They fled deep into the forest, dodging rocks and low hanging branches until the sound of furious shouts and alarms drifted away. Panting, France stopped to gulp in air. He hadn't realized he was still gripping Arthur's wrist: glaring at him, Arthur turned his back pointedly to the other.

"We're fugitives of the law," France snapped. "Don't be immature."

Green eyes challengingly bored into his. "I am a fugitive of the law. Me. There is no we. Kindly piss off." France opened his mouth to retort, but England continued coldly, "If you're going to whine, leave. I don't need help."

So prideful. "I'll never understand you," France sighed. "What are you planning to do, Mr. High and Mighty?"

"Travel west. But, we've got..." England emptied his bag, useless contents hitting the ground heavily. "A whole bunch of nothing."

"Guns and ammunition are something. And we have a canister."

"Which is useless if we don't have water." France rolled his eyes as England continued pointedly, "And without a map, only God knows how to get out of here."

Francis chuckled (loving the way England scowled at him). "Oh, my poor, deprived England. Do not fear. My mind works like a compass."

"You know true north?" England gritted out. France winked. "Fine. You tell me where to go and I will lead the way."

"Ah, no. I'm older. I'll lead."

Rolling up on his feet to meet France's height, England smirked. "I'm stronger."

Sadly, there was no denying that for France, but like hell he'd agree outwardly. "You're the one who got us into this mess."

"Then I'll get us out of it." England turned, beckoning for France to follow. For fun, France let him go a ways, folding his arms across his chest as he watched, and then called out.

"You're going the wrong way, darling."

England's glare was priceless.

"Hello?" A young, squeaky voice calls. He wanders through this forest, unaware he is followed by another youth. The bushes shake and the boy, lost and confused, feels instincts pulling at him.

You are safe, the voices in his head whisper. He will not hurt you.

The brambles part and out steps a taller boy, clothes in tatters, hair matted. His big blue eyes look friendly enough.

"I'm lost," the boy whispers.

"Who are you?"

The boy has just come into existence, but he knows immediately his name. "Albion."

"Albion?" The other scrunches up his nose, and Albion giggles at such a funny face. Smiling at the pleasant sound, the boy who had been following him continues, "Well. I am Gaulia. My name's much better than yours."

Albion giggles again, a soft sound, innocent as it echoes around the forest. "Can I stay with you? I... I just woke up. Here. And I've been walking... f-for days."

"Ah! You're like me!" Gaulia twirls him around, excited and beaming. "I barely age, and I've outlived all the villagers. They drive me away with stones, by the way, so don't go down there." He squeals, dancing around Albion. "Now I won't be alone!"

Faeries float around them, lighting the night gold-

With a sharp intake of air, England jolted awake. France was slumped against a tree nearby, taking the first watch. He didn't notice England approach him, sliding down beside him.

"It's still my watch," France murmured.

"I had a dream."

"Oh?"

"About..." England frowned. "I can't remember. It's right there, but..."

France glanced at him, studied his jawline, and looked away. "Go back to sleep, England."

"I can't. Let me take watch."

Pridefully, France snorted, "Well, I can't sleep, either."

"Then I guess we'll both take watch. Jesus," England huffed, folding his arms across his chest. France groaned inwardly, cursing his competitive genetics, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep and just let England keep the damn watch. He ached for the comfort of his house, wondered fretfully how his cat was faring, chided himself for being so stupid as to help idiotic England, and slowly his eyelids started to droop.

Just a little rest, France told himself contentedly. Nothing more.

He was out in seconds. England smirked victoriously.

"France, get up."

The urgency in England's voice shocked France out of his daze. He sat up quickly, watching England's figure. "What-"

"They're close," England whispered, eyes alert, scanning the forest. "Coming up from the southwest."

Both quieted, listening to the faint voices only a personification could have picked up. France stood, dusting off his clothing, and motioned for England to follow. "I have an idea."

"Oh, sweet Lord save us."

Ignoring the jibe, France continued, "If we can create a phony trail, we'll throw them off."

"You know how to do that?" England raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Of course! We're like... ah, what is the word in English..." France waved his hand around, eyes drifting upward. "Spies! Yes, spies. This is simple, like spy work."

An amused snort from England sounded. "We're everything but spies, tosser." But he followed France through the thick underbrush anyway, halting as France did.

"You stay here." France disappeared into the forest, starting a false trail. England shifted nervously, eyes scanning the tree-line above. The excellent mask he'd built melted as he stood there alone, emotions clear as day across his face. This forest reminded him so much of...

Memories. Old memories. They came back to him in the form of a dream. England bit his lip uncertainly, the sound of his heart seeming to echo off non-existent walls. They'd been so young. Different names, different times. And another side of him- Arthur - ached suddenly to return to that innocent, wonderful place.

"Finished-"

Taken off-guard, Arthur whirled around, eyes wide. France recoiled, surprised, studying his face. But before he could say anything, England's mask was back, eyes distant and emotionless as usual. "Then let's go."

Sure enough, France's tactic worked. They gained distance, finding a lake and quickly filling up their canister, hiking deeper and deeper, until France gripped England's arm. "What?"

"You walk too fast," France panted, too prideful to actually ask for a moment. England studied him, drawing an inquisitive look from France. "What...?"

England huffed quietly, digging through his backpack. He pulled out the canister and handed it to France. France stared at him, confused. "Finish it, you twat," he demanded, shaking the canister back and forth.

"But the rest was supposed to be yours-"

England silenced him with a simple look, one that France had never seen before. Gentle. He gave in, taking the canister and drinking, and England turned away.

He's never shown me such an expression as that before, France mused. And for some reason, the gentle look on England's face had imprinted in his mind.

They continued walking (at thankfully a slower pace) through the night, crickets chirping, fireflies illuminating the darkness. It reminded England of his dream, although the glow of faeries compared to fireflies was different, more bright.

With an amused chuckle, France broke the silence. "I found this when I was making that trail." He handed him a crumpled piece of paper. Brow furrowing, England opened it up to see the ugly word "wanted" above his face.

It was borderline amusing, England thought, holding the paper up beside his face and turning to France. "Uncanny resemblance."

"I think it's the eyebrows," France teased, trying to hide his smile.

England rolled his eyes and looked away, but France could see the way his lips quirked upward. Suddenly, he halted, eyes searching the ground, frowning. France turned, calling out, "What's wrong?"

"Do you... ever dream of the past?"

France smirked. "Of course. Who doesn't?"

England crossed his arms pointedly and raised his head. His eyes searched France's, and for some reason, France felt his privacy being violated. England had always been able to dissect you with one simple look. "I've... been having these weird thoughts lately."

France tilted his head. Uncertainly, England continued, "Things that I haven't thought of in years... I'm dreaming about them suddenly."

"Are you concerned about these dreams?"

Frowning, England hesitated. Should I be concerned that I remember a time when we were happy in a forest just like this? "I... suppose not."

Pushing the strange conversation into the back of their minds, the two countries continued to traverse the forest. They stopped, France pointing upward at a huge oak tree. "Can you climb up there and scout for a village?"

"Can you?" England smirked. If France could get out of doing work, he would, and teasing him about it was probably the most enjoyable thing England could think of.

"That's none of your business, stupide."

"Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage," England called, feeling the bark under his hands as he started to ascend up the trunk.

It took France a moment to process that England was actually speaking (ridiculously well-spoken) French. It took him an extra moment to translate his own damn language. Brow furrowing, France questioned, "Did... did you just..." His eyes widened in livid realisation. "You just- you just called me a cheese sandwich!" He could sense England's smirk and spluttered, yelling, "Ferme la bouche!"

"Brûle en enfer," England called back. Even though it pissed France off that England knew his language so well (and used it only ever to insult him), he smiled. After scanning the horizon, England called, "I see a train."

"A train?" France furrowed his brow. "What direction is it heading?"

"East."

If there's a train, France reasoned, It'll surely bring us to a village. England climbed down, landing gracefully beside France. "We should follow it."

"It's going east, and we're headed west. Do you have a death wish?" England frowned.

"There's a better chance of running into a town. Do you want to starve? We need food, we need water- look at your clothes!" France pointed to his shirt, streaked with dust and mud. "We need clean clothes, we need to rest in peace for one night-"

"Alright!" England snapped, holding his hand up. He hesitated and then rolled his eyes, making France grin.

"If being targets of a manhunt will coerce you into listening to me, I say let's do this more often."

Roughly less than a day from the train Arthur had spotted, the pair had set up camp for the night beneath a rather dangerous-looking crag. Sharing the watch had become their routine: whomever fell asleep first lost. Usually, that person was France.

Tonight, however, France had a different idea. Sitting beside Arthur, he started, "Tell me about your memory."

Arthur's eyes met his- France could almost see his surprise. However, he obstinately looked away. "No."

"Then I guess this memory must be steamy, if you can't share it," France goaded, smirking, although his next words left a bitter feel in his mouth. "Were you writhing in the throes of-"

England flushed bright red and smacked his arm. "Shut your filthy mouth!" He cried out, looking mortified and furious and on the verge of strangling France all in one.

All I have to do is mention sex and his walls come down, France thought, an amused smile forming over his lips. "So? What was it about?" England remained silent, so France continued, "Was it Spain pleading for m-"

"It was about you and I, actually," England spoke softly. France's words caught in his throat, and England, flushing crimson once again, spluttered, "A-As children, you doof."

"You were a wild child," France reminisced, folding his hands behind his head. "Whatever made you think of this?"

"Probably my over-exposure to you."

They settled into silence, and France remember a young boy called Albion who had kept him company after so many years of loneliness.

"We were best friends," France murmured, looking over at the younger. England stared back, looking slightly upset. They both remembered what- who- had driven them apart, an Empire with false promises and sickly deceptive smiles. France shuddered involuntarily. The things Rome had done to him, the sexual abuse, the beatings, the enslavement- those memories would never fade.

"What's wrong?"

"I suppose Ancient Roma drove us apart, no?" France smiled. He fancied that he had walls, too, just like England. Don't get caught up in the past. Rome is gone. England doesn't need to know what happened to me back then, anyway. "But I suppose he made us both stronger."

England studied him, green eyes intently searching. Uncertainly, France looked down, then back up, trying to silently tell England to let it go.

"Goodnight, France."