England stood in the entrance hall and shook the rain off of his hat. Despite the weather that made it feel almost like home he was not pleased to be in Paris. He wore a scowl above his neat suit and thick coat. It looked well at home on his face, the expression settling easily into lines worn by the last few years.
The peace conference had finished up a few months ago and he had been hoping that he wouldn't have to see France's face for at least another year. No such luck.
"He says it's urgent. Unavoidable," his secretary had said. She was a nice woman, a war widow. She believed strongly in one's duty to take the mail seriously and it was she who had eventually convinced him to come.
The butler had let England in with a grim, "You've been expected," and told him to go up when he was ready.
England refused to let him take his coat. He wanted to make it clear that this was a short visit.
He made his way up the stairs, taking the familiar (too familiar really) path to France's bedroom.
There he found France or at least France's head as it was the only visible part of the nation. He had his red satin bedcovers tucked underneath his chin and was wearing a melancholy expression. The heavy drapes were closed and none of the lights turned on. Only a flickering candle lit the room.
England immediately suspected some melodrama was afoot.
"Angleterre," came a husky whisper from the bed, "you came."
Suspicion confirmed. "Yes I did. You said it was urgent, didn't you?" said England, seating himself on a plush looking sofa, startling a sleeping cat. It was white, fluffy and mean looking. He made a face at it.
"I did." The voice grew even weaker.
"Well?" England inserted as much impatience and displeasure in his voice as he could manage. Which, given the amount of practice he had had, was rather a lot.
"I'm dying," the voice proclaimed in a dramatic whisper.
"Indeed?" England barely fought down the urge to smirk.
France sat up. "Yes, indeed! And it is nothing to joke about!"
He actually did look quite ill. His hair lacked its usual sheen and his skinhad a nasty gray tinge to it. His eyes, lively with indignation, were red and dry looking.
"Who's joking?" England said, ruthlessly keeping his face straight. "May I ask how you came to the conclusion that you are, uh, dying?"
France looked at him suspiciously but must have been fooled by England's serious expression for he flung himself back onto the bed and moaned, "It is certain. I am to die. I am not in the least bit ready for it."
The white cat had decided that it rather liked England and was rubbing its face along his leg, trailing white hair on his trousers. He glared at it but to no avail.
"Are you even listening?" France asked pettishly.
"Hm, oh of course. You're dying."
"Yes I'm dying! It's these wars. A body can only stand to be invaded one so many times. It's all very well for you to mock. You haven't been invaded in centuries!"
"True," England agreed, shifting his attention from the cat to Francis.
Really they had a lot in common. Cats and Francis that is. He was shameless, selfish, affectionate only when he wanted to be, and he could be awfully cruel when provoked.
He could also be startled easily.
He was startled now. England could see it in the frightened gleam of his eyes and the tense movements of his fingers. The idiot truly believed he was dying.
Well, nothing particularly new there. England remembered after the Great War how France's hands would shake when they passed graveyards and how he had taken to wearing black as though he was already a ghost. He had heard, in whispers, tales from France's revolution. France never spoke of it but his mouth tightened with fear and grief when he remembered. There were other times. England would need both hands to count them all.
It was a silly self-indulgence; a form of hypochondria. But it was also something that could not just be ignored or made fun of.
France had sat up once more and had started babbling again. "You must give that particularly lovely statue of a deer in the front parlor to Canada, he admired it when he was last here. And to Amerique I think perhaps my copies of all the old philosophers of democracy. He liked them once upon a time. Promise Espagne that I never revealed the location of that wine cellar. And for Belgique…why are you not writing this down?"
England had no intention of writing anything down. "What's the point?"
"Have you not been listening?" France exploded. His red-rimmed eyes looked a little mad.
"You're a fool," said England flatly. "Do you really think I'd let you die?"
France opened his mouth and then shut it again and then opened it once more. "What?" he asked.
"I'm not going to let you die," England said slowly. Once should speak slowly when talking to madmen…or to idiots.
"But…you hate me."
"Yes, well," England stood up, "I'd like to go on hating you for a long time. Cheer up, you're not going anywhere."
He turned to leave but France stumbled out of bed to stop him. He was dressed only in a nightshirt. He looked unwashed, ill, and somehow beautiful. Such was the power of France.
"Angleterre," he said, voice husky with a combination of sickness and emotion.
He pressed one kiss then two on England's lips. They were gentle; kisses of gratitude.
England politely pushed him off. "You're sick and quite frankly a little gross. Write me when you're well again and then we'll see about kissing, alright?"
"And if I never get well again?" France asked England's retreating back, a glitter in his eye that didn't come from fear.
"I'll get nice flowers for your funeral." England called back over his shoulder.
He was half way down the stairs when he received his response.
"Lilies! Not your roses. My lilies, you hear!"
England permitted himself a smile. France was sounding better already.
Author's note: The prompt on the Kink Meme asked for a time when France thought he was dying. Lilies are the national flower of France and roses are the national flower of England.