Chapter 2:
Francis groans and pulls the pillow over his head. He draws the bed sheets tighter around him to block out the roars of thunder and flashes of lightning. If there is one thing Francis hates more than being woken up, is being woken up by a storm.
However, above the clashing of the weather, France hears something not quite normal. Moving quickly –he is sure it is a human- he clambers out of bed and stumbles to the door. France pokes his head out of the doorway, and sure enough, in a few seconds of just the hammering of the rain, he hears a low wailing like that of a child sobbing.
He hurries to the next room, where Scotland is sound asleep and snoring loudly. The walls tremble and France wonders subconsciously if it is because of the outbursts of thunder or his friend's slumbering. But he rushes to Scotland's side and shake him awake by the shoulder. The redhead growls and sits up, glaring at France.
"Ye better have a good reason tae wake me up, laddie."
"I think," France gulps in a breath of air, "I think there is a child outside."
"Wot?" Alisdair springs to his feet, though, and follows Francis out of his room. "Are you sure? I don't-"
Scotland is cut off when the lighting and thunder freeze for a good five seconds and the wailings of the child grow louder. The two friends look at each other straight in the eye before taking off down the hallway.
"It sure doesn't sound like it's comin' from outside," states Scotland as they skid to a stop in front of England's room where the cries seemed to be coming from. They quickly burst through the door and flip on the lights, but stop dead in their tracks.
"Qu'est-ce ...?"
France stares straight ahead, gaping, in the direction of England's bed. There, where Arthur should be sleeping, sat a little boy in far too big pajamas. He had messy, fair hair and pale, pink skin. His green eyes were bright, yet were rubbed red from his weeping. And there, right above his eyes, were a pair of big, hairy eyebrows. He was a carbon copy of England.
Yet only Scotland could see the group of fairies clustered about the boy. They were trying desperately to cheer the poor child and ease his fear. Alisdair narrows his eyes and quickly approaches the green-eyed boy- "Little England" he's dubbed him.
Little England looks up, frightened, and scoots away from the Scotsman who immediately stops walking. Scotland hears a thump behind him and glances in the bedroom mirror to see France sprawled unconscious on the carpet from shock. 'Or maybe it's the fae again.'
Scotland forces himself to smile at Little England and crouches down so that he didn't intimidate the child as much. He takes an awkward step forward, but the boy doesn't try to move away and soon finds himself before Little England.
"What did ye do now, Artie?" Alisdair breathes, staring at Little England,
The boy suddenly jumps forward into Scotland's arms, burying his face into the man's neck. Startled, Scotland falls backwards onto his back, but holds on to England. He feels wet on his shoulder and strokes the boy's head reluctantly.
"Nae- no need to cry, Arthur." But England continued to sob silently into Scotland's shoulder. What did Mum do when they were crying? Oh wait, she sang.
"Ahem. Um…" Alisdair took in a breath and began to sing.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never be brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!"
Arthur sniffled and looks up at his big brother, blinking away tears. Alisdair stops his caroling and smiles at the small child. Using his shirt, he dries Arthur's eyes.
"Is that better, Art?" Scotland murmurs, standing up.
England nods, clinging onto his older brother. "Th-thank you," he stutters, "Alba."
Scotland blinks at the sound of the old name. "…You're welcome, Albion."
By the time France awoke, Scotland had heaved him into England's bed (like he would carry him all the way down the hallway!) and the sun had just barely risen above the horizon. Scotland and England were already eating "breakfast" when France shuffles into the kitchen.
"Mornin' Sleeping Beauty," Scotland says, grinning over the papers.
However, France ignores him and stares at Arthur. 'Mon dieu…It wasn't a dream!' The English boy shifts uncomfortably in his gaze and tries to duck his head behind his… 'Is that even food?'
"Arthur, why aren't ye eating? I thought ye were hungry." Scotland frowns at his little brother.
"I was," Arthur mutters. "But I don't like sowans. It tastes weird."
"Nonsense! It tastes delicious!" And, to prove it, the Scotsman takes a spoonful of the porridge-like breakfast item and shovels it into his mouth. "See? I'm eating it, so why can't you?"
"Because he has brains," France interjects, snatching up the bowl of… swans? Is that what Arthur said?
Apparently Mary, Queen of Scots, didn't have as much as an effect on Scottish cuisine with her French cooks as much as France had hoped. For when he tried to pour the substance down the sink and into the disposer, the "swans" refused to budge.
"Are you sure this is cooked properly, Écosse? I'm pretty sure cereal doesn't normally have the solidifying rate of ciment."
Scotland scoffs, crossing his arms. "Well, I-I may have boiled it longer than usual…"
"It's too sour," England suddenly pipes up, reminding Francis of his previous question.
"No it isn't," differs Alisdair, tossing the papers onto the table. "It's supposed to be like that."
France watches Scotland scold England. Rather, he watches just England… 'I must be hallucinating,' he muses, frowning in thought.
"Oi, Franny. You okay, there? You don't seem very…French today."
"Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I was just wondering…" Francis gestures wildly at England. "How?"
England and Scotland exchange looks as if they were exchanging words instead. Arthur shrugs and Scotland goes back to reading the newspapers.
"Excusez-moi," growls France. "But per'aps I am missing something," he stomps over to the two Britons, "but I am quite sure Angleterre was twenty-three years old yesterday and for the last few centuries, not four!"
"I'm five," corrects England, scowling at the Frenchman (actually it looked more like a pout than anything).
"That doesn't explain what happened."
"Magic," Scotland interrupts. "It was magic- the fae's to be more accurate."
Francis was now seriously concerned for his and his friend's mental health. "But magic doesn't exist."
"Oh but it does."
"Are you sure you didn't poison him with your cooking? That makes much more sense than 'magic.'"
"Screw you."
"I love you too, Écosse."
Ultimately, France never left London like he had planned the day before. Instead, feeling sympathetic for England, he decided to stay for a few days, until he was…back to normal. And anyways, knowing Scotland, he couldn't tend to a potted plant's needs, let alone a small child's.
"Bon appétit!" France slides a dish of pot-au-feu in front of England, smiling when the child brightens up at the sight of the French beef stew.
Francis takes a seat across from Scotland, who had already tucked into the savory plat du jour. He settles into his own meal and the trio lapse into silence.
'I wonder if my boss is annoyed at me right now. I did say that I'd be back today.' France pulls out his phone and scrolls through his list of recently missed calls as he eats the tender meat. 'I guess he isn't. There aren't any calls from him…'
"Arthur, ye made a mess o' yerself!"
France looked up to see Scotland wiping England's carrot-y mouth. Grinning, Francis begins to clean up the little boy's stained shirt.
"Alisdair, I had no idea you could be so…fatherly," he purrs, his own head just hovering above Scotland's as they stooped over England.
"Quiet you," Scotland grumbles, but Arthur could see that he was smiling. "And what would that make you?"
"Mummy Francis."
"…my God."
England stood barefoot in the tall cattails surrounding the koi pond. They had been a gift from Japan, he recounts, watching the golden fish swim in their manmade home. Then, reaching into a pot, he pulls out a handful of fish food. He lets the pebble-like objects drop out of his a few at a time like sand in a time turner. The fish greedily race and push one another out of the way for the treats.
Inside the house, Scotland was watching TV. England guessed he had already forgotten about him and was too immersed in the rugby game to notice his absence. As for France, the Frenchman had gone out to buy clothes for the 5-year-old. The clothes that Arthur was currently wearing were sloppily put together using his sewing machine and sheets of cloth found in his closet.
When he runs out of fish food, he stretches out quickly to touch one of the fish, but it darts away along with the other marine animals.
But England was determined to pet the koi.
Rolling up his pants, Arthur steps cautiously into the shallow water. The stones under his feet were soft and slippery with algae and tickled him. Doing his best to ignore the feeling of the plants, he steps deeper into the pool. The water was up to his waist. How deep was this pond again?
Meanwhile, Scotland's game was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the front door being opened and slammed shut.
"Be careful with that!" he calls over his shoulder. "Ah joost fixed it!"
France appears at Alisdair's side a moment later, a shopping bag in one hand and a wallet in the other.
"I'm out of pounds," he states simply.
"So?"
"So, since this problem," Francis shakes the bag, "is your fault, you owe me £60."
Scotland made a choking sound. "Exactly how much did ye buy?"
"I also accept Euros- it's be about €70 if I'm correct." France continues with a smile, but immediately frowns. "Where is Angleterre? I have to see if these fit."
"What do you mean? He's right here…" Scotland had turned to his right where he was sure, just five seconds ago, little England had been sitting. But there was no green-eyed boy with messy blonde hair sitting beside him. "Shite."
"You lost him?" France seethes, dropping the shopping bag. "I leave you for only a few minutes, and you- and-and!"
Scotland places one hand on France's shoulder. "Calm down, Francis. He's probably just playing hide-n-seek. You look down here, I'll check upstairs. Sound good?"
Francis does as Alisdair says and nods.
"Good. Now let's get tae work."
England skirts around the edge of the pond, eyeing the fish. Whenever he had tried to get near, they would just swim to the other side of the pool. He spots a solitary koi, though, that was just an arm's length away.
Arthur bends his knees and pounces on the golden animal. However, the sneaky fish had foreseen his plans and rejoined its friends on the other side of the pond. Arthur stumbled to his feet, spluttering.
Curse that stupid fish!
"This isn't funny, Arthur. Come out of your hiding spot," France calls out half-heartedly.
When he receives no answer, he sighs and leaned against the refrigerator, pinching the bridge of his nose. Although he had searched the entire first floor twice, he came up fruitless. But didn't he and England play this game when they were kids?
'And I won every single round,' France mused. Yes, even when the smaller nation fled to the forest, France would find him. When they were playing in the castle, he would find him. When they went to the town marker, he would find him.
So why couldn't he find him now?
'Think, France! Where would England hide?'
France steps cautiously over a tree root, trying to be as silent as he could. All around him are trees. There are tall, fat oaks and small, skinny saplings. Mushrooms, grasses, and flowers sprang out of the ground among bushes. The bushes were also different. They displayed berries of all colors, flowers of all shapes and sizes, and the strangest insects as well.
A nearby bush catches France's eye. It is green– obviously –the type of green that you imagine a valley with a field of flowers to be. It bares spherical, crimson berries. 'It looks like Angleterre's cloak,' France thinks with a smile.
"Mon petit lapin, I have found you!" he exclaims, diving into the undergrowth.
France hears a squeal in his right ear and makes a grab with his arms. When he feels the softness of fur and locks of hair, he stands up, bringing a surprised, little boy up with him. The boy was a head shorter than him, and unlike France, who adorned a blue tunic with golden trimming, wore a long green cloak over a plain white tunic. A red ribbon held the cloth together his neck and dirty, patched up boots were all he had for his shoes.
"How did you find me?" England demands, still in the French boy's arms.
"It's a trade secret," France replies, winking.
"Outside!" France exclaims aloud, before rushing out of the kitchen and to the backdoor. He quickly swings open the door and steps onto the porch before poking his head back into the house."Écosse! Hurry! I think he's outside!"
Without waiting for an answer, France strides back outside and took a look around. Like he had seen just yesterday, Arthur's garden was as impeccable and perfect as ever. But there was a problem.
'England has too much free time!' France growls under his breath.
Small, rose bushes lined the edge of the patio, but on the other edge grew tall hedges. They were about seven feet tall, France only then notices. They made a hallway-like path down the middle to a fountain that didn't work. Instead, it was used like a series of shelves to grow lavender.
"Damn."
France doesn't need to even glance to know that Scotland is now by his side, gaping at the "garden."
"When did your brother grow a maze?"
"I guess when the Goblet of Fire came out."
"Typical. But I like the stone fountain. It's very attractive."
"Agreed, but I hope there aren't any giant spiders."
"Let's not think about that right now, mon ami."