Late September, 1792

The air is rank with the musty odor that accompanies a place forgotten, abandoned, and England cannot help the grin that pulls his lips, baring his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. It was no strain to imagine this place in its former decadence, and his own memories pull to the front—of laughing nations embraced by flowing wine, the walls climbing with paintings born out of a love for their country, with France in the center of it all. Too often, he was relegated to the side, always the outsider to the continent, only ever joining others in war but rarely in camaraderie. If France deigned to catch his eyes as he flirted from one nation to another, it was an uninterested glance, and England took pleasure in breaking it later in the evening, in their private rooms. Now, he steps on broken glass and charred, ripped tapestries, in the center, for once. But the attraction of the evening—only France, always France—is nowhere to be found.

Scouring the country had been hard enough, and twice already England had been wrong in his guess as to where his elusive lover lay, while the French tore themselves apart. But France cannot escape him forever, even if he is unaware that he is doing so.

England steps through a doorway absent of its door and is greeted by another ransacked room, broken furniture splintered across the floor, covering unflattering burn marks. The room is still, and the air heavy, but his senses sharpen, and he strides purposefully through the carnage.

Across him are the unassuming shambles of a bed. Gathering the stained sheets in his hands, he yanks, hard, and finally, the personification of France unravels from within. England waits, hands placed smugly on his hips.

Heavy silence settles in once more.

"You may try to pretend your people aren't out there killing themselves right now, but you cannot pretend I am not here," England says, annoyed, cutting through the oppressive environment. "As much as you hate it, both of us have quite the desire to keep your company."

For a few moments, France remains silent still, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling as he lays spread across the bed. But as England moves to throttle the words out of him, he speaks, voice raspy from disuse. "How lucky I must be, to be in the affections of such brutish creatures."

"And you are simply the very picture of regality, aren't you?" England mocks, climbing onto the bed and over France. "After all, how often did you entertain their children in this house?" France's face remains carefully composed, but something shifts behind his eyes, and England gleefully presses on. "Do you feel them, suffering in their prison? Or do you delight in their suffering, as your people surely do? Perhaps you revel in their misery, laying here as a mockery of once was—"

France snarls, sitting up and forcing England off of him. For a moment, England's certain of the victory he came here to seek, but then France slumps inward, the sudden emotion seeping out of him. He reflects the state of his country, clothes in tatters, hair matted—but a frenzied look behind his eyes.

If England had not known France for as long as he had, he would be horrified at this caricature of a great nation. But there is little (perhaps none) he has not seen of him, and worse yet, he can recognize the familiar sight of struggle in France.

But that is why he is here after all.

"Come now," he offers, propping him up. "Are you really going to wallow in self-misery in this house forever?"

France barely meets England's eyes, but his fingers clench the bedsheets next to them. "What use is there in leaving? When I stand with half my people, my body yearns for the other. I cannot watch them mercilessly attack each other anymore."

England squints suspiciously at him. "It is nothing new for us. Frankly, I am surprised you have some semblance of sanity yet. I was certain I would find a complete madman, and so this is rather disappointing."

"Would I really be so dull as to be predictable, for you?"

"No," England decides, with a note of finality. "I suppose not. And I must admit, you did surprise me with your new love for parliamentary ideals. You never gave the indication that you admired me so!"

France says nothing to that, only attempting a half smile eclipsed by the shadows over his face. He pulls back from England, who instead grasps France's jaw in one hand. Moving to straddle France, England tilts the other's head upwards, giving a curious hum at the sight in front of him.

"And this must be the work of your new lover," England murmurs, tracing the red, angry, lines across France's neck. "I've heard so much about her. How often have she visited you? Twice, at least?"

"Are you jealous perhaps, Angleterre?"

England's nails dig into France's cheeks, and red outlined crescents appear underneath his fingers. "I will admit, I will always prefer to be the one ruining you," he breathes, mouth close to France. "But I will accept this substitute, in my place."

He kisses him forcefully, pushing France underneath him. The taste is abysmal but they don't break, England's hands coming to fist in France's hair, while France steadies himself on the other's hips. Eventually, the need for air arises, and they separate, panting.

They stay like this for some time, the silence broken by intermittent harsh kisses.

"When will you be satisfied, mon amour?" France muses at some point, and England knows he is not talking about the present moment. And there is no answer for that, none that would be true anyhow.

When France wakes the next morning, he is still for a moment before rolling over to find England perched at the edge of his bed.

"Your government is coming to collect you," England informs him in lieu of a morning greeting, not bothering to look up from the letters he is reading.

France stares at him for several moments. "I admit," he finally works out, tongue heavy, "I imagined you would be find the idea of locking me in a prison for several years terribly boring."

"I am hoping your government simply executes you and I can collect your headless corpse for my own amusement," England confesses. "But you are a Republic now, and it is far more interesting to see what kind of man they will mold you into."

"And you would not play a part in that, yourself?" France asks, sitting up, muscles straining under disuse.

England tosses France's letters to the floor and stands up, dusting off his jacket. From his position, France is forced to look up at the man, a circumstance England likely deliberately planned for. There is a stark contrast between how smartly England has dressed himself and the disheveled state he left France in, and familiar irritation grows within France's chest (and oh, how he's missed it).

England's eyes glint in the morning sun. "I'll face the result soon enough," he promises. With that, he sweeps out the door, leaving France alone.

(But not alone, anymore).

Notes

+ Written for the-awesome-sia as part of fruk-net's Secret Santa exchange on tumblr.

+ The children England refers to are Marie Thérèse and Louis Joseph, daughter and son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, the deposed monarchs. Both were imprisoned in the Temple in Marais in August 1792, after the monarchy was abolished. Louis Joseph died in prison, and Marie Thérèse died at 72, in exile.

+ In early September 1792, the September Massacres occurred in Paris, where 1200 prisoners were executed because it was feared they would join foreign armies if France was attacked. France is still reeling from this, as the most recent event in his Reign of Terror.

+ On September 20th, 1792, the First Republic of France was formed, shifting from a monarchy to a more liberal model, similar to that of Britain. The French Revolution overall was said to have been influenced by the British political system and their ideals.