Character Study
When England turns down his street in London late in the evening, to his town house with the nice white brick that he grows fonder and fonder of as the years turn its fellows to flats, he is not surprised to find that France has invited himself over to his home.
Although visits from France were most certainly not something England ever asked for, or even willingly planned, France arriving unannounced on his doorstep is a common enough occurrence that it's not in any way odd in itself. England will frequently come home or wake up to find him already inside, holding his kitchen captive and humming old French love songs under his breath. France has always seemed to think of England's space as his own to use, no matter how many times England has tried to tell him that this sentiment isn't shared.
No, what England is surprised about is that France is seemingly waiting for him, there on his doorstep, eyes downcast and hands twisted deep in his coat pockets. This is what's strange, because France does not wait for England to let him in, usually; France just comes in regardless of England's feelings on the matter. He knows all of England's many different key hiding holes and makes liberal use of them all: under the flowerpot, buried below the rock in the hydrangea bush squashed flush against the brickwork, in the middle of the hollow ugly garden gnome by the gate.
All of England's houses, all of his homes across the ages, France keeps note of all of England's hidden key spots tucked in his mind and knows them off by heart, seemingly almost as soon as England creates a new one.
England has tried to prevent this; has moved keys around, removed them entirely, placed a decoy once or twice to try and dissuade him, but somehow, always, France manages to get inside, without forcing entry. England knows, in a not so deeply buried part of himself, that France has copies of all of England's keys, so that short of changing each and every one of his locks France doesn't need to scrabble about in England's dirt in order to gain access.
England knows this, but hasn't once yet changed any of them, despite telling himself, telling France, or telling anyone who will listen that he will. Now, it's been so long, so many centuries, that France probably has more keys to England's houses than England does; houses that England hasn't lived in for decades, houses that now sit in ruins- their key seemingly sits in France's pocket, waiting for England to move back in.
So, this is a surprise. Because this time France is outside, not inside already where England would expect him to be. Instead of making himself quite at home in a home that is not his, France is standing there in England's doorway, slumped against the wall, and staring at the cracks in the alcove with an expression England cannot read.
England approaches, with caution, because this is very strange and if there is one thing he's learnt about France is that he is a predictable creature, for all his mocking of England being so; predictable in his age old patterns and behaviours that he wears like a gaudy summer coat.
'Francis?' he greets from the gate. It creaks as he pushes it open and he idly makes a note to oil it sometime soon. He gets no response. 'France.' He says again, softly, moving to stand next to him and close enough that any passing humans cannot hear them talking. He can smell France's aftershave, a light floral thing that turns heady in the summer.
England regards him as France turns his head and straightens with a small sigh, pushing off from the wall; he looks as well put together as always but there is an air about him, a weighty feel in his movements that England notices. 'Ah', France says, a smile in his voice but not in his eyes. 'Look who's finally returned home. You're a bad host, you now, to keep me waiting here.'
A beat of a moment before England scoffs and nudges him out of the way so he can get to the keyhole, pulling his set of keys out of his pocket. 'Can one be a host if they were unaware that they were supposed to be hosting?'
He goes to open the door and France leans in close behind him. England feels the chill of him near his neck; he'd been standing outside for a while. 'Should a good host not prepare for everything?'
England shakes his head and inserts the key, twisting it. 'You are indeed everything'.
France hmm's. 'Flattery, so soon? My, you must have had a long day.'
England nudges him off and swings open the door, frame catching on swollen wood, before stepping inside and flicking on a light; France chuckles, deep and throaty, and follows him.
'Do you not think I know you have a key?'
France makes a wounded noise behind him, shrugging off his coat to drape on a hook and slipping off shoes to rest them by the door, a lazy placement next to England's uniform lines. 'You always tell me that it is impolite to enter when the host isn't there.'
England huffs. 'As if that's stopped you before.'
Shoes off, France moves past him, leaving him in the hallway and ignores this. 'I'm making us dinner,' he says, instead, and England can already hear the light click in the kitchen shortly before the opening of his fridge and the grumble of disappointment at the findings. He feels a familiar irritation prick at him but bites his tongue and doesn't rise to it.
He instead slips off his own coat, turns the heating up a few degrees, and leafs through the post collected on the floor. There quickly comes the sounds of begrudging success from the kitchen: drawers opening, a kiss of metal against metal and a thunk of his nice chopping board on a counter top.
Soon a chop chop chop, a vegetable of some kind, and the run of water and the clang of a pot.
It is silent.
France usually hums, or sings- rarely truly quiet and almost always filling the air with something. Maybe it is this quality that has rubbed off on America because France exists within sound happier than he exists without. France when silent is usually louder, more obvious, more overt than France being loud and this particular silence is heavy; a tense anxious thing curling steadily around the corners of England's home to linger in the edges, thick and stifling.
'What poison are you planning on feeding me?' He calls in the direction of the kitchen- assessing the ground between them, the role he must play.
A click and hiss of his stove top as it ignites. 'Potatoes au Gratin.' he gets in response. 'If there is anything you're consistent for, my dear, it is that there are always potatoes in your cupboards. It is concerning, if not reliable.'
England selects the one legitimate letter out of the bunch, the others adverts or notices to be put straight into recycling, and rolls his eyes, comforted by the degree of normalcy. 'There's bacon in the fridge, somewhere.'
There is only a tut in reply but it speaks volumes, nonetheless.
Although rare in comparison to the other, more common, sort, England has had these visits before and he knows enough of how they go. Post in hand, he moves into his living room and turns on the radio, changing the channel to Classic FM and taking a moment to listen to what's being played. Gymnopédies No.1- Erik Satie; not exactly the most uplifting of pieces, but it could be worse. England's letter is tax related; fitting, perhaps.
The chopping continues, but now, faintly, there is a slight hum from France; a small concession.
England leaves it, as it is, whatever is building or ruminating, and heads up stairs to change, swapping dress shirt for t-shirt, trousers for joggers and completed with an oversized woollen jumper; he wants to be comfortable. A dig through his wardrobe finds an older pair of joggers, well-worn and soft and slightly thinning at the knees. He takes this, and a large baggy t-shirt, and leaves them in the spare room, folded neatly on the bed. He assumes that France will be staying the night and also guesses, from the lack of suitcase or bag accompanying him, that this decision was made in the spur of the moment.
Heading back downstairs England grabs his worn old laptop from the living room and sits himself, with a sigh, at the kitchen table, flipping it open to turn it on. He does not offer to help with dinner, his duty will be to wash up as payment for his fare and he is more than okay with this unspoken arrangement; there is already a warm smell of onion and potato and England notices how hungry he is, feels the day press on his body. It's only a Tuesday.
'What were you planning on eating, if I were not here?' There is a parental scolding tone to France's words that England does not care for.
'I was planning on ordering a take away; I knew I was going to be home late.'
France glances at the clock perched precariously atop the crockery cupboard and shakes his head in exasperation. 'It is not late.'
'It is half seven pm.'
'That is not late'.
England huffs.
France turns to look at him and England meets his eye, searching for more, but France offers nothing further and turns back away, chopping some fresh garlic England had quite forgotten he had. Whilst France does this, methodical and accurate despite his speed, England clicks to BBC World news, just in case, but finds nothing out of the ordinary- nothing burning or collapsing that he isn't already aware of.
If it is not national or politics related, England isn't sure what made France slink his way across the sea to lurk at his door, a curtain of moods that shift beneath his hair, but it is likely that he will not find out. He rarely does when these visits happen; he's not sure that he's supposed to. Some things do not need to be said out loud to make them real; some things are just supposed to lie there, unacknowledged, to rest themselves unchallenged before disappearing. England is no stranger to these moods himself; knows that, sometimes, they need to be felt and experienced before they will leave again. Such things cannot be chased away or cloaked with words, they will only hide and wait, returning later when things are quiet and still.
France keeps chopping, knife flashing, and England says nothing.
They move to the living room after dinner, hot coffee and tea and the dishes soaking for later, and pool together on the sofa, one per end and legs a tangled channel in the middle; a blend of them both. England leaves the radio on but grabs a book which he holds upright against the sofa back, elbow propped on the top and chin pillowed in his hand. He sees France, when he flicks an eye up at him discreetly, staring at the radio, the ceiling, their legs twisted together; mostly inexpressive aside from a slight downturn to the lips, a crease between the eyebrows.
Mostly, France stares at something long past, a solo look through time that he needs to take, but he shifts, occasionally, pressing a calf more against England's knee to hold it there a while, or worrying a loose thread in England's joggers; tug tug tug but doesn't snap- a reminder of his presence. Or, perhaps, confirmation of England's.
England forces a foot to squeeze between France and the sofa cushion, pinning it there under his weight. Solid, steady- a reminder in kind.
A few hours later England leaves him there, stretched out liquid-boned in the space he had just left, to first do the washing up and then to head to bed, wordlessly. There is little to say to someone, often, when you have known them for so long and a slight wave of his hand is more than enough to say what he needs to.
France does not follow him up and England gets ready for bed in a slow amble, taking an extra hot shower before brushing his teeth and then towelling his hair dry. When he comes out of the bathroom, he can hear the TV on downstairs- a soft buzz of noise from a late night show he can't identify. It's most likely for distraction, more than anything else; France isn't usually much of a TV person.
He clicks off the landing light and goes into his bedroom, keeping his lamp on to read. England doesn't like to make a habit of this, but he gets out his phone again to check the news, scrolling through French media sites in case something has popped up. Still, nothing has, and England turns it off, leaving it on his bedside table where he tells himself it's going to stay untouched until tomorrow. He'd never had thought he'd get so reliant on the thing, having gone so many years without one, and it's odd now that he finds his hands reaching for it absentmindedly. He picks up another book instead, always at least two on the go at any one time, and gets into bed.
France come up not long after, his familiar tread on the stairs, but he goes straight to the guest room, coming out again only to use the bathroom. England turns his lamp off and listens to the house breathe, the creaking of floorboards and timbers and it settles around him. Despite himself, the late hour, and his wonderfully comfortable bed, he can't sleep. It feels as though he's waiting for something, stood on the edge of a moment to come, and he can't get his mind to go loose, to unwind itself from whatever thoughts it's tangling.
He lays there, expectant.
England is still awake when France slips into his room an hour or so after he has turned out his lamp, silent and gentle in the dark. His eyes are shut but he hears the breath of the door against the carpet and the small click as it shuts, before a soft padding of feet moves towards the bed. The mattress dips and there's a shock of cold air against his back before he's covered up again and things still, settling.
England waits.
France turns to lay on his side and England lays still, waiting. No movement, no noise other than a forced slow breathing, and eventually England turns his head to find France facing the other way, his back to him and covers pulled to tent around his body, tucked down to leave no gap. England can see he's curled into himself, knees tucked in a foetal position that's unusual for France, who usually sprawls and reaches to touch or hold whoever is nearby. This hesitation for contact, this restricting of himself is what concerns England the most, what causes him the most worry more than anything else he's seen this evening. There feels like a distance around France – a coolness- that is usually something England wears with worn familiarity; a closing in on himself, curling in tighter to feel that anything's there at all.
England hesitates, weighing up his next move in his mind. He turns carefully, onto his own back, then on to his side when this prompts no reaction.
Gently, carefully, a thousand years of understanding, he shifts closer, shares France's pillow and slips his arm around France's waist; leaves it there. Under his touch, he feels the soft fabric of the t-shirt and worn old joggers that he left on the spare room's bed, waistband resting over France's hip. He's warm, around his middle, and solid and England presses just so, a little tighter, and shuffles a little closer so they're joined together all the way down.
There's a pause, England watching with his eyes open on France's head, before France moves his arm down to lay across England's own and hold it, still cool hand stark against England's bed-warm skin.
They fall asleep.
AN:
Inspired by a conversation with my fellow grandma, the wonderful Thedissapointedidealist, who shares my love for small character moments.
Check out her /fabulous/ Hetalia artwork on their Tumblr here: