A Parisian sunset glowed orange between silhouetted buildings in the late summer evening as the foreign nation sat outside in its hazy warmth. Strange to think it was the same one he saw in his own country when it felt so much warmer here. The city was alive, even at this time, with its teeming streets, roads thick with the flow of cars. A sigh escaped his lips as he closed his tired eyes, the full heat of the dwindling light upon his face a heavenly feeling until it was blocked by a shadow.
"A lovely evening, is it not?" the smooth French accent broke the Englishman's musing state.
Opening his eyes, squinting against the permeating light, Arthur glanced to where the other stood, placing down a glass of amber liquid on the table he sat at. He said nothing, wishing to keep the peace of the evening, however, this was not to be allowed as Francis sat at the other side of the table, wine in hand.
"Arthur," he began, the questioning intonation causing the man in he addressed to look over with an eyebrow raised, "do you remember when we first met?"
The question caught Arthur off guard. "Vaguely," he answered, taking a sip from his glass, "why do you ask?"
Swilling the liquid in his own glass, the older of the two, now fairly ancient, nations spoke in a conversational tone. "I had a dream about it the other night."
This caught Arthur's interest and he prompted the other to elaborate. "Oh? And what happened?"
"I dreamed of a wild boy in the woods. I tried to follow him but I could never keep up," he finished, punctuating the sentence with a deep drink from his glass.
Breathing a laugh, the younger man looked out to the sun rays reflecting off the building opposite them. "That sounds about right," he muttered.
Unseen by him, Arthur was being studied from across the table, like a rare creature of great intrigue. Francis couldn't help but compare the man he saw now with the child he had met that day. The same I many respects but everything changes, perhaps not in ways that were visible but enough to survive all these years. Eyes a shade more experienced, face weathered but not worn, creased from years of emotions.
He took another sip from his glass, letting the rim rest on his soft lips a moment as he thought. "I am just feeling nostalgic, I suppose," he sighed, lowering his drink with a clink against the metal surface, "I miss those days."
Arthur snorted derisively, "you mean when I got burned at the stake twice a week and everyone was diseased?"
"Oh, mon cher, why must you always be the pessimist?" Francis frowned at his companion, the rose-coloured glasses he seemed to permanently wear shattered by the other's realist point of view.
"I'm not a pessimist, that's how it was," he was right, of course, but Francis would never choose to see it the same way he did, "you always romanticise things."
"Or perhaps I bring out the romantic side that others cannot see," his suave smile made Arthur's lip curl in contempt.
Cool jazz floated from the open door of the bar they sat in front of, something modern that neither of the men recognised. The incessant chatter of the city buzzed and, truth be told, Arthur did occasionally long for the quiet that seemed to have been left in the past. His head hurt at the mere thought of attending that bloody meeting in the morning, his scorn for authority never having lessened, and his eyes drifted closed again as he tried to find some peace in the increasingly busy world they lived in.
"Tired?" the French nation asked sarcastically. He joked but at the root of his words was genuine concern for the health of his younger counterpart. After all, he had sworn to be there for him all those years ago and, even then, it was not a promise he had made lightly.
Peeling open his heavy lids, dark with stress, Arthur turned his eyes without moving his head to lazily look at Francis. "Do you ever feel old?" he asked, the weight of a life in his voice.
Sympathetically, the older man gave a tight smile back. "Sometimes," he admitted, "but an old man would not still be standing."
Exhaling heavily, the island nation drummed his fingers on the table in time with the faint music. They were old.
"Maybe I do miss when times were simpler," he confessed, reminiscing in his mind's eye of open fields and sea swept hillsides.
Francis noticed his friend's sombre mood, knowing the feeling well himself. Two thousand years of watching everything you know die and rot would do that to a person.
"I do not know about that, it is nice to be able to leave your house not fearing death by plague," he remarked darkly, knowing Arthur's sense of humour too well.
As predicted, the English nation's spirits lightened as he laughed in a subdued way that meant it was genuine. "Cheers to that," he smiled, raising his glass.
Gladly returning the gesture, Francis clinked the crystal ware together and downed its contents along with his drinking partner.
The evening had begun to turn to night but the streets remained packed with people, their shadows stretched along the pavement like creeping ghosts. Shop windows began to pull their blinds as others opened theirs and street lights illuminated the dark.
"You are staying with me, oui?" the hosting nation asked even though it had been their custom to stay with one another for a long time now.
"Saves a hotel," Arthur replied as he gathered his belongings and stood, ready for the day to be done.
Francis stood also, clicking his back audibly at which the younger man mentally laughed but didn't mention, knowing he was the same.
"Très bon," he confirmed, "in that case you can help my poor rose."
Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, Arthur spoke with exasperation. "Again? How is that thing still alive?"
"Because I have such a wonderful friend called Arthur who will help me," the older man schmoozed with his biggest puppy dog eyes.
"Fine," Arthur rolled his eyes as he set off at a brisk pace, "but you're not getting any more clippings from my garden if this one dies too, plant murderer."
"Merci, mon petit lapin," the taller man crooned, catching up to his friend.
"Did you take it out of the pot like I told you to?" the Brit asked, well aware that his instructions had been ignored.
Avoiding the interrogating stare he received, Francis began to make excuses, "well I was going to but I like being able to look after it when it is small and cute."
"Then get a puppy," Arthur shot back, "roses need space to grow, they're not meant to stay small."
"I know…" Francis answered, realising the full meaning of what they had said as he looked at the English rose beside him.
Catching the other staring at him with a strange smile, the shorter man frowned. "What?" he asked, becoming self-conscious.
Francis remained silent for a moment then, never one to pass up an opportunity to irritate his neighbour, said "one of your eyebrows is thicker than the other."
"What?!" Arthur exploded into a mess of paranoid scrambling, "no it is not!"
Watching in amusement as he frantically felt his forehead for a while, Francis let out a chuckle.
"I was only joking, cherie, they are fine," he lied, ready to make the same comment again in a few years when Arthur had forgotten about it, as he did every decade or so. He was shot a nasty glare in return but it never failed to be funny.
"Damn frog," the unevenly eyebrowed man grumbled under his breath, not minding so much as it gave him incentive to get his own back. The perfect excuse.
As they walked the darkening streets to Francis' home, Arthur didn't pay much mind to the conversation they shared, lost in thought over times long past. He had lied earlier when they spoke of their first meeting as he often recollected his childhood, that day in particular. The image of that blue-eyed boy with his hair gold as the crown prancing through the forest like some damsel in distress would be forever engrained in his mind. Some of his fondest memories included the adolescent Frenchman, the times he had visited Britain but also the times Arthur had ventured over the channel to the peculiar world of the French court. An unlikely friendship, that was certain, but one that had withstood centuries of war, hardship and death. Not that he could admit it, but Francis had been the one constant through everything and, for that, Arthur was forever grateful.
"Are you alright?" he heard the man he was thinking of ask as he had been quiet for some time.
"Yes…of course," he replied, "just thinking."
"About a very handsome Frenchman, I am sure," Francis vainly suggested as they reached the front steps of his house.
"I know I'm creative, Francis, but I don't think my imagination can stretch quite that far," Arthur retorted in his usual dry manner.
The older man looked back, an immature pout on his lips. "You are so cruel, cherie. You never change," he complained melodramatically.
"Neither do you," the Englishman smiled warmly to himself as he entered the house after his dear friend.
I actually managed to finish this and I'm really impressed with myself, not going to lie.
Massive thankyous to everyone who has read, followed, favourited and reviewed (especially gintama200 who has consistently left some very positive and encouraging reviews that really made me happy to read) and I hope some of you will be joining me in my next upload as writing this has really spurred me on and I have a few things I am planning at the moment. Much appreciation to you all xx
