Night
All hatred should be postponed until daybreak. It took as long as it did for night to become romantic for France to come to this conclusion. The night, as dark and mysterious as it was, should not be sullied by thoughts of death and hatred. That was just too easy. It was too horrible, too wretched. Disgusting things like that were best contemplated during the day when one's imagination was less likely to run away with them.
But when England received Day, France realized that maybe some people needed the light as much as that darkness. People still needed wonderful things to happen while the sun was out. England had turned from the dark and was now trying to live in the light.
France was not ready for that. Not yet.
If I could always be there for you, I would be. But I can't, so I won't even try.
He never said that out loud, because he knew England would probably punch him if he did. He would have every right to.
"Look what I brought!" France chimed in. England looked up from his desk and the ever growing Day scampered across the floor to his feet, where France set down the smaller creature he had brought.
"Pyrenean Mountain?" England asked with confusion.
"To distract your Sun for a while," France admitted as he sat on England's desk. "His name is Nuit."
England looked from the white dog named Night and the black dog named Day and laughed.
France managed to push back his jealousy of Day for just a little longer, letting Night save him. Letting himself take England's attention back for that night.
But the morning shown, they argued, and England attention was raptured by Day.
France's chuckle was bitter, but Nuit came for him and he found himself forgetting his anger as well.
Nuit = night.
I would explain, but instead I will put up my next drabble and let you all figure it out for yourselves.
