A/N - This is just a teeny tiny oneshot which is possibly a little bit shaky cause I hurriedly wrote it last night when I was half dead... (Curse you, sleepovers) Hope it isn't too bad.
July 28th, 1984
England leaned against the low wall and concentrated on the feeling of the wind on his face.
Today marked the 70th anniversary of the start of the First World War, and the beginning of his country's pain. It had been a while ago, but he could still feel each and every wound his country had suffered in that time, sharp as ever.
England wished for a storm, so that he could lose himself in the needling rain and the crashing roar of the thunder - maybe then it would wash away the pain, erase the horrors that had happened all those years ago. A few light raindrops pattered down, but it wasn't enough.
Behind him, a door opened and quiet footsteps echoed. England turned to see France walking towards him across the roof.
'What do you want?' He snarled.
'So this is where you've been hiding, mon petit Angleterre.' France looked around the tiny roof terrace, with its crumbling stones and neglected potted plants. 'Why here?'
England turned and looked down over the world. 'The view. And the quiet,' he added pointedly.
France laughed softly. 'Don't worry, I'll be gone soon. I just came to tell you that I'm sorry.'
'Oh.' England was startled. 'Thanks. Um, for what?'
'You're still haunted by what began seventy years ago, n'est pas? I dragged you into that, it was my fault.'
'It was nobody's fault. You couldn't have known how it was going to turn out - we all thought the war would be over by Christmas.'
France sighed. 'Still...'
'You have any cigarettes?'
He nodded.
'Give me a cigarette, and we'll consider it even. OK?'
France reached into his pocket and drew out a battered packet of cigarettes.
'Thanks.'
England flicked his lighter, hands numb with cold. It sparked on his third try but the rain quickly put the small flame out. One of France's slender hands covered his own, the other curving round to cup the small flame.
England lit his cigarette, and France dropped one of his hands. The other was still warm over England's own, and neither of them made any move to pull away. After a while, England shifted their hands slightly to weave their fingers together. Now they were all but holding hands, just the lighter between them.
In the distance, a clock tolled midnight. England blew out a trail of smoke, watching it unfurl over the city below. He felt the ache inside him lessen with each peal, to be replaced by a numb weariness.
He closed his eyes, and soon he felt France's hand slip out of his own. They were back to how they always were with each other; bickering neighbours, neither willing to be the first to admit that there was something more, something much more.
'Silly Angleterre.' France said fondly.
England shifted and smiled, blowing out another curling wisp of smoke.
'Bloody frog.'