In the bar's tiny, single-person restroom, France takes his sweet time. He checks himself over in the mirror and marvels at how incredibly well he is managing the night so far. France knows himself to be a cunning linguist, but tonight he is just on fire.
Unfortunately, he is not sure how to answer England's question; the reason why he calls the man 'Angleterre'. He can try, though. Perhaps he should say, "Speaking your language is so taxing and saying your name is such a chore. I could never do both at the same time without injuring my vocal cords."
France snorts quietly at the thought.
No, no, no! As funny as it sounds in his mind, that would just be too cruel! England, the poor soul, looked so adorably earnest when he asked, as if he truly did wish for an honest answer. The way pink flushed into his cheeks, crept over the tips of his ears, and then flooded his entire face... It was delightful.
France twists open the sink tap and lets the warm water envelop his hands. So much about England is hilariously compelling. From his characteristic brows, to his frumpy outfits, to the hair that's as stubborn as its owner. How he trips over his own tongue in social settings and struggles to maintain the air of a 'gentleman'. How he squawks at France's light teasing and attempts to furtively hide what, or who, he deeply cares about. He's an old-fashioned nation, born stuffy and prudish. On paper, he sounds boring - like a slice of plain, burnt toast. Yet, for France, England is anything but.
Wiping his hands dry on a paper towel, France realizes he still is not sure of what answer to give his companion. He supposes though, he has time to figure something out. The evening is still young, after all.
Pushing out of the restroom and into the vibrant restaurant, France grasps onto the twinkle of happiness in his heart. It's warm, reassuring, and perhaps even somewhat romantic. What a strange feeling to have on the eve of Brexit. He makes his way back to his seat.
And the blissful atmosphere evaporates.
England is not there.
Faltering, France glances around the bar. His eyes dart from tables, to happy strangers, to dark corners of the room, but there is no sign of his grumpy companion. Quickly, he inspects their seats. England's coat is gone and there are a few crumpled Euro bills resting on the bar counter.
Thorns twist around France's heart. Did England truly just leave without a word?
Utterly bewildered, he runs through the night's events in his mind, trying to place where he went wrong. Was his teasing too much? No, hardly. After a thousand years, England is surely well acquainted with France's flirtatious nature. On some occasions, he's even been responsive to it. But if not that, then what could be the cause for such an extreme reaction?
A familiar voice calls out over the background chatter, nabbing France's attention.
"Hey, France!" the voice cackles from behind. "What're you doing here?"
Startled, France turns to witness a surprising sight: several of his friends squished in a booth clearly meant for fewer people. They all easily meet his gaze. Prussia with his sharp grin, Spain with his tousled brown locks, Belgium, Germany... All welcome appearances of course, but how can this be?
"Big brother France, it's you!" cheers Italy. Smiling wide, he waves his arms enthusiastically. "Come join us!"
"Italy?" France wonders aloud, approaching the group. "Everyone, what are you all doing here?"
"What's it look like?" Romano scoffs. "We're getting drinks, dumbass."
"You should join us!" Italy joyfully repeats, bouncing on his worn, leather chair. He shifts himself over to offer France a small corner of the seat - barely enough for one leg.
"Thank you," France says, "but... did any of you happen to see Angleterre when you came in?"
Discomfort falls over the troop. They glance awkwardly amongst themselves and shuffle around a bit. Even Italy's buoyant energy deflates.
The cogwheels in France's mind are already turning and he can guess what likely happened.
Belgium is the first to speak up. "We did, yes..." she reluctantly admits. "It was pretty uncomfortable, though."
"He sort of stared at us for a while. Then he left," Spain adds with a pitying shrug.
"I wish that dickhead had stayed for just a bit longer," Romano bites, "so I could kick his teeth in."
France exhales partly with relief and partly with regretful frustration. In hindsight, he realizes that he probably should have chosen a different bar. It's only natural that any establishment serving Burgundy wine would be on Italy and Romano's radar. At least he can count his blessings that a wild wrestling match did not occur in this quaint little pub.
Still, this misfortune throws an entire wrench into his evening. All the effort he put into cultivating a relaxing climate for himself and England is wasted. Distress weighs heavily on his shoulders. Is there any way he can salvage this? He has not the faintest idea what to do.
"France, hey," Spain soothes. "It's alright."
Sympathy glimmers behind Spain's chartreuse eyes. He's caught on, France realizes. Spain is fantastic at reading the atmosphere. If asked, he could likely list twelve of France's thoughts at this exact moment. "Spend the night with us!" he offers with a sunny smile, and everyone at the table hurriedly pipes up in agreement.
Their sympathy is healing and for a moment, France considers it. If his chance at finding understanding with England is truly lost, then what's the harm? Staying here, amongst his friends, would be so painless. He can relax with them and set his troubles aside. It should be the more appealing option.
It should be, but it isn't. Defying all rationale, there is some unruly part of himself that wants to chase England down. He wants to take the riskier gamble. Within the foggy mystery of France's own heart, there stands a profound lamentation for their crisis and a desire to, somehow, make things right.
He owes England nothing. And yet, like a hook tugging at his core, France is drawn to him. This is not pity, France understands. It is a bond, stretching over eons and waters. A bond that he does not wish to see broken. Not ever.
France takes a deep breath that spreads conviction from his centre to his fingertips. Then, smiling, he addresses his friends.
"You all know how dearly I adore you," he explains. "But unfortunately, there is somewhere I must be."
A chorus of disappointed pleas rise up from the table as France slowly backs away. "I'm honoured to have your invitation, but I am just one man. You understand, oui?"
He catches Spain sighing and feels a bit guilty. "Do not worry though," France adds with spirit. "I will see you all at tomorrow's meeting. We can get lunch together! How does that sound?" Regardless of what happens with England, France makes a promise with himself to confide in Spain as soon as he can.
Turning to reach for his coat, he happily calls back over his shoulder. "Do not get into any mischief without me! And try not to drink too much, alright?"
"France."
Germany's deep tone is curt. It hits like a splash of ice water and causes France to stop immediately. All the other nations fall silent. Germany clears his throat. "I think it would be better if you didn't follow him."
France hesitates. He isn't sure what expression he has on his face, so he decides not to meet Germany's gaze. Like rain soaking through to skin, misgiving quietly seeps into his chest.
Not receiving any response, Germany steadily continues, sowing doubt with each letter. "These past four years, England has made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with us. In a few short hours, his separation will take effect, and he will no longer be part of this Union. He will be an outsider, completely through his own will." He finishes by conceding, "I cannot tell you what to do. But... You should probably reconsider your actions."
The boisterous chatter of the bar has grown faint and the front door is so far away. France wonders if this little touch of shame gives him any inkling of how England feels tonight. The silence stretches, long and thin, until Prussia breaks it.
"...Gee, West," he comments. "You uh... really have a way with words."
"What do you mean?" Germany asks. Even without looking, France can imagine his clueless blink. A chair slides across the wooden floor and he hears a set of footsteps approaching. Gently, Spain places a reassuring hand on France's shoulder.
"France," he whispers. "You don't need to chase after England. You've already done plenty for him tonight, haven't you?" Spain can infer so much from so little. It truly is amazing. "Remember, you have us!" Spain says, gesturing to the group. "We're here for you, and for each other. But England... He isn't like that. He's not worth your time."
Regrettably, France is aware that Spain could be right. England may be a futile obstacle, suited only for squandering love and hours. But then, at times, the past has shown otherwise, hasn't it? Whether or not he's chasing the ghosts of his foolish imagination, France longs to know for certain. Is that so ridiculous of him?
Breaking through the hush, Prussia again pipes up from his seat.
"Hey, France," he blurts. "Lemme buy you a drink, at least."
"You don't have any money," Netherlands reminds him.
"Oh, right," Prussia says. "In that case, let West buy you a drink."
Germany sputters something about 'free-loading' and a few light giggles flutter around the table. Realizing that he truly has wonderful companions, France bravely smiles.
He turns to Spain and says, "...Any other time, cher, you'd have me. But I can't. Not tonight."
He gives Spain the warmest hug he can offer. Then, France gathers his coat and tosses some cash nimbly onto the counter. Determination in his eyes, he takes off into the frigid night.