The rain is only getting heavier as France waits at the door impatiently. He knocks again, rapping on the wooden door with the back of his knuckles and cursing England for not having installed a doorbell. Stepping back and looking up at the dark skies, he sighs and shakes his head. It seems like even the country is in mourning.
And then the door opens, and the country is mourning. England's face is a mess of tears and snot, and pain. France waits for the inevitable insult, but instead England flings himself at him, burying his face in the blonde's shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably.
Shocked, France hesitates for a moment, before curling his arms around England and drawing him closer. England wraps his hands into France's shirt, clenching and pulling at it as he weeps, and France moves one hand to stroke his hair, rocking him soothingly as he whispers to him in French like he did when they were children. France wonders if the Nation is mourning one queen or two – or perhaps he is mourning all of them: all of the rulers that he's seen come and go in his immortal life. France wasn't there after Elizabeth – the first one, that is – died, but he still saw pain in England's eyes if she was mentioned, and understood.
Eventually, the sobs slow, and England begins to calm, his breath ragged on France's shoulder. They are both drenched now, but the rain is finally showing signs of letting up. France gently leads England inside, up to the bathroom, leaving his shoes at the door. As the bath runs, he starts to strip England, tenderly unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, then kneeling to help him out of his trousers and boxers. England doesn't complain at the treatment: he doesn't say anything, and he's still shaking slightly.
When France has stripped himself, he helps England into the warm water, settling him in his lap and letting him collapse against him, back to chest. France goes back to soothing England's wild locks with his hand, his other arm wrapped over England's hip. The other Nation seems to finally relax a little, curling in closer and twisting so that his shoulder rests on France's chest. The silence between them is comfortable, and France holds England close while the water restores heat to their cold limbs until it starts to cool. Then England acts, lifting his head from France's shoulder and leaning forward to wash dried salt from his cheeks. He stands up after that, careful not to stand on France's legs, and while he fetches towels from the cupboard France washes tear stains from his shoulder.
When France takes his towel from England it looks as though the younger Nation is about to say something, but whatever it was he bites it back and looks away as he wraps a towel around his waist.
France's clothes are left in a sodden pile on the bathroom floor as he follows England into his bedroom, and he watches while England pulls on tartan pyjamas and then crosses over to his chest of drawers. After some rummaging he pulls out a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms and a tank top that look big enough to fit the broader Nation, and France almost breaks the silence with a complaint, but in the end pulls them on anyway.
"Tea?" England asks, suddenly, his voice hoarse from crying.
France jumps, the sudden noise startling, and looks at England with a question in his blue eyes.
"Do you want some tea? Well, coffee I assume, but I'm going to put the kettle on." Aside from his rough voice, England sounds normal: there are no tears in his voice, and the sadness that he cried out on France's shoulder has either gone or is being carefully suppressed.
It takes a moment for France to find his voice after the long silence. "Coffee, then." He says, and it's followed by an uncomfortable pause as unasked questions hang in the air between them.
England clears his throat uncomfortably. "Come on, then." Abruptly he turns, leaving the room, expecting France to follow, which he does.
France seats himself at the kitchen table while England busies himself with the kettle. He is purposely not looking at him, France thinks, as he watches him. Only when two mugs have been filled and England takes the seat beside him do green eyes look up to meet blue.
As France reaches out to take his mug, he lets his hand brush against England's. "Merci."
"Hmm? Oh. That's okay." England has curled his hands around his mug, and the silence becomes oppressive again as the two Nations stare into their cups.
"What will happen now?" France asks, eventually, falteringly.
"Oh, Charles will probably offer the throne to William after all that fuss with Camilla, but--"
France cuts in. "I mean, what will you do?"
England shrugs, and for a moment sadness reappears in his eyes. "I'll be fine." He pauses, and then adds, "I always am."
France reaches out and puts a hand on top of England's. For a moment, England looks at it, and then he twists his hand to lace his fingers with France's.
They sit like that until their drinks are cold, watching the rain – now a steady drizzle – trickle down the windows.
England breaks the silence again. "Stay with me, tonight."
France is surprised. He's slept in England's bed on countless occasions, but not for hundreds of years has he been asked to. He looks at England, and is offered a soft smile, which France returns, drawing England into a hug. England buries his face into the damp curls of France's hair, and they are briefly still, until England pulls away and gently tugs France up and out of his chair with their linked hands.
In the morning, when France wakes up, England has already left, and the bed is cold, but he is not surprised. When he goes, he leaves a single red rose on the kitchen table.