Prompt: Breakfast

Characters: France, England

Notes: I despise writing about food. So, of course, that's exactly what I made myself do in this piece. Lol.

I guess I should add that this story straight-up ignores Brexit. I don't like touching on current events, for the most part.


On the second day of the European meeting in Brussels, France woke up early and, after showering and getting himself ready for the day, went downstairs to the hotel dining room for breakfast. If the nations couldn't have their meeting at his place, Brussels wasn't a bad second choice, since Belgium had excellent food. The spread included flaky croissants, fresh berries, several kinds of cheese, and sliced bread, to be topped with Nutella, jam, honey, or any of the other packaged condiments stacked neatly in small containers next to the toaster.

Every time he came here, France would remember, with a chuckle, how confused America had been upon discovering that Belgium did not eat waffles for breakfast.

"But they're, like, one of the best breakfast foods ever," he'd said, while Belgium gave him a bemused look. "Maybe even better than pancakes—sorry, Canada. Hot take, I know, but true."

This conversation, or some variant thereof, took place every time America visited Belgium, and every time, his consternation was overcome by his excitement over the many restaurants that served French fries. It was kind of sweet, really, how much the two had bonded over food.

With his demi-tasse of coffee in one hand and a plate with blueberries, brie, strawberry jam, and a croissant in the other, France walked over to a table beside the window, where he could watch his fellow early-risers meandering down the grey-brick street. He supposed they, too, appreciated the subtle delight of an unhurried breakfast. That first bit of nourishment was precious. It was a signal to one's body that another day had begun, and life would continue.

And of course, France mused, there were few things more intimate than sharing breakfast with another person, especially an old friend whose quirks and foibles one loved so well. Early morning existed halfway between sleep and wakefulness, making it something of a raw, vulnerable time. Needs could be brought into the open and met: not only the need for nourishment, but also the need for companionship. Everything was simple and unpretentious.

The morning stirred to life as France sipped his café crème and slowly, piece by piece, ate his croissant. Soon, he had company in the dining room. Spain, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, was the first to join him, although he didn't linger long.

"Romano wanted me to bring him some coffee," he said. "He's grumpy because Germany woke him up while trying to wrangle Ita into helping him set up the meeting room."

Next came Prussia, who took France outside for a cigarette and a recap of the previous day's exploits, which included playing hooky with Hungary, winning a drinking contest, and live-tweeting the meeting for a full hour before Germany noticed.

"If I want to get away with it again today, I'm going to have to be even stealthier, and I'll need you to back me up," he said, snuffing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Here's the plan…"

Once Prussia left, France was about to return to his room to freshen up before the meeting, when he saw another nation entering the dining room.

"Oh dear." France smiled wryly and folded up the newspaper he'd been browsing. "Are you sure you're alive?"

If England didn't growl in response, he certainly looked ready to.

"And here I thought Romano would be the one to watch out for this morning." France rested his chin on his hands and watched England shuffle toward the hot-water kettle, clearly in desperate need of some strong tea. "You should have known to bow out like a gentleman once you saw who you were up against in this drinking contest I've been hearing so much about."

"Shut up." England tore his packet of tea open with a little more force than necessary.

"Morning never really did you any favors, anyway," said France, getting up to refill his water glass. "Just eat something and you'll feel better before long."

"Are you trying to make me sick?"

"That's what I'm here for, my dear."

Groaning, England took a sip of his tea and let the steam soothe his face.

"Well," said France as he cleared his breakfast dishes, "you've got another twenty minutes before the meeting starts. If you're careful, you might be able to keep Prussia from noticing your unfortunate appearance and starting a Twitter thread to gloat about it."

He nudged a glass of water toward England.

"That would probably help you look a little more awake."

England glowered, saying nothing, but accepted the glass and took a few sips.

After a moment, France said: "But really, you should have some toast. That always makes you feel better."

"I already told you, it'll just make me sick."

"Yes, you always say that, and yet every time, you wind up feeling better instead. But why would you listen to me? It's not as if I know you well or anything."

France ruffled England's hair for a moment, enjoying the shriek he got in response, and headed upstairs to his room.

Then, when he came back down for the meeting, he peered into the dining room and found England nibbling at a piece of toast, and he felt quietly reassured to know some things would never change.