Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, I just own an unhealthy devotion to France as a nation and its history. English is not my mother language and neither is French, any constructive criticism is appreciated.
Warnings: France is going to speak random French because, well, he is France.
Magic of Love
"Dad, please, just tell mom everything." Canada whined, his face hidden behind his hands not to see France's apartment burning in front of them.
"Yeah of course, I can't wait for him to just tell me off because 'I keep using magic without knowing the consequences it has'." England countered annoyed mimicking France's accent, as he searched for his number on the phone.
"I don't want to give too much credit to my brother, but he's not wrong." America admitted plainly, feeling no less exhausted than Canada did. "Besides, I hate breaking it to you, but mom appears to be right: you ended up burning his apartment while attempting to just clean it!"
"Oh, please, don't start with that again! I'll find a way to put everything back in its place before France comes back, all right?"
"Dad, he is coming back tomorrow!" Both American nations pointed out, America's yell overpowering completely Canada's whisper. England just stared blankly back at them and proceeded to start the phone call, putting the receiver near his ear and hoping that the loud sound of the fire alarms and of the fire brigade's shouts while attempting to put out the flames weren't too obvious to his husband's ears.
"He is coming back home, no one said that it must be specifically the one in Paris-" England pointed out to his children, switching then his attention to his phone as soon as he heard an answer. "Hi sweetheart~"
"Angleterre. What have you done, now?" France's voice sounded plain and completely disheartened.
"What makes you think that something happened?" England asked dubiously, only to be answered by deep and dreadful silence coming from the other end of the call. "Honey?"
"Je te connais bien: you don't sweetheart me unless we're in dire situations." France stated, sighing before continuing. "Is Canada still there?"
England glared sharply at his sons, daring them to come between him and France. The silent challenge prompted Canada to attempt rushing forwards to get his chance and talk to France, at the same time as America moved swiftly to successfully trap the northern nation in his arms while shutting him up with his hand, just in case his brother wanted to follow through his initial plan to tell France everything.
"He's a bit busy at the moment." England concluded at the end of the brotherly dispute, earning a loud reprimand in French from his husband and a glare from Canada.
"What does it mean that he is busy!? Let me talk with him this instant!" France demanded, making England swallow in dread.
"C'mon, my love, you will talk with him tomorrow… In London."
"My love? Wait- you said... London?"
"Yeah, we are currently leaving for the London mansion, that's why Canada can't answer and I called you." England explained, attempting to sound as convincing as he could despite realising that this last one might very well be the only true line of dialogue of their whole conversation.
"Angleterre, what have you done to my apartment!? I left you three alone there for less than a week!"
"Absolutely nothing happened to your apartment, dear." England blatantly lied, quickly proving his previous point as he searched desperately his mind for a good reason to leave Paris. "Something happened to my mansion, though, that's why we are going back. I was hoping that you would join us there, instead of staying in Paris by yourself."
England began praying all the deities he knew that France would take the bait and come to London, so hardly that he barely noticed it when his husband told him that all right, he was going to take the train to London as soon as he got back to France. England attempted not to sound too much overjoyed by the news then, reminded France that he loved him dearly, more than one should knowing to be one step away from bestiality since he was loving a frog, and confirmed once again that both the Paris apartment and their kids were all right.
By the end of the call, Canada and America were staring at him with a grimace on their face, sickened by both the awkward sweet-talking between their parents and the blatant lies England had told to their French father.
"What are we going to do, now?" They asked at the same time, earning only a deep sigh from England.
"I need to mess up the London mansion and rebuild this one, isn't it obvious?"
"Yeah, but how?" America insisted, by then not really sure that he had done the right thing shutting up his brother when France had asked for him.
"I have no idea. Let's move to London, the trip might give us some good ideas and, if it doesn't, I have more magic books at home." England admitted, as he started to walk in the direction of the train station with a confidence none of his kids shared.
It took the total amount of five seconds for England to mess up his own mansion.
He had found a spell meant to put the whole house in disarray – something that England had deemed a great idea to set the whole family on a poltergeist hunt while he searched for a viable way to restore France's apartment. Before Canada and America could stop England from using such a spell on the innocent mansion, however, each and every room had been magically filled with some thick layers of dust. Thick as in one meter high.
Both American nations paled at the sight, thanking God that they had left their father's house ages ago and had therefore a home of their own far away from England and his frigging magic. The only thing left to wonder was if they would find any last minute ticket to escape to the other side of the Ocean before their French father came... The last thing they wanted was to assist to England's gruesome death. Again.
"Well, it didn't burn at least." England commented, seeing the result of his spell-craft, but his sons only had enough time to glare back at him before a very annoyed voice with a heavy French accent came from behind them.
"Why was the house supposed to burn, Angleterre?"
The three nations felt cold shivers running down their spine and desperately attempted to put on their lips a weak smile before turning towards France.
"H-hi, dear." England offered, as nonchalantly as he could – something that didn't account for much.
"H-hi, mom." The two American nations attempted to greet as well, scoring no better than England had.
France just stared at his family, rising an eyebrow at the three of them before sighing disheartened.
"Let's be practical, shall we?" He started, taking a deep breath. "I-"
"Well, now. Since when are you practic-" England had attempted to interrupt him hastily, with every intention to distract France with one of their usual nice banters. France's glare, however, made his voice die in his throat.
"I know you burned down my apartment, mon cher." France warned him. "Did you really think that I wouldn't call my sovereigns after your oh-so-convincing phone call?"
"I was counting on earning some additional time to work out a solution to that… accident." England admitted meekly.
"Since when earning more time is code for filling your own home with dust?"
To France's question, England couldn't really find a proper answer. The French nation sighed, then, and directed himself towards the back door leading to the underground floor.
"I suggest that we clean up the basement first and get back your books." He proposed. "Then America and Canada will deal with the cleaning here and we'll go back to Paris and see if my apartment is salvageable."
Not really having a decent alternative, England, America and Canada just sighed and prepared themselves to follow France's plan, a plan that for once sounded much more rational than England's ones had been until then.
At first, England hadn't really been sure about what kind of help France could give him in the restoration of the Paris apartment. If cleaning the London mansion could be done with plenty of patience and a good vacuum cleaner, unless they decided to call a construction firm and to rebuy everything from scratch, the only solution left was to use magic and France was null at that. Sure, France would have then pointed out that, considering his results, England wasn't any better than him, but at least something happened when he chanted… Even if it wasn't always what he hoped for.
After some hours sitting on the darkened floor beside a lump of coal that had once been France's XVIII century coffee table, however, England had to admit that France was way more useful to his magic than he would have ever given him credit for.
First of all, France had made him discover the magical world of the footnotes, something that would have spared him some of his worst failures to date, if he had realised those were there in the first place a while before.
Then, there was France's moral support, something that he thought would be distracting but instead was surprisingly pleasant, so pleasant that it took away most of the uneasiness and nervousness that always accompanied his witch-crafting sessions. It also made him look less like an evil sorcerer attempting to destroy the world, something that could only be good for his reputation in case someone passed by to comfort France about the loss of his apartment and saw him in full sorcerer cloak. Finally, there was the endless amount of edible snacks and food France provided him while he was attempting to memorise words and understand the different processes, something that greatly enhanced his proficiency.
"All right, we are going to try this one then." England stated after a couple of days, going over the different options together with his husband.
"Sure looks like the most feasible one of the lot." France agreed, leaning against England's shoulder as he pointed to the list of ingredients on the ancient book of spells England was holding on his knees. "Are you sure you have these? I don't even know what they are."
"Yeah, don't worry. I've brought some from home, they are rather common in spell-crafting."
"If you say so…" France countered, still sounding quite doubtful and thus earning a quick peck on his cheek from his husband for his trouble.
"What I'm not really sure about is what kind of 'pieces' are needed here," England admitted, making a circle with his finger around a paragraph right at the beginning of the spell. "It sounds like whatever will go… What are we going to use?"
"Hmm…" France took his time to go over the spell a couple more times, until he finally thought to have cracked the enigma. "Wait, I know what's needed!"
France sat quickly up from his spot on the floor next to England, and fled towards the room America and Canada usually slept in whenever they were in Paris.
"France, not to discourage you, but I am the one who can do magic!" England yelled after him without moving from the floor. "If I don't know what's best to use, how can you?"
"Tais toi, Angleterre!" France shouted back at him, exiting the room with something darkened by the fire in hand before proceeding towards the next room. "It doesn't seem to me that you have such a great success rate to refuse my help here."
France wasn't wrong, so England actually followed his suggestion to shut up, despite allowing himself a quite annoyed pout in silent retaliation. Sure, he had burned down France's apartment and filled his own mansion with dust, but now he had the support of the footnotes! What else could have been missing in his spell-work? This was only France being mean and mistrusting him… What could France have understood that he had missed?
It took just about half an hour to France to finish bringing out from the remains of his house everything he deemed useful for the spell and re-join his husband. As England was about to help him with those, however, France just stopped him to carefully study the pentagram England had drawn on his floor to understand where to place all the things he had gathered.
When France had finished his work, England looked at the arrangement and could only acknowledge that at least it wasn't wrong. Still, he couldn't really understand what France had handpicked and why he had decided on such a particular arrangement.
"Are you sure about this?" He asked eventually, more than just a little bit doubtful.
"This is my apartment, Angleterre, trust me on this." France confirmed, only to stop England right before he started to chant. "Wait, I forgot the most important thing!"
England stopped everything he was doing, then, and stared at France, currently opening the first buttons of his pink shirt. Confusion soon turned to horror, as he noticed France pulling out the nicely decorated golden chain around his neck on which his wedding band hanged.
"Wait! What if it doesn't work!?" England yelled, throwing himself over France to stop him from putting his ring together with the bits of coal. "You can't do this!"
"The spell will work, Angleterre, don't worry. I thought you trusted yourself more in these matters." France reassured him, attempting to free his hands from England's tight grip. "Besides, you must be willing to lose what's dear to you, if you want to get anything done."
France's explanation sounded reasonable enough to make England unclench his grip, allowing France to free his hands and finally put his wedding band in the middle of the pentagram, in front of the terrified eyes of the English nation.
"C'mon, weren't you just about to start?" France encouraged him to go on, something that England didn't feel so confident to do anymore.
"What if we call a building firm? I- I'll pay for it! I'll rebuy everything that got burned!" England proposed, panic having the better of him.
"If this fails, we're going to do just that. Not everything that got lost in the fire is something that you can just buy back, though, so..." France told him as warmly as he could, before taking England's hand in his. "Try it for me?"
In front of France's plead, England could only nod and look in front of himself. He attempted to concentrate then, and started to chant, slowly making the pentagram shine in a bright light blue hue. Everything seemed to be going as it was said in England's book, this until everything inside the pentagram caught fire, and England found himself staring in horror at France's wedding band melting on the floor.
His mind turned completely blank: the only thing he could think about was how to save France's ring. He reached with his hand inside the flames to get a hold of it, only to be stopped and brought backwards by two strong arms holding him by his waist.
"Angleterre, you fucking idiot, you are going to get yourself killed!" France yelled at him as he dragged him away from the pentagram, just in time before the renewed fire became bigger and taller, before exploding in a rain of tiny crystals. The force of the blast made both nations fly some feet away, making them crash against something hard and lose their conscience.
When England came to, his first thought was to check that France was still breathing at his side. Reassured that the other nation seemed to just be asleep, he dragged him closer, glad to have his lover still by his side. The tight embrace made France coming back to his senses as well, and he automatically answered England's hold.
"Looks like it worked. I told you it would, didn't I?" France muttered against England's hair, allowing himself a small smile.
"What?"
England attempted to look at what he could see from his position tightly trapped inside France's arms, and realised soon that his husband was right. Under them there was the soft red rug France had put on his entry room, a few inches from their head the chiselled wooden door was back at its place, at both their sides there was France's ancient furniture together with the jackets and coats that had gone lost in the fire.
As France took pity on his husband and freed him from his embrace to help him up, however, the first thing England looked for was France's ring. It wasn't because it was expensive, on the contrary, it was a quite beautiful yet very cheap wedding band… Still, it was their wedding band, and considering all they had put themselves through throughout history, it was worth all of the gold England would ever hope to hoard in his whole life.
The pentagram was gone, though, and so were the pieces of coal France had retrieved from his burned down rooms. Was that precious ring the price England had to pay to fix a dumb spell that had gotten out of his hands? If that was true, he had nothing to be happy about: learning about the footnotes, restoring France's apartment, perfectly succeeding in a new spell…
England let himself fall on his knees beside the now completely restored XVIII century coffee table, tears threatening to fall down his cheeks. Seeing England's sadness, France rushed quickly at his side to drag him back in his arms.
"Hey hey, are you so happy that your spell worked that you are crying of joy now?" France hushed him, not really knowing what was crossing his husband's mind.
"There's nothing to be happy about… I lost your wedding band." England admitted, sniffling against France's chest. "You were right, not everything can be bought back... That ring, for me, was one of those things…"
"Mon cœur, we haven't lost my ring." France reassured him, his tone sounding adoring and amused at the same time as he took out from under his shirt the necklace on which hanged nothing less than his wedding band. "Here it is."
England stared shocked at the golden ring and then at France.
"When the hell have you gotten it back?"
"The magic restored the apartment and put everything back where it was supposed to be." France reminded England, before pointing towards his own neck. "The rightful place of our wedding band is on the chain around my neck, until I can wear it properly on my finger."
England felt like all the tension that had lately build up inside him spell after spell suddenly had left him, and he let himself fall boneless in France's arms.
"Thank god… I don't know how it worked, but I'm so glad it did." England whispered, heaving a deep sigh of relief.
"It couldn't fail, I chose the pieces well."
"Uhm?" England asked, making his husband chuckle at him before France dragged him up from the floor so that they could lie together more comfortably on the sofa, his arms around England's waist keeping the other nation close to him.
"Let's say that I added my touch of magic." France finally answered him haughtily, earning a groan from England.
"You know no magic!"
"It's not really a proper kind of magic." France reassured him. "Just my own touch in your chaotic way to follow instructions. You had to restore my apartment, after all: I was the one who knew the most the value of what I had lost."
"Wait, what you brought back from the rooms… wasn't that random coal?"
"Of course not." France explained, his voice turning softer as he started remembering what he had salvaged from the ruins of his house. "There was the tunic Canada was wearing when I found him, the first drawing America did of us as a family, the towel we used as children every time you needed an haircut, the first work of embroidery you ever gave me-"
"What? The one on which I embroidered Go die and never come back, you fucking son of a bitch?" England asked shocked, having forgotten until then that such an embroidery even existed. "You were supposed to throw that in the fire the second I gave it to you!"
"Why would I? The flowers framing the embroidery were absolutely cute, and I've always found your jealous reactions adorable, whether they came in the form of war or needlework."
"I was not jealous! You are imagining things!"
"Am I? And here I thought that everything had to do with my alliance with Russia at the time~"
England blushed scarlet at the reminder, unwilling to admit that yeah, that had been exactly what had annoyed him back then, so much that he had vented all his anger on that embroidery, embroidery he had then used to stuff France's mouth shut at the first given occasion. Once he had gotten free from the ropes and the gag, however, France was supposed to feel insulted by that embroidery, not courted… Unwilling to pursue France's madness further, England just sighed and made himself more comfortable in his husband's arms.
"Aside of the idiocy you show treasuring things that no one would ever deem valuable, I still don't see any magic in what you picked."
France laughed at his lover and tightened his grip around him, feeling sleep slowly catching up on him.
"It all depends on the points of view, mon cher. What you call idiocy is what I would call magic of love~"
England felt his heart stop in his chest hearing France's words, and a soft blush spread on his cheeks. It was true that, if one of his spells had finally succeeded, whatever had made it work had to be related to France's presence at his side and to all the things his husband had done to support him.
Whether it had been the magic of the footnotes, of France's love, his idiocy, his trust in him or his cooking, however, in the end England didn't really need to know. All of that as a whole belonged to his husband's particular magic, a magic that no matter how it showed itself, it was a perfect match for his own, as they were a perfect match for one another.
The end