A/N - So it's the 8th April, and we all know what THAT means - the anniversary of the entente cordiale! I haven't been on this site long enough to have written an entente fic, so it's kinda a must :) Sorry it's a bit rushed!
Oh, and happy Easter! :3
8th April, sometime in the past
Whatever happens later on in the day, France's Sundays usually start in the same way.
He will wake early - like most nations, he can remember the days before electricity when it was normal to rise with the dawn, and old habits die hard - and he will take his time getting up. He likes to see the sun climb the sky, from the first quiet sliver of light to a full gold orb. Once dressed, France walks to the nearby boulangerie and buys his breakfast. By the time he's back at home the sky will be steady blue and France will relax on his balcony with coffee and croissants.
It truly is a credit to the abnormality of the day that on this particular Sunday, the fact that this routine is interrupted pales into insignificance.
France is woken at an hour ungodly even by his standards, and he has absolutely no idea why anyone would be banging on the door so early on - especially since France has a perfectly good doorbell.
His original impulse is to roll over and wait for whoever it is to go away, but then he remembers that the only person he knows that doesn't use doorbells is England. It's another one of the nation's quirks; England explained once, but they were slightly tipsy at the time and all Francis knows is that it's something to do with unicorns.
Trying to ignore the happiness that suddenly washes over him, France hurries to answer the door.
He is greeted by England glaring at him from where he stands on France's porch. With a flash of horror France recognises the expression. It's that one England gets when he's about to throw France a cruelly imaginative insult, perhaps concerning the size of certain intimate parts of his anatomy, or maybe the ungodly circumstances surrounding his birth, and oh god please don't let it be goats -
Pre-emptively flinching, France can only stare when, with a magician's flourish, England produces a blush, a bouquet of roses, and the words,
"Happy anniversary."
Initially, France is impressed by the way England can make the phrase sound like 'I still don't know how I resisted the urge to pour cyanide into your coffee for the last 365 days'.
And then France's half-asleep thoughts stir into action, and he realises that in the years since the signing of the entente cordiale, this is the first time either of them have even spoken about it on the day. Small as it is, this feels like a step closer to friendship, and with a thrill of fear France marvels at the thought.
There is a moment of silence and then England growls and thrusts the flowers in France's face. "Will you just take them already? We can go back to arguing or whatever afterwards but in the meantime, these are damn nice flowers so you're bloody well going to appreciate them."
And they are. France recognises them. Large, pale yellow blooms with petals furled back; they are England's favourite rose, the Lady Hillingdon tea rose.
France takes the flowers.
For a few seconds France and England stare at each other. It should be awkward - at first it is - but France wonders at how much has changed. He remembers England as no more than a child, as a nation wracked by suffering, as an empire like no other. He has seen him at his best and his worst, seen him rise to glory and fall.
He never thought he'd see him like this.
The moment passes, and England mumbles something and spins on his heel to leave.
"Wait!" France calls.
And amazingly, England does.
"Ah…" France hesitates, suddenly freezing, unable to think of a reason why England should stay. Meanwhile England has a scowl on his face, but he's still waiting, and that in itself is a miracle. "Do you want to stay for breakfast?"
England's expression softens imperceptibly, and he nods. "Thank you, that would be nice."
It is then that France realises that he hasn't got any croissants, and the only bread he has is just on the wrong side of stale.
England comes in, leaning his umbrella awkwardly against the wall - France makes a mental note to buy an umbrella stand, before promptly realising that he shouldn't presume this will happen again.
Placing the roses in a vase, France starts rifling through his cupboards in a quest for food.
"Do you need any help?" England offers. He is currently perching in the kitchen doorway, looking unsure whether he's intruding. "I'm quite good at foraging; have to do it all the time at home," he adds hastily, as if his previous question may have encroached some essential privacy and therefore needs justification.
France opens his mouth to tell him not to worry, to take a seat and relax. England is a guest; it's what he should say. But instead, what comes out is; "Oui, merci."
England was right. In no time at all, he has managed to find two croissants that seem to be relatively fresh, and a jar of marmalade that France has no recollection of buying.
France makes two mugs of coffee and rapidly discovers that, judging from the quickly masked expression of distaste, England loathes the stuff.
"Would you prefer tea?" France asks, and England looks ridiculously relieved.
"Oh, God yes. Al keeps forcing his ersatz coffee on me, and I've steadily gone off it ever since," he explains as he commandeers France's kettle. "Do you have any Earl Grey?"
He doesn't, but England seems content with the English Breakfast - though he does wince slightly when he realises it isn't loose leaf.
Ten minutes later, they are sitting on France's balcony having a surprisingly civil conversation about roses.
"You prefer the red ones, don't you? I would have brought the Barkarole, but ever since the Wars of the Roses I've never really seen the red or white blooms in the same way. The Lady Hillingdon…" England glances away, cheeks tinged with a blush. "I don't know, maybe I should've brought the Barkarole," he mumbles.
"No, I like the Lady Hillingdon. It -" Reminds me of you, France wants to say, but that would make England close off. "It's a beautiful colour. Your favourite, non?"
England hides a smile behind his teacup. "Yes. I didn't know you knew."
"We have hated each other long enough for me to know your taste," France says.
England looks torn between smiling and frowning, and eventually settles for the former. Then the smile fades and he says, "That's all changing now though, isn't it? International diplomacy above all. We're only allowed to get on."
England sounds almost wistful, and France understands the feeling. He knows it's cynical (he's the country of love, after all) but it's true. The two of them have seen so many friendships and romances being formed and inevitably destroyed, and it has taught them one thing. Love may be transient, but hate?
Hate is eternal.
"Then let's get on only for one day of the year," France says simply. "We'd be doing our bit for diplomacy without having to change things."
"One day…" England muses. Then he starts, as if he's just run into an uncomfortable truth and needs to escape it.
He takes out his watch. "Oh, is that the time already? I've got to be back for a meeting with Japan." Putting down his teacup with a clatter, England bolts for the door.
Before leaving, though, he turns and looks back at France. "I'll see you next year?" He says cautiously.
He flushes then, and starts babbling. "Well, obviously I'll see you before that, what with meetings and diplomacy and whatnot, but I mean, I don't know when I'll see you, other than in an official capacity - though I suppose this could in some ways be counted as official, really…"
France smiles and kisses England lightly on the cheek. "Merci."
"Bloody frog," England grumbles, but he leaves with a smile.
A/N - So I was going to continue this, but then I remembered the fact that I have no time right now. Sorry. It's Easter and I am busy - have a LOT of chocolate to eat! :3
As ever, *whores self out for reviews*