping ground and I don't need you scarring off my prey." France huffed, but fell silent.
"Do we have to go hunting?" he whispered.
"If I'm going to eat tonight, yes," she whispered back. Carefully, she crept forwards, pushing the bushes aside. She shuffled her feet across the grass and spotted a graceful deer neck through the foliage. She raised her bow to fire when there was a loud snapping sound. Both she and the deer jerked their heads over to look at Francis, who'd frozen with one foot on a stick, now broken in half and an apologetic expression on his face.
Ireland let fly an arrow, but the deer took off and she followed, her red hair streaming out behind her. France knew he had to save this-he ran around the opposite way, hoping to head off the deer. As it happened, he planned his trajectory perfectly-a bit too perfectly. He found himself smack-dab in the middle of the deer's path, Ireland tearing through the trees behind it, bellowing in Gaelic.
"Arrête!" he shouted, throwing up a hand to stop the deer. It reared back, eyes wild with fear and began to turn. No! It was getting away! Francis threw himself at the animal in a moment of reckless courage and grappled with it to the leafy forest floor. It thrashed about frantically beneath him and he felt a hoof catch him in the ribs, but he held on desperately, fishing for the knife in his tunic. Ireland loosed another arrow (far too close to France's head for his liking) and hit the deer in the neck. Its struggles grew weaker, allowing Francis to finish it off by cutting its throat.
Ireland stood a few meters back, breathing heavily. France met her eyes and they just stared at each other for a minute before her freckled face broke into a smile.
"That was a great save! I thought you'd lost it for me for sure!" she exclaimed, striding over and giving him a manly slap on the back, which actually stung quite badly.
"Ahahaha…yeah. I do apologize for that," France said, straightening up and wiping his knife off on the grass before stowing it back in his tunic.
"A bit crazy, but it worked," she said, nodding in approval as she surveyed the deer. She would never admit to France that she seldom caught anything, let alone anything of this caliber-she was too small to keep up with most of her prey. When I'm older, she thought. When I'm bigger I'll catch as much food as my brothers and I can eat!
"Do you need help carrying it back?" France asked weakly, sorely hoping he wouldn't spend the afternoon hauling a large dead animal back to the island siblings' house.
"Nah," Ireland waved a hand. "I'll have Iain and Angus come get it later. You and I deserve a swim!" She grinned and slung her bow across her back.
"Yay!" France cheered and followed her through the forest to the nearest river.
When they were done splashing around and cooling off, they stretched out on the river banks. Ireland still didn't seem to understand the concept of not getting naked in front of people, but at her mother's behest, she conceded to always wear a loincloth at least when she was with France. As for her chest, there was nothing to hide, so The Celtic Tribes decided that matter could wait.
"That girl," she would say, shaking her head. "She's practically my fourth son!"
Lying on the soft grass for which her island was famous, Ireland and France enjoyed the cool shade.
"That was some chase," she said, unable to stop herself from fixating on her greatest catch of all time. "Scotland's going to be so jealous!"
"I suppose," France yawned. "Personally I don't see what's so great about hunting. It's too messy." He frowned.
"Easy for you to say, young master!" Ireland retorted. "You get your food brought to you on a silver platter by Rome!"
"Don't call me that!" France snapped. "I don't get all my food brought to me!"
"Really?" Ireland propped herself up on one elbow and raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever once had to go hunting out of need?" France opened and closed his mouth, unable to think of a time. "You look like a guppy," the redhead said, lying back down.
"Do not!"
"Do so!"
"Do not!"
"Do so!" Maerad insisted. She threw herself at France and pinned him to the ground. "Guppy! Guppy! Guppy!" she taunted, laughing.
"Carrot-top!" France retorted. "Freckle-face!"
"Dress-wearer!" Ireland shot back, ceasing her laughter. Insult wars were serious business. "Young master!"
"Barbarian! Heathen!" France fired off.
"City boy! Weakling!"
France was running low on insults. "Uh…shorty! Girly-girl!"
"Take that back, you bleeding eejit!" Ireland demanded, slugging France rather hard in the shoulder.
"Ouch! Why are you guys all so abusive?" France cried, tears stinging his eyes. And why do you all hit so HARD?
"Sorry," Ireland apologized, moving off of France. She blushed a bit, running a hand through her hair. "I forget you're not one of my brothers." France rubbed his arm and scowled at her.
"You know, I was going to invite you over tomorrow, but if you're just going to hit me…" France dangled the threat out there.
"Aw, France, don't be that way!" Ireland pleaded, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You know I'm your favorite heathen!" France smiled reluctantly, enjoying her closeness. Especially once she'd bathed and removed the musty reek of deer and sheep from her skin, she had a crisp, natural smell, like grass after the rain.
Ireland, utterly oblivious to France's pleasure, watched him with eager eyes, wanting to go see the place where it was sunny most days.
"Would you take me down south?" she asked.
"If you want, cheri," France said, daring to give her hand a small pat. When it came to physical affection, she was mostly into injurious things- slaps on the back that hurt, friendly punches that left bruises or worse-arm wrestling. Understandably, France, despite his desire to do show affection to her, had a mental barrier with touching her-he was always afraid she was going to hurt him.
"Whoohoo!"
"France, I'm sorry you're so sensitive to my insults." Even to England, the words didn't sound quite right. "France, I'm sorry for what I said. France…maybe we could have a truce? Um…I'd rather not fight?" That didn't sound right either…He enjoyed fighting with France…he just wished it wouldn't always escalate so fast. France took insults far too seriously. "Oh, blast it all!" He kicked a chunk of grass as he made his way down to the shore. Scotland and Wales had been worse than usual with the teasing last night and Ireland hadn't even showed up until after dark, earning her a sound whipping from Mum.
All his siblings were so rowdy-he always felt too quiet, like he didn't belong. But they had had a great ball game going upstairs before Mum caught them out and sent Ireland off to her room and watched the boys until they were all tucked under the covers with the candles blown out.
"And I don't even know where France is," he said glumly, plopping down in the sand, looking across the water to where he knew France was prancing about, probably weaving flowers into his hair like the weirdo he was. He suddenly had an image of him and France sitting on the shore, talking. He pictured France laughing; not at him, but with him. That would be nice…"I can't give up!" England declared, rising to his short, chubby legs. "I will find that idiot if it's the last thing I do!"
And he continued the search, still trying to find an apt way to phrase what he wanted to say.
Children's laughter rang throughout the courtyard of a large villa in one of the small, southern Roman villages where Ireland and France were eating.
"Admit it…it was way better than deer!" France nudged Ireland with his elbow.
"I give! It was delicious!" she confessed, smiling. Ah, that smile! France though dreamily. "Let's go pick grapes now!" she proposed, beginning to run for the door.
"Wait!" France caught her wrist. She turned to look at him with a curious gaze. Bright emerald eyes that stared out of her still child-plump face; they seemed to pin France to the spot. "Um…I just wanted to give you something," he said awkwardly, scuffing the toe of one shoe against the stone ground. They stood close together; France took a moment to admire the way her green eyes stood out from her pale, freckled face, the way a few stray locks of fiery hair graced her cheeks.
"What is it?" she asked, staring curiously into France's cerulean eyes. He was such a strange child, she thought. He had a softness about his face that she didn't see in her brothers' or even her own. England posessed a fraction of this, but that was something Ireland knew would vanish with age. France's softness looked like something that would remain, beneath the guise of adulthood for as long as he trod the great blue earth. She pushed aside these musings to focus on her friend's strange behavior instead.
Instead of an answer to her question, she got France's trembling lips against hers. He placed a gentle hand on her arm, as if to steady himself, or hold her in place. She went stiff beneath his touch, her eyes flew open in surprise, but much to France's shock, she didn't react beyond that.
Her first thought was: What is he doing? Her second was: I wonder how long this is going to go on. Her mind was lost in thought and France was too breathless with the leap he'd taken for either party to notice they had an audience. This audience made itself scarce very quickly.
It had taken a serious effort for England to track France down. His little legs felt like they were about to drop off when he finally got directions from some Roman soldier on where to find Rome's grandson. On the way, he gathered a small bunch of flowers, thinking that France would at least appreciate something pretty even if he was stupid.
He'd taken a small glass of wine to refresh himself once he reached the villa before heading out back, to where he was told his sister and France were eating lunch. Once he reached the doorway, he saw France-England's France-kissing Ireland. His sister. He waited for Ireland to shove him off, slap him or yell, but she didn't. However, she didn't kiss him back either. She just…stood there. Like she was allowing it.
Tears stung England's grassy green eyes. The flower bunch dropped to the ground and he turned away. Stupid frog! Tart! Kissing my sister! What's the matter with him? Oh, God…why HER? Why her and not-I hate him. I hate that stupid…wanker! I wish rabbits would eat him!
Turning away from the hateful scene in front of him, England ran.
At last, when France decided his vital regions were safe from immediate attack, he drew back, staring into Maerad's face with his eyebrows furrowed. Why didn't she DO something? At last, she responded.
"Why'd you do that?" she asked simply. France's jaw nearly hit the ground. Are you serious? He almost said that thought aloud, then decided to be a bit more tactful.
"Because I like you," he told her, wounded that his kiss meant nothing to her. She didn't even get mad…she just didn't care!
"So? I like you and my mom and my brothers, but I don't go around putting my lips on them," she said.
"Don't your brothers ever kiss you?" France asked her, stunned.
"No."
"Your Mama?"
"No." Ireland couldn't see where this was all going. So her family wasn't all touchy-feely…so what? She wasn't sure she liked this kissing thing. It felt wet. Besides, France's lips tasted like that weird cheese they'd had at lunch. "What does liking someone have to do with kissing them?"
"Well…because…" France twisted the hem of his tunic in his hands, trying to find words to explain something he'd always known. "…because I like you different than you like your brothers," he managed at last.
"Different?" she tilted her head to one side.
"You know…like boys like girls," France pushed. This told Ireland nothing-the only other girl she knew was her máthair and to be honest they weren't that close. She'd seen Mama Greece a few times, but never spoken to her. Her face must have looked nonplussed, because France grew more distressed. "You know! Like…love…like…mamas and papas," he cried, feeling that this poor girl had been depraved beyond measure.
"I love my brothers," she said. She shook her head. "I still don't understand." She wrinkled her forehead in thought. "You mean…like Rome and my máthair? And his other lady friends?"
"Yes!" France exclaimed, relieved that she at least understood the concept now. That was when her palms slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his bum.
"Bastaird!" She recoiled, her expression torn betwixt betrayal, disgust and a smidge of real anger. "If you were my friend you wouldn't think of me like that! You wouldn't want to hurt me like Rome hurts my máthair! I hate you France!" She turned and fled the courtyard, trying her hardest not to cry. France was my only real friend! And he thinks of me like one of those bad women!
Poor France was left bewildered on the ground, wondering what it was that he'd said. His lower lip began to tremble as he realized he might have lost her friendship for good. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did I have to go and kiss her? It seemed like such a good idea!
Ireland met up with England as they made their way home.
"How was your day?" she huffed, kicking the dirt.
"Horrible," England said shortly. "Yours?"
"Rotten."
"Then we're agreed." With that, Ireland offered her brother her hand. England took it reluctantly. He couldn't help but be irritated with her for stealing France's kiss, but she truly hadn't seemed to enjoy it and from the look on her face now, he was willing to bet things had gotten worse. So he slipped his tiny hand into hers and they walked back home.
The Celtic Tribes noticed their sullen expressions at once.
"What happened to you two?" she asked from the kitchen, where she was hacking up the rest of yesterday's deer.
"France," they both said simultaneously before retreating to their own corners of the house.
Later that night, after they'd all gone to bed, another rainstorm rolled in, thunder and lightning included. England lay awake, trembling in the bed he shared with his brothers.
"Scotland," he whispered, poking his brother. "Scotland…"
"Shut up," Scotland grumbled. "Go to sleep."
"But Scotland…" whined England in a quiet voice.
"What?" Scotland hissed. Dammit, he was so tired! He'd spent all day arguing with the Roman Empire. Why couldn't England just SLEEP?
"There's a thunderstorm," England whimpered.
"So what? We live on a northern ISLAND. It fecking rains all the time. Go to SLEEP." Scotland pointedly rolled over and yanked the sheets over his shoulder. He felt a bit bad about being so abrupt, but he was exhausted. He'd apologize in the morning.
England bit his lip. Sliding out of bed, he pattered across the hall and into the bedroom Ireland and Mum shared, clutching his stuffed rabbit. Ireland slept in a smaller bed off to the side, to which England drifted. He tugged her shoulder.
"Maerad…"
"Mmm…" She groaned in her sleep.
"Maerad…" England gave her arm another tug.
"What?" she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed. England shifted from foot to foot.
"There's a thunderstorm," he said at last. Silence reigned. Arthur wondered if she'd gone back to sleep. But then she spoke again.
"Well get in if you're getting in," she snapped groggily, rolling over. England crawled beneath the covers, rubbing his frigid toes against Ireland's legs. In reply, she kicked him. For several long, agonizing minutes he lay there before she relented, rolling over and taking her baby brother into her arms.
"Some days are just like this," she murmured into his ear. England tucked his head into the space between her chin and chest and smiled, curling into her warmth and falling sound asleep.
This is just a little idea I had last night...because I now love the idea of the "Strawberry Blonde" love triangle. EnglandxFrancexIreland. I left their names the same just for simplicity's sake. Obviously France would have been Gaul and England Britannia but I didn't feel like changing them. Do NOT look for historical accuracy in this bit.
This features them as young kids, Ireland being the oldest, followed by France and then England. I thought about adding the end part, where Pierre delivers an apology letter to Ireland, but then I decided to leave it with England and Ireland feeling mutually betrayed.
As per the relationship confusion, I always imagined that Ireland and Scotland were so caught up in their own games they didn't bother to learn anything about the outside world. England, however, is quite interested in how The Roman Empire works and therefore knows a bit more about kissing and such.
Iain=Scotland
Angus=Wales
Mathair=Mother