Dusk settles in like a silk sheet, elegant and gentle. A thin band of blue sinks into the horizon as Earth's shadow envelops Paris. Lanterns and candles shine through thousands upon thousands of Baroque windows, creating a halo that shields citizens from the temptation of sleep for just a while longer. Entertainment venues come alive with the dancing and chatter of young couples who relish the late hour, delighting in their defiance of the dark.

But in the exposition gardens, England and France are aways from all that. Here, the air is crisp and still; the only reminder of lively evening societies being the clatter of distant carriages, muffled by hedges and ferns. The gravel trails, labyrinthine and secluded, are lit by shimmering lamps that coax wanderers deeper into the wooded park. Their firelight catches the curve of France's jaw and reflects in his curious, expectant gaze.

"Well?" France asks. Stones crinkle faintly under his nimble steps, like a cat after dark.

England stares back. "Well?"

"You promised me tales of your unusual day."

"Rather keen, aren't you?"

"I like knowing things," France admits. He bats his eyelashes and brings his hand to his heart. "Especially if they pertain to my guests' enjoyment of the exposition."

"You like knowing secrets that aren't shared at the dinner table."

"It is usually those secrets that are the most fun, no? But, come now. Tell me."

"Suppose I must. Very well," England sighs. "To begin with, I ran into Prussia during our tour of the galleries."

France's eyes widen and he laughs. "Really? My, I am speechless. I had a suspicion that showcasing the wares and talents of my people would bring attention to their businesses, but I am surprised that even the almighty Prussia took notice of this event. He is not someone I would expect to be fond of civilian sciences."

"Well, he was certainly here - dressed up with all his awards and medallions on display." He actually looked quite dapper with his sharp features and his fitted suit. That is, as much as a boisterous scalawag can appear dapper.

"Hmm, that is very interesting." France hums, stroking his trim beard. "Did he have any news to share? Or was he simply studying my machines, perhaps hunting for new military technology?"

"I can't say he wasn't; however, there was something else," England mutters, the corners of his lips pulling into a frown. "He had a child with him and I found that to be the more distracting element."

Immediately, France pauses in his step. "A child?"

"Indeed."

"Prussia has a child?"

"A little German lad by the name of Ludwig. Have you heard of him?" Studiously, England watches France's reaction, how his eyes flicker with confusion. They have both lived long enough to understand that all information, in this subject, is key. A new nation materializing close to their own borders could alter their worlds.

"I have not heard much," France admits, "only rumours, but I naturally assumed they were untrue." Crossing his arms and knitting his brows, he stills. Not even a slight breeze rustles his golden hair. Then after a moment he asks, "Where did Prussia get him? Is the child a colony?"

"I haven't a clue," England grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. Damn. Apparently, France knows just as little as everyone else. Turning on his heel, France murmurs something unintelligible and continues walking. England follows him.

"If he is not a human, then he must be a new German state," France eventually sighs. "There are so many, I can hardly keep count of them all. And if this child does not have his true identity yet, it will probably come to him within a few decades." Then, he chuckles, a deep and mellow sound. "I wonder what type of person he will grow to be. Having Prussia as his caregiver, who can say?"

Truthfully, Ludwig seemed rather pleasant when he was babbling about science and timidly accepting Canada's praise. It is hard to predict how children will grow, how time will mould them, but for now Ludwig's friendliness is a welcome sight.

"The lad seemed to get along quite well with Canada," England mentions. "Although, Canada does have a tendency to be quite agreeable, in his own right."

Speaking of his ward, England glances back over his shoulder to glimpse the exposition hall. Its windows are darkened, but the glow of the city grants it a sharp silhouette. The sight of it creates a gap his chest, a palpable absence. "By the way," he mutters. "That venue, the Rond-Pointe... how far is it from here?" He watches the building recede behind a clump of trees as they take a corner on the trail. Receiving no answer, he turns to see France smirking, one delicate eyebrow raised. Hairs stand on the back of England's neck, like miniature spears. "What is it?"

"This morning, you told me that you were not somber. Is that still the case?"

"Oh please," England huffs. "After your display at dinner, I should be the one inquiring about your temperament. I'm perfectly fine."

"Of course. But you know, the winds of change are rarely easy to sail."

"…I haven't the faintest idea of what you're on about." He clams up, the flimsy denial twisting a knot in his stomach and he chooses to glare at the grassy ground as if it had somehow offended him. Their stroll goes quiet, and in the absence of France's voice, the chorus of the night is amplified. Crickets chirp among the hedges, gravel crunches beneath their feet, and the soft din of the city plays like a background tune. They exist in that way for a while and slowly, the knot comes loose and England sighs. "He's just grown up so quickly."

It is absurd, because compared to humans, Canada has not grown up quickly at all. Still, every memory of his childhood feels like yesterday; Canada's tiny hands gripping England's thumb and forefinger, his sleepy eyes reading children's books at the breakfast table, his skinny arms stubbornly lifting firewood to store for the winter. Honestly, he deserves the privilege of wandering Paris alone and everything else that glitters in the wide world. But when the lad enthusiastically says that he wants to do something on his own, a well of feelings spring forth. Pride and satisfaction, folded in with a well-known melancholy. It should not bother him; England knows he is just being a delicate, sentimental fool, but that awareness does not make it any easier to feel those little hands slipping through his fingers. Perhaps, it never will.

France slows to a stop and the movement drags England from his thoughts. They have come to a clearing in the park, surrounded by tended flower beds and a bubbling fountain set in the centre. France pulls a small, tin box out of his pocket. He opens it and presents the contents to England; a row of thin, white objects that resemble chalk sticks.

"Would you like one?" he asks in a gentle tone.

England blinks, then finds his voice. "...What are they?"

"I call them cigarettes," France declares. "Spain introduced them to me a few years ago."

"Are they similar to cigars?"

"Yes, but smaller. And, in my opinion, far more elegant."

Slipping one out of the tin, England inspects the 'cigarette'. It is not wholly different from the plant-wrapped rolls he is used to seeing across the Atlantic. The tobacco is wrapped tightly in thick paper and bears the familiar, woody scent of a cigar. Satisfied, he retrieves a striking rock and matchbox from his pocket, strikes a match against the rock, and lights his cigarette. He smokes it and exhales, nicotine flowing into his bloodstream and soothing his core.

"Hm. Not bad," he admits. France does the same, lighting his roll with a practiced ease and sliding the tin box back in his waistcoat.

Glancing up, England sees that the stars are out; twinkling, far-flung worlds that move so slowly it is almost unnoticeable. Their light is dashed by insects that whizz by, fluttering around gas lamps, darting in and out of the darkness.

Casually, France releases a breath of smoke into the air. "What else was strange about your day?"

England glances at him, gauging the mood. "Obviously, I'm going to say dinner."

France hums. "I suppose that should be expected. So, what do you think of him?"

"You mean your King?" England asks, clarifying because it is not often that France cares for his opinion on such matters. Regardless, France nods. "Well, I suppose he's friendly enough. But I can't understand how someone so jovial could make the evening so bloody awkward."

France chuckles. "Monsieur le Roi behaves that way with everyone he meets. Some days, he will wander the streets of Paris in a business suit and shake hands with my people."

England scowls. "A bit of warning next time would be appreciated. It was troublesome getting used to his behaviour in the thick of our first encounter."

"He wishes to strengthen our relations, you know. Not unlike your Queen."

"Then I suppose I'll have to prepare my stomach for more of the same."

France chokes on a puff of smoke and the noise transforms into a hearty laugh. When he turns, mirth is fluttering from his eyes and his free hand comes up to his cheek.

"I knew it!" He is practically singing. "You did hate your dinner! While you were eating, I noticed you had a petulant, little frown stuck to your face."

England snorts. "It's not my fault the sauce was too rich. Between that and the pink meat, the entire main course was confounding."

"Oh, it was not so terrible. I know you are not used to Béarnaise sauce, but you should try expanding your palette! Then next time, you will not be so grumpy."

"Perhaps, I would've been less grumpy if you'd carried your share of the table conversation. It didn't help that you were acting morose while Canada and I entertained your King. What was that all about, anyway?"

France gives a half-hearted shrug. "You did not need my help. Canada was a joy, you were diplomatic, and everything turned out well enough, no? Besides, I knew it would be fine; Monsieur le Roi is very talented at winning favour."

England squints. "Is he now?"

"Most certainly."

"And yet, he doesn't seem to have won yours."

Smile stalling, France blinks. He holds momentarily, before slumping and sighing, his cheerful grin vanishes, expression going smooth and blue.

"About an hour before you arrived, he and I shared an unpleasant conversation that put me in a dour mood." He takes another drag and looks towards the fountain, a distant grey in his eyes. "I asked him for a favour; to encourage Soult in passing legislation that might assist the poor. He claimed that he already did, months ago, and that Soult, along with the rest of the Council of Ministers, would have none of it. He said he saw no point in pressing the issue further; his hands were tied. I grew upset, because he had been hiding these details from me, and I asked if he truly cared for the working classes, those who had put him on the throne... and..."

"...And?"

France shakes his head.

Equality for the downtrodden; one of his main motivators in recent decades, part of the driving force behind his Revolutions. Years ago, when those whirlwind events began, he listened to the cries of his people, and almost became a different person. He shed the extravagance of Versailles and donned a cockade, standing with his citizens, even though the rampant chaos made him ill. Dizzy with fever, he apparently wrote letters from bed, corresponding with dozens of individuals, from humble workers to influential paragons.

Yet, there are riots that continue to plague Paris, not nearly as fierce as they once were, but still present. England hears about them from his ambassadors; a smouldering anger, tempered but not extinguished. When it overflows, some concessions are occasionally made, but with enough time, the pendulum swings back, as nobles and monarchists struggle to restore the status quo. For an idealist, it must be disheartening to see.

Abruptly, France waves his hand and it wisps through the cigarette smoke, as if clearing the solemn atmosphere. "Ah, I do not want to be morose anymore this evening!" Clearing his throat, England makes some awkward noise of confirmation. "I should turn my focus to the silver linings. After all, the only reason Paris was able to host this exposition was because I have been granted several years free from war. And that is something I do treasure, dearly."

His smile is sad, weary on the edges, but brave. Dark lashes over indigo eyes that might reflect starlight if, for a moment, they glanced upwards.

"May it be so, for many more years."

France quirks a brow. England starts. He flushes, heat in his cheeks, because kind wishes between them are wildly rare. "No, I don't mean... It's only that, well, regardless of our desires, peace rarely lasts on this continent. So, because things seem to be going well right now, you should, um. Keep at it." Averting his gaze, he brings his hand up for a drag, and leaves it there, even after exhaling. "More or less."

There is a chuckle, warm and appreciative, and France performs a sweeping gesture, posing like an actor onstage.

"'Henceforth, let all men find liberty in progress. Let there be between the States of Europe only rivalries of industry, art, and literature; it is the only ground on which they can come to come together and come to an understanding. From what country is Raphaël, Laurent Coster, Shakespeare, Newton, Descartes, or Galvani? Are they not all brothers by genius and is not their common homeland humanity?'"

England balks. "Where on Earth did you pick that up?"

France's smile broadens. "From one of the many speeches this morning; translated to English, for your sake."

"Is that something you think will happen?"

"Who can say?"

"Hmph. It's a lovely sentiment, however if conflicts could be resolved through industry and literature, wars would've disappeared a thousand years ago." The tentative bouts of peace that mark their existence always reminded England of balancing on a rooftop. No matter how strong one's legs, they would inevitably slip off in a rainstorm, and fall back into the old pattern of wars and treaties.

"But life is not a static thing," France says, and he does look to the stars. "Maybe someday, it will be possible for Europe to exist in harmony. If so, I would not mind seeing that day for myself."

It is entirely unlikely, a fantastical dream, but England lets it go, just this once. He says nothing, stuck with an uncomfortable butterfly fluttering around in his ribcage. Days like today - uncommon, placid, and open - are to be taken for whatever they are, it seems.

Ashing his cigarette, he looks out at Paris, twilight dark and glittering with city lights. Long before royals and the fiery Revolutions that overthrew them, this splendorous city was once little more than a small cluster of wooden huts on the banks of the Sienne. Life was so much simpler; neither he nor France were empires in those ancient days, when humans prayed for a successful hunt and shared pagan stories around a roaring bonfire.

"Maybe I distrust change because it reminds me of how old I am," he murmurs.

France hums. "Hmm, that could be. You are getting quite old, you know."

"Not long before you start sprouting grey hairs."

France giggles. "Ah, look at us. We are sharing a beautiful night together under the stars... Waxing poetic about our worlds..." As a matter of principle, and not because the statement rings true, England scoffs. "Perhaps we are already playing into the hands of our sovereigns."

"Seven hells," England groans, "maybe we are."

France tucks a gold curl behind his ear, head inclined just so, and peers at him. A curious, almost timid, twinkle in his expression, thinly disguised by a casual posture. "Would that be so terrible?" he asks.

England glances at his nearly expired cigarette, a short nub of paper and faint embers, its ashes falling like snow. He allows it to drop, puts it out in the earth with his shoe, and blows smoke in a final, drawn-out exhale that disappears into the night. "I think I would find a way to manage," he admits.

Shoulders melting, France beams. "C'est vrai."