Gentle rays of sunlight seeped through the single square window in Francis's cottage, the sounds of shuffling feet, clopping horse hooves, and rolling wagon wheels illustrating an average morning in the town outside. Daytime. England lifted his heavy eyelids, the room coming into view. Ah, how comfortable he felt, enveloped in Francis's warmth… How safe… A light smile played on England's mouth, and he placed a soft kiss to the temple of his sleeping lover.
The peace was shattered quicker than a bolt of lightning. England's lips had not even left Francis's temple when the door was kicked in, all the locks ripped right off the hinges. The abrupt bang was followed by the inescapable sound of clanking armor, and tens of soldiers had piled into the little cottage. England was now wide awake. He shot upright, excuses flooding into his brain, yet it was of no use; nothing could pardon why he was naked in bed with another man.
Somehow, Francis managed to stay deeply asleep as the soldiers yanked England to his feet, one man tightly gripping each of his forearms as if he was a rabid madman. With a shove from another soldier's boot clad foot, the nation was sent sprawling out into the street where hundreds more soldiers awaited him. All of them wore identical disgusted scowls. Looking around in a panic, England now saw that instead of daytime, the sky had actually darkened, a midnight-like glow providing the only light.
Heart pounding in his ears, England touched his knees together in attempt to cover himself. However, if what he suspected was true, there would be no need. Sure enough, the lines of armored men divided for a moment, serving as a pathway for a man that had been toward the back. He wore the grimmest expression of them all, murder flashing in his eyes. England's own green orbs widened in terror as they swallowed the image of what the man was carrying. The metal device resembled hedge trimmers in a way, except instead of two blades, there were four sharp prongs coming together in a pear shape.
"Get on the ground, scum," one of the soldiers barked. England's head whipped in the man's direction. Had the situation not been so calamitous, he would have responded with something snippy like "I already am on the ground." But his breathing was heavy, his voice was choked, and the end was drawing near. From the corner of his eye, in fact, he swore he saw the Grim Reaper himself, waiting patiently with both bony hands gripping his scythe.
Too horrorstruck to do anything himself, the two soldiers that had dragged him out of the cottage grabbed him by the shoulders, roughly flipping him onto his chest. One gripping a handful of his hair and the other stepping on the backs of his legs, they held him in a position that left his rump sticking in the air. He rolled his eyes as far to the side as he could, unable to keep from the unexplainable desire to watch the approach of the man who was to be his murderer. This soldier was wearing a dark hood, now; had he transformed into the Grim Reaper? No, because instead of a scythe, he held the Pear of Anguish, prongs closed in a point and gradually being brought down upon England…..
With a gasp so heavy it left him coughing, England's eyes sprung open. He was no longer thrown against the stone ground, surrounded by soldiers and encased in darkness; on the contrary, he was lying beneath France's arm just as he had been moments ago, the town's activities mere murmurs in the distance. A dream… It had just been a dream. A horrifying, astonishingly realistic dream. England released an even sigh and slid France's arm off of his chest. This slight motion was enough to stir the Frenchman awake.
"Good morning, mon amour," France whispered before a yawn, a small airy smile on his lips. England briefly attempted to return the smile, but was still shaken up and hesitant after his nightmare. There was still all the possibility that it could come true… He needed to work fast.
Without a word, England swept out of bed. He groaned at the immediate sharp ache he met with in his lower back: evidence that not all his most recent memories had been a dream. Which was all the more reason for him to act. Pretending he didn't feel France's casual gaze on him all the while, he smoothed out then yanked on his tunic. He stepped into his trousers, while at the same time pulling one of France's extra quilts off the bed and onto the floor. France raised his eyebrows bemusedly. "Hiding the evidence?"
England nodded sharply, tying his rope belt. "If anyone happens to come by for any reason, they'll think you simply invited me to spend the night. They won't suspect any... suspicious activity," he confirmed. With a blush, he added as an afterthought, "And if they see the state you're in, well, I can just say you brought home a maiden. I'll be sure to mention how disgusted I was."
His face only glowed redder when France laughed, sitting up and stretching as if he hadn't committed a heinous deed the night prior. "It's precious, how much thought you put into this."
England huffed, crossing his arms and staring toward the door; if he looked at France's unclothed form any longer, there'd be no chance of denying the fluttery sensation making itself present in his chest. "Don't you have another tournament today?"
France's grin only grew. "Ah, oui. I do."
The entire time France got dressed, England stared out the cottage window. He did not relax until 15 minutes passed without spotting a single soldier. Only then did he loosen up the slightest bit.
Upon France's insistence, England did not wear his hood to this joust. He reasoned that word of his heroic act at the previous event spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom, so people would be looking out for him even though this tournament was at a different location. In that case, why not let his presence be known? This was not something England was exactly eager to do; as a result, they met the compromise that if he did not wear his hood in the arena, he would on the way there, and keep a reasonable distance behind the Frenchman so it didn't look like they were riding together. Consequently, although they journeyed down to the stables together, England gave France a good 5 minute head start.
Once in the stands, England made it a point to keep his head down and blend in with the crowd. He procrastinated removing his hood as long as possible; in fact, he did not take it down until he found his spot, in the second-to-first row behind a man much taller than him. Still, he made sure to find a window once the games began: the experience of yet another side of the passionate Frenchman left his yearn to watch him joust stronger than ever.
There was nothing like a good tournament to get Arthur back onboard with his normal self. The trio of Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert was participating again, which always made for a glorious show. One of the immediate highlights was when Gilbert was busy waving at a particularly attractive group of women and didn't realize he should have already commanded his horse to stop, and ended up doing so too suddenly and almost falling headlong into the dirt below. It set the lighthearted atmosphere of what was sure to be a wonderful game.
As usual, Francis came out with his small bouquet of roses after the first contest. This time, however, it was not mere luck that sent one of the blossoms flying precisely in Arthur's direction (although Francis made sure not to look in the direction he flicked his wrist so as to make it seem like he had no particular aim). Arthur's heart leaped at the sight of the flower falling in his direction and reached for it mostly on pure instinct. He caught it by the stem in both hands and immediately lightened his grip on the rose, taking care not to crush it.
The soft, content smile on his face melted, though, as he caught sight of a devastated expression appearing on the face of the tiny girl standing beside him. He froze, turning his gaze toward her, and felt his heart drop back down and shatter as he noted the tears welling up in the child's pleading eyes. With an inner sigh, Arthur forced the smile back on his lips, and handed the blossom to the girl. Her tears seemed to vanish and her face lit up; she deeply inhaled the rose's petals, aiming an appreciative nod Arthur's why. A woman placed a hand on the child's shoulder.
"Thank you, s-" The girl's mother paused midsentence, her eyes bulging. "Arthur Kirkland!" she whispered in disbelief. She nudged her husband, who took sight of him and also murmured his name. This chain continued down the line of the crowd, then up and over until the name "Arthur Kirkland" seemed to be trickling out of every spectator's lips and hundreds of pairs of eyes flickered over to where the ex-jouster stood. Gulping and wishing he could shrink down to nothing, Arthur pulled his hood back over his head. So much for his and Francis's compromise.
Thankfully, the next round of the tournament was enough to unglue everyone's eyes from Arthur's form. It was much more civilized than the one with Francis and the escaped Hungarian prisoner: the hand-to-hand combat was between Antonio and Gilbert, both of whom wanted to leave victorious yet also would not be completely crushed if the other won. After being disarmed eight times, Gilbert decided to surrender; there were but a few boos, for most people were content with the Spaniard's victory. Arthur was one of them; though he would have preferred Francis to win, of course, he was at least glad the man that had shamed him out of participating had lost as well.
On their way to the stables, France and England had decided to meet up for at least a little while after the tournament. Naturally, this caused Arthur to head down to where the knights exited after the crowd filed out, expecting Francis to meet him there. He did…. along with Gilbert and Antonio. Before Arthur could find any means of backing out, Gilbert marched right up to him. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Artie Kirkland," he practically taunted, chin stuck high and a smirk ever present on his face.
"…Please, just call me England," Arthur muttered, glancing away to avoid Gilbert's cocky gaze.
"In that case, call me Prussia," Gilbert decided, crossing his arms proudly. Antonio grinned. "Call me Spain!" he insisted. Francis wacked them both in the backs of their heads.
"Not so loud," he warned, jerking his head at some of the humans walking not too far away. Both of his friends pouted and apologized in unison.
Prussia didn't take long at all to recover his usual stance. "So I was thinking- everyone was, actually. Why did you ever quit jousting?"
England bit his lip, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. "My… heart just wasn't in it anymore," he lied feebly. Prussia snorted.
"Likely story. Look, I know you still got it in you. That you still have a passion for the joust." He balled his hand into a fist here to illustrate his point. "I'm sure I'm speaking for the entire continent of Europe when I say you should come back."
Now England brought his gaze up from the ground. "I don't exactly think I can suddenly restart my entire career out of nowhere."
"Come on!" Spain chimed in, his grin brightening. "Just one more tournament."
"Oui, I would also like to see you participate again. Even if only once," France agreed, tilting his head slightly. England only wished he could prevent the blush that arose to his cheeks. He feared that any argument he had would come out sound ridiculous or whiny, so he just stayed quiet and shook his head stubbornly. Prussia gripped his shoulder as if they were old friends.
"Like Tonio said, just one tournament! That's all we want to see you in. If you feel your passion come back, you can go back to competing like a legend. If not, you can vanish again," he insisted. England crossed his arms, lifting his chin slightly. There was no way he'd cave under their pressure…
"S'il vous plait? For moi?" Something about the gentle pleading of France's tone made England's entire stature crumble. He let out a heavy sigh.
"Fine, fine…" he agreed reluctantly. "One more. I'll joust in a tournament one more time."
~Author's Note~
I haven't proofread this, so excuse any mistakes... I'm not that fond of this chapter anyway, but I'd say it's pretty important.
