The bar France chose is surprisingly ideal; not too quiet, not too busy. Its old, earthy wooden door at the front entrance is slightly ajar, inviting strangers out of the cold. Next to it, a bronze plaque proudly claims 'Established in 1748'. England peers through its large, street-facing window. He sighs. It seems this isn't some elaborate prank.
Normally, he isn't this guarded. But with all that's been going on, he can't help being extra suspicious. The mountains of lonely, stressful work related to Brexit have driven him nearly mad. It may be nice to relax, indulge, and pretend everything is normal for a while. He glances at his watch. Well, at least he can enjoy himself for the few short hours he has left.
As he opens the door, a wave of warmth breaks past the chill of the outside air and prickles England's ears. The welcoming scent of barley and booze puts him at ease. Solid wood floors that creak when he steps over them, stone brick walls that could tell stories, old lanterns hanging from the ceiling - refitted with lightbulbs, of course... If it weren't for the French and German menus, England could mistake this restaurant pub for being one of his own.
France, sitting alone at the bar, waves him over.
"I took the liberty of saving you a seat," he says, sweetly.
"You couldn't have picked one farther away?" England responds, removing his coat and hanging it off the back of the chair. Unfazed, France grins and calls the bartender. Just as England sits down, a portly woman from behind the counter approaches the pair with a smile.
"Hallo, salut," the bartender greets.
"Bonjour, chéri!" France sings, turning on his signature charm. "May I ask your name?"
"You can call me Marie," she introduces.
"Marie, if you have it, I would adore a glass of Burgundy Pinot noir from 2005." Leave it to France to order high-class wine from a simple pub.
Nodding, Marie then turns to England and asks, "For yourself?"
"Ah," England fumbles. "Just a stout, thanks." She thanks the pair and steps away to promptly fetch their orders.
"I must say," France says. "I am a little bit surprised. Part of me did not expect you to show."
"Well, I said I would, didn't I?" England huffs quickly. "Besides, we get drinks together all the bloody time. Nothing's different about tonight." By France's knowing smile, England is aware of how silly that last bit sounded.
"Hmm, I think maybe a few things are different," France quietly contends. "But it is not worth yielding to."
Before England can consider France's remark, the sincere bartender returns with their drinks. She sets the beverages down in front of the pair. The tantalizing droplets on England's tall glass glitter in the warm light. He grabs it and greedily guzzles down the bitter, chocolate-brown fluid. It fizzes and burns his throat pleasantly. France swirls his wine glass in his hand and nonchalantly regards his rival. "Cher, if you get drunk," he remarks with a smirk, "I am not going to drag you back to your hotel room this time. Not after already dirtying my gorgeous new coat tonight." Swallowing with a gasp, England plunks down his half-empty pint.
"It's new?" he taunts. "Looks as though you got it second-hand."
"Only the common fools dare to criticize the experts." France playfully leers, nudging England's shin with his foot.
Well, excuse-my-bloody-self then, England thinks. He watches as France closes his eyes and delicately sips at his wine. Apparently, the man seems to think he is among high society wherever he goes.
France's golden, silky curls are perfect, as usual. That navy-blue turtleneck he's wearing is probably absurdly expensive, given its soft texture, and the way it accents his eyes. It's frustrating, sometimes, to look at the man. Rarely is there ever a flaw in his appearance, and England can't decide if that's ridiculous or admirable. He suspects the only reason France bothers dressing up so often is because he adores the attention it brings. Unfortunately, 'fashion' is not a personality, but France probably missed that memo.
Then again, even when he isn't trying, Francis still ends up looking fantasti—
-Terrible! He looks terrible.
England distracts his traitorous mind by taking another hearty swig of beer.
"What's the name of that charity you were going on about?" England asks, scrambling for conversation. He sets his empty glass down and signals the bartender for another.
France replies enthusiastically. "What a surprise! The little island nation cares about my noble pursuits? I'm overjoyed."
"I do not. I just want to be sure you weren't lying."
"Of course, I understand," France coos. "You could never admit to being interested in my... secret activities. It is called 'Prospérer' and yes, we do have our own website. You can look us up through Google if you would like."
Frowning, England mumbles, "...Was it absolutely necessary to drop your voice several octaves when saying 'secret activities'?"
"To see that embarrassed little blush spreading across your face, Angleterre? Yes, it was absolutely necessary." France grins and giggles mischievously.
Marie manages to save England's soul with a second beer. He resumes guzzling alcohol. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of a clock on the far wall, but it is too distant to read the time.
It's a little strange, England thinks. Since entering this pub, not a single one of his thoughts drifted back to stress or melancholy. For the past four years, his brain has been nothing but a steady unyielding stream of virulent Brexit anxiety. Strangely, pretending all is well really does seem to be working out. He glances subtly at the man drinking wine next to him, the only person who calls him 'Angleterre'.
The thing is, France is acting differently. Like England, he's also going along with the façade that everything is as it should be. All night, France has been more amicable than he has any right to be. Given the entire impending mess, France should at least be dismissive, if not, outright hostile toward England… but he hasn't been. Why?
England isn't sure if he wants to ask that question exactly, so he goes with something else.
Gathering up a little courage, England asks, "Why do you only do that with me?"
"Hm?" France responds, setting down his glass.
"You only use your native tongue when saying my name," England says, hoping he doesn't sound too curious. "You never do that with anyone else."
It's amazing that after so many centuries he never thought to ask this before. France pauses, then grants him a sardonic smile and waves a hand dismissively.
"You are sorely mistaken," he laughs. "I adore switching into my lovely language whenever I can."
Knowing that France can lie far better than that, England wonders if he should just let it go. However, for some reason he doesn't want to. Maybe it's the beer talking. It has to be.
"No, you don't," England says, stubbornness outweighing his trepidation. "Whenever you're speaking English, Italy is always Italy. Greece is always Greece. Poland is Poland." The amusement melts off France's face. A stillness falls over his appealing frame as he grants the other his full, careful attention. It's the second time tonight that England has seen that look. The very same expression made him uncomfortable earlier in the evening, when they were walking to the hotel. England continues, "For some reason, I'm always... Angle Tear."
A beat of silence.
France blinks. "...I'm sorry, you are... what?"
"Angle Tear," England repeats with absolute certainty. "You say it all the bloody time. So, explain to me why you... Hey, are you listening? Oi! I'm being serious!"
France buries his face in his hands and trembles quietly.
England squints. "...Are you laughing at me?"
France cracks, releasing a charming musical laughter loud enough to garner a few stares from the other restaurant patrons.
"Please!" France cries. "I am begging you. Please improve your French or never speak it again. Next time, I may just simply die."
As is his wont, France has ruined a perfectly good half hour. England kicks at France's knees. Unfortunately, it has no effect on the frog's gleeful amusement.
England feels the heat of the sun flushing underneath his cheeks. "Oh, piss off you twat!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You were being so serious, though! Can you truly blame me?"
"'Course I can," England grumbles into his beer glass.
"Well, do not be distressed," France says, sliding out of his chair. "I am going to quickly head to the restroom. And when I get back..." He coyly leans in, and England can pick up France's cologne as it swirls its way through the odour of alcohol. Pepper, lavender, and cardamom entangle together to create a scent that's leathery, sweet and classically masculine. "... maybe I will answer your question. So, don't run away on me, Angleterre."
A slow, deliberate finger drags lightly down the curve of England's spine, causing the hairs of his neck to stand on end. He reflexively swats at France, who easily dodges out of the way and prances off, giggling as he goes.
Poor England is left alone to stew in his own embarrassment.
So what if he pronounced the word wrong? France didn't have to make him feel like a bloody idiot just for asking an insignificant question. That stupid, perverted ass with his aromatic cologne and wandering fingers...
Ruminating on this is only making England squirm, and he quickly opens his phone as a distraction. Social media is out of the question for today and checking the news would just be depressing. So, he punches 'Prospérer charity' into the search bar and immediately finds France's website.
Mildly surprised to see that it is indeed real, England scrolls through the little site. Photos of smiling children, fact sheets, graphs... All professionally put together. Though he hates to admit, it's evident that a fair bit of time and dedication went into this charity project.
Well, now he just feels like a right asshole for doubting France this entire time. Damn.
Eventually he reaches the donation page and glares at it.
It's not like he owes France for being uncharacteristically kind this evening. And he definitely doesn't care if this charity is a success or not. The way France glowed with pride and affection when explaining his goals for the New Year... it really makes no difference to England at all.
But still, it may just feel nice to do something positive for a change; something that won't inflict the disdain of all Europe. Wouldn't that be a good feeling to get used to?
And besides, a donation wouldn't really be helping France. It'd be helping impoverished children and families. Yes, exactly! There's nothing odd or unusual about that, right?
Before he changes his mind, England quickly taps through the donation system. Auto-entering his credit card information, he makes a contribution anonymously. At least without his name appearing on the site, France won't be able to tease him for caring.
Reclining in his chair with a sigh, England reads the charity's thank-you message with a strange mix of relief and vulnerability. Hopefully, no one will find out about this. He has a reputation to uphold as the 'Black Sheep of Europe', after all.
Marie pops over and asks him if he'd like a refill, motioning to his empty pint.
"I'm alright for now," England says. "Thank you." Smiling, she takes the dirty cup and walks away.
As chattering bar guests clink glasses and make merry, a small, hopeful sense of contentment settles in his chest. What a strange night this is. Defying all expectations, things seem to be going quite alright.
Through the haze of comfort, England hears the pub's front door swing open.
"See, see? I told you this was the right way!" sings a merry Italian accent. "You should trust me next time, Germany! I can always find a place with good wine!"
Instantly, an unmistakable voice cuts through the peace like a knife. Serenity gives way to blood-freezing panic and England cannot believe his horrific luck.
"It would seem so," says a deep, commanding tone. "Still, I'd rather we hadn't spent so long searching for it." England can't bring himself to look anywhere except the rotten floor as a plethora of winter boots stamp in through the main entrance. This can't be happening. This should not be happening.
"Aw West, who cares?" says Prussia. "I'm thirsty! Go get me a lager."
Negativity floods down England's back, through his heart and into his shoes. Dread, guilt, shame, and worst of all, fear. Everything that he'd forgotten for the past merciful half hour now comes crawling back out of the shadows. He doesn't want to acknowledge any of it, but what choice does he have? Steeling his nerves, England timidly, reluctantly, turns to face the people he saw as friends just five years ago. The ones he now recoils from, as though they are his enemies.
Spain, Belgium, Netherlands, Italy, Romano, Prussia, and Germany.
Jesus fucking Christ. All England wants to do is hide. Or die. Whichever one is easier.
Belgium glances about the room and slowly comes to lock eyes with England.
Surprise stifles her rosy face, and a quiet "Oh..." is all she says. Her concerned tone stops the group of nations in their tracks, and in turn, they each notice the piteous outcast sitting at the bar. England catches the wealth of reactions that streak through them – shock, confusion, and (for a couple) disdain.
Stomach twisting into sickening knots, England swallows against the lump in his throat. The air is thick and suffocating. All thought shuts down and he can only stare back in painfully awkward silence. He has the grim feeling that no one knows what to say.