I don't know much about foreign affairs, being an Alfredian and all...but I tried my best. That was a joke...heh. Not really aiming for any specific stuff though really...Um, timeline is present-day. My first time writing these two, so I hope it turned out all right. Another cheesy ending, beware.
Written for Kanki Youji. I hope it's to you're liking ^^ Angst-fluff, yes?
"If we want to change Europe my dear British friends - and we Frenchmen do wish to change Europe - we need you inside Europe to help us do so, not standing on the outside."
~President Nicolas Sarkozy
"Angleterre!" a familiar voice called, echoing throughout the halls of England's home. Said Nation frowned to himself, setting his tea cup back on its saucer before leaning back. Crossing his arms firmly over his chest, he prepared to face his long-time acquaintance.
"There you are!" France greeted enthusiastically, although the not entirely innocent glee in his eyes sparked immediate annoyance in the other.
"Oi, what do you want, France?" the green-eyed one inquired, already riled up.
"Can't I visit once in awhile just for the sake of visiting, mon cher?" France defended, taking a seat beside the Englishman at his kitchen table, uninvited.
"I wish you wouldn't, frog-leg," England bristled, crossing his legs primly, and taking a sip of tea as he turned away to look out the kitchen window.
A triangle of birds passed by overhead, dark shapes against the clouded sky. It was particularly cold for early spring, the wind adding a harsh chill to the usual dreary weather. Rainy, always rainy.
"Il gèle!" France exclaimed, as if reading England's mind, running his hands up and down his arms for emphasis. "Mon dieu, Angleterre, how do you live in this?"
"The heating is out," the Brit explained, no hint of apology in his voice as he drained the last of his tea. "The fire is on, though, if you would prefer to sit there."
Wordlessly, France got to his feet and made his way into the adjoining room, not waiting to be led. He knew this house so well, perhaps as well as his own. At the idea, another surge of irritation flooded through England. Bloody daft frog.
Grudgingly, he followed after France, settling on the floor beside the other near the fire after a stretch, legs folded carefully beneath him, hands in his lap, back ramrod straight.
"Angleterre!" the blue-eyed one reprimanded, chuckling a beautiful chime that made the younger Nation's heart twinge with a vaguely pleasant sensation, before he allowed the familiar vexation to overcome him once more. "You need to relax."
He made to touch the Brit, but his hand was smacked away angrily. "Don't touch me, bloody git!"
"Mon cher, calm…" France placated, smiling disarmingly. "It's just the two of us, no one else."
"That's precisely the issue," England crossed his arms again. "We don't get along, France. Stop trying to act as if we do."
"The way you say that, Angleterre, such conviction…" France straightened slightly, though his limbs still sprawled in a carelessly elegant way. "Though I suppose we have had more than our fair share of fights. We're just not destined to get along, it would seem…"
"I know," the Brit replied bitterly, thoroughly catching the Frenchman off guard.
"Mon dieu, you just agreed with me…?" France replied in half mocking disbelief, hoping to incite a more familiar reaction from the other Nation. "The world must be ending!"
"I'm serious, Francis!" England shouted in aggravation, before looking into the fire, expression morphing into one of profound melancholy. "I'm serious…"
And France knew the other Nation was serious. Dead serious. Rarely, did the Brit ever call him by his proper title of "France" much less his given name. And the behavior…not characteristic of his dear friend at all.
"I'm so tired of fighting," England continued, head in his hands. "So many years…so many fruitless years. But I can't see anything ever being different. I can't."
"Don't say that, Angleterre," the older Nation interceded, placing a comforting hand on the younger's shoulder. "Sure we've had tough spots, but we've gotten along at points. It hasn't been all bad, it hasn't…"
"But we keep regressing!" England argued, remorse creeping into his tone. "We're stuck in a circle of violence. This stupid bleeding cycle. And we can't get out. I don't want things to keep on this way. Fighting one moment, civil the next. We're too old for this, Francis, too old…"
"Mon amour," France whispered, folding the Brit into his embrace. There was no opposition to the move, which only increased the Frenchman's concern. "If you truly feel that way, then why fight? We can end these silly feuds, we can. Change is always possible."
"Remember our younger days?" England evaded, not moving from his position against the older Nation's chest. "I was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Daunting and fearless, wild and young…every bit as daring as that git America. What happened to that?"
"Time," France answered simply, moving a hand to stroke it though the younger Nation's perpetually messy hair. "It happens to the best of us, Angleterre, you should know that by now."
"I wish I could go back to those days," England continued on, almost as if ignoring the Frenchman. "Back before America, back before the world got so bloody complicated…"
"One can never relive times of the past," France stated softly, still petting the surprisingly soft golden locks. "It simply leads to unfulfillable longing…"
" 'Simply'?" England frowned against the older man's chest. "Nothing is ever simple in life, you daft git."
"And here I thought we were having a touching moment," France joked, only to receive a half-hearted punch. The word 'touching' brought inappropriate thoughts to the Frenchman's mind, but he suppressed them, concern once again taking over at his companion's lack luster punch. If there was one consistency in England's actions, it was that he never missed a chance to give France a good, solid blow. The younger Nation must be truly upset.
"We're here in the present now," the blue-eyed one continued. "And one—by which I mean you—must make the most of it."
"There's nothing to make the most of," England glowered sullenly, not meeting the older Nation's eyes. "Nothing at—"
He was cut off by a quick peck on the mouth, short and sweet, meaningful but concise, and overall, astoundingly non-France. But it had the desired effect, knocking England sufficiently out of his gloom, enough for him to deliver a good whole-hearted smack, right across the Frenchman's face, as the Brit pulled away, wiping his mouth.
"Bloody hell, you froggy git!" he yelled, while trying to cleanse his mouth. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"
"Cheering you up, Angleterre," France replied, unconcerned, before going in for another kiss, pushing the younger man back onto the carpeted floor.
"Francis, you twat, cut it—" but his angry retort was muffled by lips on his own, and as he had mentioned before, he was tired of fighting. He relented, going so far as to press upwards in order to deepen the kiss, granting the older blond entrance when he ran his tongue passionately over the Brit's mouth.
But the two did not progress past kissing, not going onto thoughtless sex as they had so often done. The morning would always arrive too soon. Matters between the two would be no closer to resolution, if not farther and even more bitter than when the whole affair had started. No, they were done with such senseless frivolities, even France, who—England believed—would as soon shag a person as look at them.
Instead the two sat by the fire, the younger beginning to nod off ever so slightly. France planted a soft kiss on England's forehead, smiling at how adorable his love looked when half-asleep, brilliant green eyes fighting to stay awake, massively bushy eyebrows somehow only adding to the appeal.
"Stupid frog," England murmured once more, stubborn until the end.
"Come now, mon amour, enjoy the moment," France chastised teasingly, resting his head atop England's.
The lulling warmth of the fire on such a chilling day finally proved too much for the Englishman, and he drifted off to sleep, pleasantly limp in the Frenchman's arms. Or at least that would be England's explanation, were he awake. He would never admit to having missed France, for even a moment. He would never admit to enjoying the feel of the older Nation's arms around him, or the scratch of the ever present stubble on his cheek.
Because he didn't love the Frenchman, England would argue. He had never, would never, and—most importantly—could never love the Frenchman, because they weren't meant to be. Weren't even friends, as far as he was concerned.
But France would know the younger Nation was lying, denying the truth as he so often did, even when it was right in front of his pretty little face. And so France would not be offended by the jibes and insults, would not be hurt by the punches. Because he knew that deep down, the Englishman did care for him.
Arthur—his dear Arthur—was finally starting to see sense even, that there was no point in their constant disputes. Perhaps there was hope yet for the two.
Perhaps they would spite fate, and get along someday. After all, life was always subject to change.