Adjusting his top hat, England squints against the bright overhead sunlight. A grass-green parkette lawn plays host to the outdoor opening ceremony in front of a massive exposition hall.
After a dignified orchestral performance, very important businessmen give very important speeches regarding the liberty of industry, the future of science, and so on and so forth. England tries to follow along, he really does, but he's only ever had a rudimentary grasp of French and the announcers are speaking too quickly for him to catch anything more than snippets of their grand sermons. When the crowd solemnly applauds, signalling the end of the ceremony, he takes that as his cue and claps along with them.
Now, everyone with a ticket must wait for the French King and his family to finish their private tour of the exposition before they may be allowed inside.
As the crowd disperses, England and Canada walk off together in search of a shady tree. A cacophony of conversations carry through the air. The turnout is impressive; dignitaries and entrepreneurs from across Europe speak excitedly in French, German, Italian, and even Russian. Their enthusiasm overflows, however despite the atmosphere, Canada's energy is somewhat muted.
"Um, Arthur?" Canada says to England, addressing him by his human alias. "Why does France have a king? I thought with the Revolutions that had all changed."
"Yes, well," England says. "It's a rather complicated situation."
"Oh?"
"I can explain it to you, if you'd like. However, it may take a fair bit of time."
Canada chews his lip and stares at the ground for a beat. "No, that's all right. I was just wondering; how does France feel? I mean, Francis. How does Francis feel about it?"
"I haven't a clue," England admits. "It likely won't be long before he finds us. If you're curious, you may ask him yourself. Take care, though; it may be a sensitive topic."
Canada furrows his brows. "Right. Maybe I'd better not, then."
They slip into quiet, allowing the background ambience to fill the silence. A little frown has stuck itself to Canada's lips and England instinctively scans the area for a distraction. Gradually, musical notes intermingle with chatter as the pair come across a public show in the park.
"Have you ever seen a vaudeville act before?" England asks.
His ward blinks. "Vaudeville?"
England points to the dramatic production just ahead. By an intimate grove, performers dance about in flamboyant costumes and face paint, narrating comedic stories to a small audience. One of the actors, a chubby man in a massive coat, hollers and trips over his own feet. His display draws amiable laughter from the group of onlookers and even a few cheers.
The frown melts from Canada's face. As he wanders over to watch the show, England feels his shoulders relax. It may be silly to soothe a colony of Canada's age, but he cannot help himself. Perhaps it is a leftover tendency from when the lad still played with toys and sniffled over a scraped knee. England observes Canada for a bit longer, before finding shelter in the shade of an elm tree nearby.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his timepiece and grumbles, seeing that it is already a quarter to noon. Surely, the royal tour should be done by now. If not, then what on Earth is taking so long? He snaps the timepiece shut and unfolds his leaflet to find out what exactly will be on display at this exposition.
Flipping through its pages, England makes a valiant effort to decipher the French writing. With patience, he manages well enough. The papers explain that most of the exhibits are arranged within forty galleries inside the grand hall. Altogether, visitors must travel down eight kilometres of aisles to view all 3,969 displays. England squints at the page and rereads it twice. Indeed, nearly four thousand exhibits in eight kilometres. It is no wonder why the King's tour is taking so long!
Slowly, the world drifts away as he continues reading about the many inventions and gadgets. The industrial machines are particularly fascinating. Mining contraptions and fabric spinners could prove incredibly advantageous to-
"Enjoying yourself so far?" whispers a syrupy voice.
England jumps. "Bloody hell!"
A familiar chuckle flourishes and England already knows who the trademark sound belongs to. Huffing indignantly, England turns to face France. "Don't sneak up on me like that, you frog."
"I do not sneak," France says with a wink. "I investigate quietly."
Hand on his hip and head tilted, the nation of love grins playfully. Naturally, he is clad in the most opulent attire, sporting a tightly cinched waist, an ivory necktie, and flared frockcoat of a rich indigo hue. His sandy blonde, shoulder-length curls shine brilliantly; they are the only deviation from his otherwise modern appearance. No matter the fashion of the decade, he never cuts his hair shorter than a bob.
England straightens his own outfit by force of habit. "To what do I owe the pleasure, then?" he inquires.
"Why, I am here to welcome my guests, of course!" France declares. "Or perhaps, just my one guest. Were you not able to find someone to join you?"
"Of course, I did," England says. "It's been a while since Matthew has crossed the Atlantic, so I sent a letter asking him to come with me."
"Ah, Matthieu! He is not in Europe just for this event, I assume?"
"No, that would be ridiculous. We've been working together to settle a few political matters, so he spent the past few weeks with me in London. He also had a meeting with the Queen and several members of Parliament."
"My," France muses, "that must be quite intimidating for someone as young as he is."
"Actually," England murmurs, "he's not so young anymore." Admittedly, France had not seen Canada in some time. He had no way of knowing the maturing impact of 1812's skirmishes. Weeks after the fighting came to a close, England asked Canada if he had any further concerns and, with a resolute fire so uncharacteristic of him, Canada avowed that America was no longer frightening.
A beat of silence passes before France grants England a sympathetic smile. "You seem a little somber, Arthur." At this, England remembers himself; if France is pitying him, then he must truly appear grim.
"Nonsense," he says. "You're just imagining things."
France shrugs and shakes his head. "If you insist, cher."
Applause rings out from the small audience nearby and England takes the opportunity to change the subject. "Matthew's just been watching that performance over there."
"Really?" France asks, scanning the crowd. "I do not see him."
England turns and calls Canada's alias. "Matthew!"
Immediately, Canada stirs to attention and upon making eye-contact, England waves him over. The young colony carefully slips through the huddle of people and hurries to them.
"Incroyable," France remarks. "Who is this grown man before me?"
Canada's grin bursts across his face. "Francis!"
"Ce vêtement vous va très bien," France says, gazing at Canada's new outfit.
(That clothing suits you very well.)
A rosy blush blooms over Canada's cheeks. "Merci beaucoup," he replies.
(Thank you very much.)
Immediately, France lights up. "Vous souvenez de votre français! Magnifique!"
(You remember your French! Magnificent!)
"Oui!"
(Yes!)
"Vous avez tellement grandi! Je ne peux pas croire que vous êtes plus grand que moi! Comment allez-vous?"
(You have grown so much! I cannot believe you are taller than me! How are you?)
"Euh... Dernièrement, il y a eu des situations difficiles. Cependant, je ne suis pas différent de toute autre colonie. Nous avons tous nos défis. Dans l'ensemble, je vais bien, merci."
(Well... Lately, there have been some difficult situations. However, I'm no different from any other colony. We all have our challenges. Overall, I'm doing well, thank you.)
Squinting, France tilts his head. "Pardon?"
Canada flinches. "Ah, I'm sorry!" he squeaks, slipping back into English. "Did I mispronounce something? My French dialect has changed a lot over the years."
France laughs and waves a hand dismissively. "There is no need to apologise. By the way, where is your little polar bear? The two of you were once inseparable."
"I left Kumajiro at home in Montreal," Canada explains. "Maybe I could bring him the next time I come for a visit?"
"Oh?" France says, smiling. "You would like there to be a next time?"
"If that's all right with you."
"It is perfectly fine with me, however..."
"Ah! Um..."
They both turn to stare expectantly at England. The abruptness sends him reeling.
His dear ward is asking to visit his fiercest competitor, which could easily become a knotty disaster. Though it is true that he invited Canada along for this occasion, it was not supposed to become a regular routine. Then again, France has been exceptionally courteous as of late and Canada does seem delighted to be here. Can it really be as risky as all that?
England glances at Canada's doe-eyed expression and his defences crumble like a stack of cards.
"I'll consider it," he sighs.
Canada is positively radiant because England's 'maybes' often equate to a 'yes'. Pressing his lips thin, England prays he has not made an error in his judgement.
France whispers into Canada's ear: "I think you could ask him for the stars, and he would try to capture them for you."
Heat flushes to England's cheeks. "Now, see here-"
"Wait, wait, wait!" France implores, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I did not come here to tease or quarrel." Despite his claim, the trace of a sprightly grin still adorns his face. "In fact," France continues, "if you are not busy tonight, Monsieur Le Roi and I would be honoured to have you both join us for dinner." He bows with the grace of a swan and England almost forgives his teasing. Almost.
Before he can consider a response, Canada gasps. "An invitation from the King, for us?"
"But of course!" France declares. "It is only natural that you meet him. After all, this entire exposition was made possible through his ringing endorsements."
England worries his brows. It is a rare day for him to receive a summons from a French king. On the scarce past occasions that he did, casual pleasantries were not kindly exchanged. Despite this, he is in no position to refuse. Even outside of diplomatic circles, declining a monarch's request is disrespectful and unwise. Also, Queen Victoria would likely chastise him if he were to pass up an opportunity to 'improve Franco-British relations', unlikely as it may be.
Then again, having been alive for generations brought about the understanding that not all monarchs are alike. Perhaps this King Louis Philippe I is an exception.
"Very well," England says while crossing his arms. "I accept."
France claps his hands with far more cheer than necessary. "Fantastique!" he exclaims. "You will not regret it - I have chosen the dinner menu myself! After the exposition closes, come to my King's private room at the end of the great hall; we will meet you there. For now, I must leave to tell him you have accepted."
Canada nods. "We will see you there, Francis!"
France begins to walk off, before suddenly turning back to shout, "By the way, you should be able to enter the venue soon! It may be a good idea to head to the main doors. Enjoy the exposition!" With that, he waves goodbye and leaves by prancing along one of the park's cobblestone paths.
"I've only ever met my own monarchs," Canada mentions quietly. He rubs the back of his neck and looks to England. "Is there anything I should know? How should I behave?"
Any lingering irritation evaporates from England's chest. "You've got nothing to worry about," he reassures. "Treat the King with the same respect as you did last week with Queen Victoria. The etiquette is quite similar."
Canada sheepishly smiles. "I'll do my best."
Together, they head off towards the main entrance, stepping lightly across gravel trails and grassy lawns. At last, it is time to see what this grand exposition has to offer.