Oh, how quickly a gorgeous winter evening can turn sour when one chooses the company of England.
Tears sting at the corners of France's eyes as he rocks back and forth in agony. His hands are covering the throbbing spot where his precious head collided with an unforgiving lamppost. England is out of breath from cackling at his misery, the monster. He hunches beside France, knees buckled, red-faced and wheezing from what sort of hilarity, France cannot understand.
"Good God, I needed that," England sighs, his breath coming out as a puff of smoke in the chilly air. He still looks tired, unkempt, and drab, but the animosity is gone from his body. His thick caterpillar brows are no longer trying to angrily crush his eye sockets. He now wears a satisfied smile, appearing relaxed, content, and almost happy.
This does not please France in the slightest.
"You're not even going to ask if I'm alright?!" he protests.
"No," England chuckles, "but I'll thank you for the laugh."
"It really hurts, you know! Streetlamps are not made out of pillow cushions!"
"Oh, you're fine."
"You are the worst," France dramatically sobs. "Even when I pour my gentle heart out to you, when I show you my kindness, when I try so hard to make you smile... The only thing you smile at is my pain! You savage!"
"Get up or I'm leaving you here."
"You ogre, you brute, you..." France trails off mid-sentence. His bleary eyes pop open. "Wait, could you repeat yourself? You want me to walk with you, now?"
"I- I didn't say that. I just want to see you crash into another lamppost."
"...Yes. Truly, the absolute worst," France reaffirms, mostly to himself. His pride wounded, he rises with the last degree of grace he can muster and dusts his lovely new coat off. How awful! Despite his best efforts, he ended up with some dirt on him after all. Thankfully, it is not too bad. A little cold water should be enough to take care of any detestable pavement smudges. "Well, I am happy to say that I will not be walking backwards anymore this evening."
"What a pity." The foul creature known as England chuckles.
Their bickering continues for a short while before the pair settle into a familiar and comfortable silence. As they wander deeper into the city, their solitude decreases. Although darkness settles like a blanket over Brussels, now is when it comes to life. Awake, speaking, and thriving as any city does in the night hours.
Civilians wander through twisted streets, happily greeting old friends and lovers. Restaurants alight with warm laughter and cobblestones chatter with excited footsteps. France breathes in the cool air and catches the scent of stewing potatoes, vegetables, cream, and sausage. It is sometimes said that Belgian food is served in the quantity of German cuisine but with French quality. Though France himself may occasionally dispute that claim, he cannot deny the satisfying smells wafting through the wind. It is enough for him to forget the dulling ache in the back of his head. So distracted by his surroundings, France barely notices England checking his wrist watch more than once.
Clearly, the man has something on his mind. England rarely misses the chance to be at France's throat whenever he feels stressed out. Earlier tonight, however, there was a nervous and vulnerable disposition colouring his character. It was as though England were trying to evade and ignore the entire world. Whether from guilt or shame, France isn't sure, but based on England's behaviour this evening, it's obvious that he is carrying more than just the sad box in his arms. Perhaps the extra weight in England's heart is a symptom of Brexit regret? France cannot deny how dearly he wishes to know for sure. Naturally though, he understands that now is not the time to disrupt the delicate atmosphere between them. Besides, not moments ago, France's uncharacteristic clumsiness gave the self-imposed outcast a genuine smile. It may be best to leave the politics be for a moment and instead see where the night takes them.
"Are your cyclists ready for the Olympics this year?" England asks suddenly.
"Hm?" France says, mildly startled out of his thoughts. He hums. "Oh, that's right. The Olympics are this year, aren't they? Lately, I often find myself preoccupied with more taxing matters. The games will be a very welcome distraction, this year."
"You didn't answer my question."
"C'est vrai! Naturally, my athletes are always perfectly magnificent. Why do you ask?"
"Because mine are eager to beat yours," England naively bluffs. His expression is arrogant and brash: a grin curls across his cheeks and his emerald eyes spark with spirit.
Adorable. The scrappy island actually thinks he stands a chance. At this, France has to laugh.
"Your athletes," he chuckles, "are not my competition."
"What?!" England squawks with indignation. "Then whose?"
"Hmm, perhaps Germany's?" France gleefully taunts. "Or maybe Japan's, since he will be hosting. Then again, there is always America's class of dauntless gorillas. Now that I think of it, maybe even Denmark is more threatening than you."
England scoffs, "You take that last bit back."
"Only the 'last bit'?"
"Shut it. Who do you really see as competition?"
"Unfortunately, that would be China," France sighs with lament.
"...Oh," England mutters, face twisting into an uncomfortable frown. "Well, his athletes aren't... Too much of a challenge."
"Angleterre." France offers England a withering look.
"Ah, Christ," England admits. "Fine, yes, you're right! The way things are now, it's almost impossible to beat him in the number of gold medals. Him and America."
"Yes, see! You understand," France agrees. "Did you know China starts training his athletes when they are just little toddlers? How is that fair to the rest of us?"
"It isn't fair at all! There ought to be some rule against it."
"Obviously," France bemoans, "they are going to be fantastic when they learn professional athletics before reading." It is amazing, France thinks, how easily he and England can slip into agreement when gossiping about other nations. Where any other topic has them at odds, somehow in this, they always find common ground. Knowing that he has an ally somewhere in England's gawky frame is both a little reassuring and cathartic. "And also, you know-"
Before they can continue, France's phone lets out a familiar, audible ping. He pulls it out of his coat pocket.
"Really?" England says, unimpressed. "Checking your phone in the middle of a conversation?"
"Hmm." France quickly skims over his notification.
"What is it?" England asks, in the casual way he does to hide his genuine interest.
"It is just a notification from a charity I am running," France responds happily. He sets his phone to sleep mode before returning it to his pocket.
"What, you?" England says with mild disbelief. "You're actually running a charity?"
"But, of course!" France proudly declares. "Don't act so surprised. I have a kind and generous soul, you know! And before you suggest it, no, I am not doing this to steal the funding for myself."
"Hmph. What's it for, then?"
"It is for..." France hesitates. Then, he eyes England carefully.
This subject is somewhat delicate, and England is anything but that. Surely though, he is not so sadistic as to mock this sensitive topic. Then again, if he does, France can always choose to... how do you say? 'Cancel' him on Twitter? That may be fun. "It is for the victims of disasters related to climate change," France relents. He allows his words to hang in the air for a moment.
To his satisfaction, England offers up nothing except stunned silence. Impressive! It seems he is capable of common courtesy after all. Smiling, France continues. "Running a charity is something I have wanted to attempt for quite some time. And so, with the new decade, I decided to stop waiting and to seize my chance. Why not give it a try, you know? At least, that is how I felt. But in reality, doing this sort of work is far more complicated than I anticipated. There is so much research, accounting, and legal politics involved. Ah, but it is for a good cause and I find myself enjoying it. C'est voilà."
"You organized it all by yourself?" England asks, hesitantly.
"Oui, but of course. Although, I have several volunteers assisting with the work." France realizes that England has become strangely quiet. "Hmm, what is wrong? Have you been rendered speechless by my noble and generous heart?"
"How many people have you told this to?"
"Ahh," France remarks, "you think I am doing this to improve my image."
"It wouldn't be the first time."
France muses, "Well, I have told Spain... and now you. That is all, for the time being. I am fairly happy with the progress being made, but I have not discussed it with many people. It is more of a personal project, after all." Being so dear to his heart, this charity is something he tries to keep close.
"Then," England asks, "why are you being so open about it?"
"Hm, I wonder," France vaguely answers. He is saved from exploring those ambiguous thoughts by the appearance of their destination. "Ah, it seems we have arrived!"
"Oh, yes," England says, glancing towards the hotel. France hears a touch of disappointment in England's tone, but that may just be his own imagination.
Flags hang proudly from the hotel's old brick walls. A white stone staircase leads up to tall, arched double doors. The words 'La Résidence' are written in cursive gold above the entrance. On any other day, France may think of it as romantic, but tonight, its aura is bittersweet.
"I may sample a few restaurants in the area," he says casually. "You are heading in?"
England grunts. "I can't bloody well carry this lot around all night." He shifts the cardboard box in his arms. France chuckles quietly.
"I suppose not," he admits.
Something feels unfinished and unsaid. France wants some sort of answer, some reason, some explanation from England. Why did he decide to leave the Union? Why did he take such a good thing and toss it aside? For France, speculation is not enough; he wants to hear the whole story. Unfortunately, he also knows that asking outright will end terribly. Weaselling any difficult truth out of England is no easy task, and France has spent enough time around the fool to know when to press further and when to keep quiet. Still, it's a shame to leave things as they are, isn't it?
"Right, then," England hesitantly says, and France cannot mistake the reluctance on his face. "Good luck with your charity, I suppose. And whatever else. ...Frog." The telltale weight returns to his shoulders and without a second glance, he turns towards the hotel.
He really does look pathetic, doesn't he? A bit like a mix between a kicked puppy and a divorcee who lost it all in the separation.
As England climbs the stone staircase, France feels as though he is at another crossroads. He can choose to make the most of their last shared night as Union members or he can simply let England go. The latter feels like a cold wind, hollow and empty. To pursue or abandon, France asks himself, which will it be? Once again, the temptation of 'what-if' is too enticing, and he already has his answer.
"Angleterre!" France calls with a thrill. "Let's get a drink together!" Naturally, France mentally congratulates himself on being so kind to those in need.
"Wh- What?" England stutters, stopping halfway up the steps. He turns to face France and gives him an incredulous look. "Now?" France's grin broadens.
"Of course! Go put your things away and we can enjoy some exciting nightlife."
"You can't just go asking that all of a sudden!" England protests. "Besides, I can't. I'm... busy."
France is certainly not buying that pathetic excuse. Usually, England is always able to make time for one, or two, or fifteen drinks, regardless of any pressing work he may need to finish. Tonight, he is probably planning to return to his tiny hotel room and consume an entire case of cheap, low-quality, dishwater beer all alone. How depressing. The least France can do is offer the hopeless soul an invitation to spare him from such an awful fate.
"You are not so busy, Angleterre," France says. "Any work you have can wait! It is a gorgeous winter night! Why spend it alone when the immaculate France is offering you the gift of his presence? This is a rare opportunity, you know. Such a chance may not come again for quite some time!"
A familiar spark alights in England's eyes. He holds for a moment and checks his wrist watch with a scowl.
France waits, but the silence drags on. Slowly the warmth in his chest dissolves. Perhaps he is mistaken and there is no crossroads for them tonight.
"...If you insist," England mutters.
"Very well, but it is your loss." France says, before the response registers in his mind. "...Wait, pardon?"
"I'm only agreeing out of pity!" England quickly confirms. "The way you keep grovelling to spend time with me is ridiculous. Go pick out a pub and text me the address. I'll be along once I've dropped this off."
With his cheeks as red as a cherry, England hurriedly climbs the last of the steps and disappears into the hotel. France is left mildly stunned. Butterflies are fluttering from his heart to his fingertips. He breathes in the delicious scents of the night air and dances off down the street with the grace of a ballerina. It is always a special treat to see his trust to luck pay off.