Pulling his coat on, France eyes the winding cobblestone sidewalks. The familiar city echoes with vehicles and voices. The streets are teeming with far more people than earlier. He takes a breath, easing his spirit, and momentarily wonders which route he should take.
There are only a few places England would run off to. Either he has gone off in search of a quieter pub or he has returned to his secure hotel room. With Brussels being home to countless bars, it would be impossible to check each one before sunrise. And so, France's only option is to try the inn. He weaves through the bustling crowds; making his way back to their lodging.
Heels clicking with unrest, France eventually arrives. He pulls open the glass double-doors and glances around the lobby. There are a few guests chatting on auburn sofas and some idling at the oaken front desk. However, there is no sign of England's rough blonde head. Frowning, France presses on, heading for the guestrooms.
Thankfully, Germany is a man of orderly habit. He routinely assigns hotel rooms according to a nation's geographic location. Meaning, France's room is always fortunately (or unfortunately) in the vicinity of England's.
All France has to do is knock on the doors nearest to his own and if England is in, hopefully he will answer.
Coming up to the third floor, he briskly follows the carpeted corridor. Eggshell walls and walnut doors fly past his sight. As he approaches, France catches snippets of conversation between a pair of men farther down the hall.
"W-Well, unfortunately," an unfamiliar voice stammers, "since the room is not in your name, you'll have to pay up front."
"Fine, but listen," England insists. "I haven't got any Euros left, alright? I spent them. All I have right now is Pounds."
A relieving sigh escapes France's chest. He's found his foolish companion, thank goodness.
"I'm sorry sir," the other man declines. "We can't accept British currency-"
"And why not?" England barks. "The conversion rate is still alright; you've got nothing to worry about!"
Drawing closer, France sees the issue. Standing in the open doorway to his room, arms crossed, England bitterly berates the nervous man in front of him. Dressed in a staff uniform, the unlucky individual is carefully cradling a clear, glass bottle under his arm. From the red label, it looks to be some type of liquor. Likely England's room service order.
This situation may prove to be a slight challenge.
Interrupting the exchange, France gingerly asks, "Can you not pay the poor man with a credit card?" England flinches, his head whipping to France in slack-jawed surprise. He gapes for a second or two before his expression closes off into a scowl.
"Oh, look who it is," he scoffs, hurt reflecting in his forest green eyes. "Happy you didn't have to 'drag me back to my hotel room' then?"
"Angleterre," France soothes. "You really did not need to leave." England bristles like a threatened porcupine and France realizes this was not the correct thing to say.
"Shut up, you back-stabbing wanker. I should've known better than to trust you for an instant."
"...What are you talking about?" France cautiously inquires.
"You set me up!" England exclaims, jabbing an accusing finger at France's nose. "Leaving at just the right moment before Germany and his gaggle walked in. You planned out that entire mess! You must have." He drops his arm in defeat, muttering, "I'll bet you all had a great laugh at my expense. Not like everything wasn't shit enough already."
Out of the corner of his eye, France catches the waiter attempting to quietly sneak away. England snaps at him. "Oi! Don't you walk off with my gin! You stay here until we're bloody finished!"
The pathetic attendant flinches and whimpers.
With his lips curled and skin paling, England looks even more haggard than earlier. Despair does not suit him and France is not about to throw away the whole evening based on some wild conspiracy. There has to be some way to save this situation.
Gesturing at England, he tries reason. "Are you hearing yourself? You are creating fantasies out of thin air. I did not know the others were going to be there; it was just an unfortunate coincidence." England glares at him.
"Really?" he counters, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "I find that a little hard to accept."
"Accept it or not, it is the truth. After you left, the atmosphere was so unpleasant... Why on earth would I subject either of us to that? There was no plot, cher. No one was laughing."
"France, do you know how many pubs there are within walking distance of this hotel?"
"...Non? Is this something I should know?"
"Twenty-three. With those odds, how could anyone just casually stumble into us?"
"That may have been my mistake. You see, that particular estaminet serves wine from... Wait a moment. How do you know such an exact number?"
"I'm an alcoholic."
France sighs with irritation. "Angleterre, if any of this nonsense were true, then why would I chase you all the way here? Hm?"
"Because you'd want to rub it in my face," England huffs.
"You are growing more paranoid in your old age," France mocks, his composure wavering. "If I had truly planned this, I would still be at the restaurant with my dear friends. But I am not. I am here. Tu comprends?"
Blinking, England balks for a short moment.
"Pah!" he spits, ploughing on. "Then why the hell would they show up at our exact location? Explain that!"
"Hmph. Obviously, that is because it is one of the finest bars nearby. And it is the only one serving a wide selection of both wine and beer."
"What difference does that make?"
"Spain, Italy and Romano all favour wine, and the others prefer beer."
Narrowing his eyes, England hesitates. "And how could you possibly know that's the only spot nearby?"
"Because-!" Simmering on the edge of frustration, France takes in a deep breath and readies the finishing blow. "When I was looking for a place that we would both like this evening, that was my criteria: an estaminet serving the drinks we both enjoy."
The hall is suddenly very quiet.
"Oh. But..." England murmurs, his brows furrowing with thought. "You were...?"
It is so profoundly satisfying to see the gears slowly turn in England's dull head. Savouring the moment, France silently observes the way his eyes dart and how his tense muscles begin to relax. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. If he dares to call France a liar after all that, he may just get a back-handed smack.
"Do you need me to say it again?" France quietly hums.
England holds tense eye contact for one last rebellious second. Then, finally quelled, he drops his gaze to the floor, grumbling under his breath.
France's heart sings with fulfillment. How amazing, how incredible. Success without a single fist thrown? Honestly, he deserves a standing ovation. This is a moment he will remember fondly for months to come. It's highly unlikely he will get any sort of apology out of England, but that is fine. The sweet taste of triumph is its own delightful reward. Vindicated, France allows a contented smile to curl across his face.
Cautiously stepping forward, the forgotten waiter clears his throat.
"I-I'm sorry to interrupt," he stutters. "But if no one is going to pay for this, I should really get going." In the awkward pause, England swallows. Seeming to think, he glances between the waiter, the bottle, and France.
Shaking his head, he eventually mutters, "Just forget it, then. I don't really need it." The attendant quickly gives them a slight bow and immediately takes off at a sprint. He hurriedly retreats, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.
Alone at last.
Folding his arms across his chest, England puts on his stoic façade, but he is not fooling anyone. France can tell he's feeling insecure. Maybe even guilty. And so, brimming with confidence, France decides to be a bit daring.
"Well?" he clips with a sassy tilt of his head.
"Well, what?" England huffs.
"Am I going to stand in this hall overnight or are you going to invite me in?"
A delightful pink hue creeps over England's ears. His Adam's apple bobs wonderfully as he swallows. He's gorgeous like this. All conflicting emotions and prudish pretence. Behaving as though they have never been intimate, or... shared an amorous congress before. Cracking that defensive Victorian wall and watching it exquisitely fall apart is one of France's favourite pastimes.
England shuffles his feet and barely above a whisper, he says, "You may come in... If you'd like."