AN: If you have difficulty reading the dialect, please read the quotations out loud as they are written. -Kiriutar


"Culbuter Carpette London . . . culbuter, culbuter . . ."

Francis was stretched out under a tree on the Southland of his estate, singing softly to himself as he watched the sun ripen the rows of his vineyard. Late summer warmed the gold, near-parched grass under his legs. Tousled hair curled about his shoulders and ears. A breeze skittered through threads whose shades blended seamlessly with the underbrush.

"Culbuter Carpette London . . ."

Long lashes shuttered his eyes, expressive brows furrowed at the memory brought by the child's song. Soft and sweet, his voice lilted.

". . . Mon petit belle . . ."

"Do you turn to song every time you read?"

Blue eyes opened and met green. Francis snorted softly and closed his book on the burning of London Bridge.

"Some timez eet 'elps sooze a weary mind, non?"

Arthur gave a derisive grunt and settled beside the fop. "You are peevishly sentimental, frog."

"Ah prefer nostalgic, mon perfide enfant," Francis said.

Green eyes rolled in annoyance: "Either way, I can't stand your theatrical demeanor."

"Eew once found eet enjoyable."

"When you and your poets discovered the 'romance of the sonnets,'" Arthur teased.

Francis smiled, the light jibes rolling off his shoulders. His gaze turned back to the rolling hills. Content in companionable silence, he allowed himself to simply exist, the warm sunshine making him sleepy.

He heard a sigh. His gaze did not move, but he felt his chest suddenly grow tight. Arthur was trying to word something specific. Dangerous topics were about to be broached.

". . . You haven't been yourself as of late."

"Zere are people talking war, Angelterre-eew know eet eesn't good fehr us when our governors et governesses begin to arguon."

"Perhaps that is true," Arthur conceded, "but that isn't the case when you so pointedly ignore summons and invitations, and don't come to the Summit or any other world meeting. You're acting like a right foul git."

Francis scoffed softly: "Eew always tell me Ah act een zat way, even eef Ah act ahnuzzer."

"You always act the same, moron."

"Blessent vou moi!" Francis exclaimed, a hand flying to his chest in mock astonishment. "Eew wound me!"

Arthur snorted. "It takes a hell of a lot more to put a dent in your armor than that, frog."

"Eew know all about armor, don't eew, pageboy?"

Both blonds dissolved into chuckling, followed by the same pregnant silence as before.

". . . You can't dodge forever, Francis. No matter how apt you are at it."

"'Dodging?' D'eew really zink zat ees what Ah do? Ees zat truly what eew zink Ah'm doing by pulling from zee front lines of zees fouillis?"

Arthur glared at the placid older man. "Yes, I think that."

Francis refused to meet the eyes of the younger blond. "Ah really dun want to fight, Angleterre. Ah ahm een no mood-"

"If you're ever in a mood," Arthur cut in, "it's only to get laid or pissed."

The Frenchman did not even attempt to retrieve the conversation. He closed his eyes and laid back his head.

". . . Fucking hell, frog, you're just sitting back and letting your country destroy itself," Arthur continued. "It's ridiculous and I'm sick of you playing the 'it'll resolve itself' card. You tried that with you economy a few years back, don't you remember? Remember how well that worked out?"

The younger nation turned when he got no response.

"Fuck it, wino-! Are you even listening to me!"

"Eewr concern ees most touching, Angleterre," came the muttered reply.

Arthur gawked at the other. "You just don't right give a damn anymore, do you? Just overjoyed with the fact that no one wants a France anymore. You're an idiot. A self-satisfied prick who can't keep it in his pants and can't keep a bottle from his hand. You and every other French whore."

Francis's stomach turned sour at the harsh words, but he did not deny them. His eyes remained closed and he licked his too-dry lips. Arthur's cheeks began to color, frustration tainting his complexion with blotches of red.

"What the fuck do you expect me to do! You and your bloody fucked expectations and your bloody fucked pride! I can't sit by and let you do this to us!"

Francis finally looked up, anger freezing his eyes: "'Us?' Zere ees no 'us.' Zere ees eew et eeor people. Zere ees moi et my people. Zere ahre zee uzzers et zere people. Zere ees no 'us.'"

England's jaw was completely slack. Francis closed his eyes and stood. He picked up his book, slipped a hand into one of his trouser pockets, and started down the slope of the hill.

"Eew 'ave 'alf an hour to desert zee premises."

England was silent for nearly a full minute. Then: "Don't ever come back to the meeting! None of us will tolerate you! And your boss can rot in Hell!"

Francis did not answer.

"I NEVER NEEDED YOU, YOU BLOODY PRICK!"

He almost winced at the desperation in the final insult. Almost.


Translations:

Culbuter Carpette London, mon petit belle = London Bridge is falling down, my little beauty

Angleterre = England

Argoun = argue

Fouillis = folly, foolishness

Blessent vou moi = you wound (injure) me

Et = and