The train came screeching to a halt, waking the two countries. Yawning, France stood and stretched, peering out the open train door- people were unloading at the station.
"We're far enough away to sneak out unnoticed," France murmured as Arthur looked over his shoulder.
"And then what?"
"Find some clothes. And food. And ammunition."
"You have money?"
"Who said we needed money?" France smirked. England frowned, but couldn't disagree. The two leapt off the side of the train, landing heavily on the gravel beneath. Sprinting for cover, England and France ducked behind a series of large bushes, France pointing beyond the station. "If we can clear the station we'll be good to go."
"What if people know who we are?" England hissed. "The Austrian police would be here in no time-"
"This rural town?" France scoffed. "Don't be foolish." England wanted to retort, but France continued, "Look. There's a clothesline through the trees, see it?"
Not only a clothesline, but a small village lay beyond the sparse trees. The two carefully dashed through the undergrowth, breaking through brambles and bushes into the back porch of a cabin. Quickly and haphazardly they yanked shirts down from the clothesline, retreating back into the small wooded area for cover.
Groaning, France rolled his injured shoulder. He didn't want to ask England for help, but he obviously needed it, and thank God England wasn't an idiot. He swiftly undid France's vest and slipped off his shirt, mindful of the wound. "It bled through the bandages," he muttered to himself, glancing up at France.
They were close. Too close. France flushed and looked away from England's inquisitive stare. "It's fine. Just put on the shirt and let's go."
"No, it'll bleed through the shirt," England argued, pulling out the rest of the tightly wound bandages from his backpack. "I have enough to re-bandage you. Sit."
Unable to argue with piercing green eyes, France knelt in front of England, feeling irate that he was bowing before this (sexy) arrogant Empire: yet England quickly matched his position, taking off his old, soiled bandage and replacing it.
"Why are you acting like you care?" France asked, voice carefully guarded. Yes, he had walls, just like England.
England glanced up at him, tying off the bandage. Caustically, he snapped, "Because you're helpless and weak and a coward, princess, and I'm just trying to even up the playing field." With that he threw France's shirt in his face and stormed off through the brambles, leaving a wide-eyed and confused France behind.
Was he really offended by that? Mon dieu, he's such a baby, France mused, pride wounded as he struggled with his new shirt. He joined England, new black flannel a strikingly nice colour on the Empire.
"See that?" England pointed at a cabin, voice tense. A lady exited the house, and France picked up the warm scent of bread. "That's where you're going to get our food."
"What?! Me?" France gaped. "But-"
"You owe me. I've had to bandage you twice, and you stink."
"So do you, morceau de merde!"
England raised his chin pointedly, handing over his backpack to the other. "Are you going or not? I can go without food for a couple weeks, that's fine-"
"Alright, alright!" France hissed. "I'm going." Muttering French curses, he snuck out from the cover of the trees and towards the back of the cabin. Once the coast was clear, he sprinted around to the front, opening the door swiftly. The scent of delicious food made France's mouth water, and quickly, he grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter, rummaging through the cabinets and grabbing what canned food he could.
An ear-piercing shriek made France yelp and drop the can in his hand: whirling around, he spotted the lady who'd left standing in the doorway. With rushed apologies, he raced by her and out into the village, all of the townspeople staring at him wide-eyed.
England was dying laughing when he returned, wiping away wetness from his eyes, amused by a very ruffled, very irritated France. "Your scream! Her face! Oh my god, that was rich."
France scowled at him as they quickly headed off towards the train. "I hate you."
"Well, no thanks to you, we can't communicate with Russia, now that you're a bread thief," England replied, still smirking. "But I suppose it was worth it."
The train set off once again, this time headed in the direction France and England needed to go. They sat in the same open train car, France unzipping their backpack and taking out the food he'd managed to take.
"Canned peaches, canned peaches again, canned peas..." Arthur mumbled, sorting through the cans. Irritably, he snapped, "Did you get anything other than disgusting canned food?"
"What? There's a box of ammunition, ungrateful child."
"God-dammit, I hate peaches."
"You don't like peaches? I do," France jibed, innuendo clear as day.
"Shut up, you closet pervert."
"There's nothing wrong with a lush, dripping-"
"Stop!"
"Fat, juicy-"
"Oh my god."
"Delicious peach," France finished, smirking at England's flushed face. He decided to save more revenge for later, content with England's mortified look.
They rummaged through the food, relatively silent save for the sound of France's obnoxious peach eating (he'd never forget the look on England's face, he swore). England started re-loading their two pistols, and to pass time (and/or gloat his victory) France asked, "What's your favorite food?"
England glared at him suspiciously. "Not peaches."
Laughing (genuinely, to his own horror), France continued, "You've made that clear."
"Isn't that a question to ask a six year old?"
"Oh, come on. I'm just trying to lighten the mood."
Stubbornly, England tilted up his chin. "What's your favorite food? Peaches?"
Trying to contain his laughter (and failing miserably), France said, "Kumquat."
England huffed softly, leaning back on his palms. "Really?" He smiled genuinely, a look France had never seen before. "I can see that. Exotic. Just like you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
England shrugged, but France wouldn't be deterred from his original question. "Anyway, I've told you mine. Your turn."
He hesitated, looking away for a moment. France didn't think he was going to get an answer.
"Sushi."
France bit his thumb, grinning. "I was expecting stuffy British food. Maybe you do have good taste!"
England opened his mouth to retort when a loud thump came from above. Both England and France started, heads swiftly tilting up: the metal ceiling above was dented.
"Shit!" England screeched, grabbing France's wrist and leading him to the open edge of the train car. Whoever was above what had been their makeshift sleeping space fired down into it, sparks leaping everywhere and bullets wildly flying inside. England leapt out the car and grabbed onto the metal ladder just outside of the train, shouting, "Get out your pistol and follow me!"
England reached the top of the train, black boots landing heavily on the metal below. Easily he fired at the man who had been shooting below at them, making sure France was following. The wind swept their hair every which way, unbalancing their bodies- glancing back at France, England yelled, "Didn't I tell you they'd find us?"
France scowled, but England's words were playful, his eyes almost looking kind. "Stay with me, yeah?"
"Whatever," France muttered, heart racing as he strapped the bag tightly around his chest, pointing his pistol at the many agents advancing towards them.
Both fired, trying to take out as many as possible before hand to hand combat was necessary. However, these agents were skilled and fast, and in no time they closed in on the two fugitive countries.
"Hey," England grunted, kicking a man off the slippery edge of the train: France swiftly elbowed an agent behind him, glancing at England pointedly as he continued, "Don't you think-" punch- "That we should try-" a kick in the gut- "working together?"
Before France could reply, England gripped his wrist and yanked him around, up in the air. His outspread leg took out several agents around them, and as he landed neatly in front of England, eyes wide, he exclaimed, "What the hell?!"
Cheekily, England grinned, pulling France closer to him and why on earth is England flirting with me in this type of situation?! France thought, heart beating fast for all the wrong reasons. "We make a good team, princess," England breathed out, grabbing him around the waist and spinning him around in some twisted sort of dance.
France was completely enraptured. He stared at England, unable to focus on the people currently trying to slash their throats- that was England's job, twirling him around and killing people while they danced. It was beautifully disgusting, England's quirked up lips, France's glowing blue eyes, the blood staining the train, people falling all around them.
Their morbid daydream was suddenly blown to pieces as both of their eyes widened, jolting.
There was another personification on the train. England knocked out the last agent near them, tensing up as the train made a swift turn, throwing both off balance. France instinctively latched onto England shirt, both staring at the female nearing, eyes dark, high heeled boots clacking on the metal, long brown hair blowing out all around her.
"Hungary," France spat, releasing his hold on England, whose lips curled into a snarl.
"France and England," she acknowledged, cold and rigid. She tilted her chin up, eyes glinting. "I shouldn't have put it past you two to instigate a world war. Disgusting servile puppy dogs," she contemptuously snorted. "You'd do anything for your bosses, even destroy Austria's leader."
"You've got it all wrong," England hissed. "We didn't kill him. We were sent to save him!"
"He saw you!" She screamed out, clenching her fists in rage. "Austria!"
No, Hungary wasn't the only personification on board this train. Long red coat flying out from him in the breeze, Austria in all his elegance walked near and stood beside his counterpart. The Austro-Hungarian Empire stood before the British Empire and the Republic of France: to be honest, Francis felt a tad bit inferior. He was nothing like the (currently crumbling) duo, but he was absolutely nothing compared to England.
"Trying to tear my Empire apart?" Austria sneered. "You do a fine job."
"For what must be the millionth time, it wasn't us," England growled. "Are you so dense? Did you know not of the Black Hand?"
"Franz Ferdinand should have been allowed to travel wherever he wanted in his Empire!" Austria yelled, voice shrill.
"You antagonised Serbia, bastard," France snarled back. "And then you think your leader can just sail uninvited into their land?"
Hungary whipped out her sword, pointing it towards France. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. This is big kid stuff, dearest France."
France's lips curled back, but England stepped in front of him, holding out his pistol. "Another threat against him and I bury a bullet in between your eyes," he warned, suddenly turning into this looming, dark figure- the true British Empire. France shivered involuntarily behind him- even Austria drew back, shocked by the sudden change of appearance.
"Look, Britain. This will go down two ways. One, you come with us. Two, you remain stubborn, and we fight. You may be stronger than all of us combined-" Hungary's eyes drifted over to France- "But he is your one and only weakness." She saw England's dark glare falter. "Don't deny it. I know how much he truly means to you, so come with us."
"You forget that France once tore all of us to pieces," England snapped, coldly staring down at the duo. "He can take care of himself."
Despite all the emotions raging in him, France felt his chest swell- England would probably never say those words again, and he had no intentions of forgetting. He lifted his chin, not about to be verbally destroyed by this young, crumbling dual Empire. "And he could snap both of your necks. I'd advise not messing with us."
Hungary never was a patient woman, nor one to talk. With a shrill cry, she leapt towards England, her sword cutting through the air. Pushing France back, England backflipped out of the way, firing at her. Easily she blocked his bullets with her sword, reflecting off the tough metal with sharp twangs.
Austria was one for hand to hand combat, throwing his fist at France's face. France staggered backwards, head spinning, as Austria kicked his ankles out from under him. He landed heavily on the metal, breath knocked out of him.
France wouldn't go down that easy. Hissing, he swung his leg into Austria's, sending him toppling down as well. Both scrambling to their feet, France pulled out his pistol, but as he aimed, Austria, with a loud hiss, jumped up and kicked the weapon out of his hands.
He intended to slam his elbow into France's jaw, but yelped when England gripped his arm and slung him into Hungary, sending them both staggering, struggling to balance. France momentarily marvelled at his companion's strength, observed those gorgeous muscles, and then focused on the crazy people trying to kill him. Both sides glared at each other, panting for breath.
"Just surrender and make this easy for all of us," Austria hissed.
"Like hell," France spat back.
Fighting quickly broke out again. England caught France's arm, conveniently swinging him away from Austria's fist and into Hungary. Grunting, Hungary stumbled backwards, the train swerving sharply and throwing everyone off balance.
England leapt back as Austria charged, dodging his fist and throwing his own punch right into Austria's jaw. Austria's head jerked back with a sick crack: England took advantage, racing towards him. He jumped up, took hold of Austria's shoulder, and swung behind him, locking his thighs around Austria's neck.
Austria choked, hitting England's knees in an attempt to breath. Finally, England swung back around, landing neatly on his feet- Austria fell to the metal, blacked out.
England turned to Hungary, who smacked him in the face- he stumbled back, nose starting to bleed. Regaining his breath, he watched in surprise as France slammed his foot into her gut, sending her stumbling back into England.
She whirled around, sword slashing across England's chest, just a nick, but enough to make him stagger backwards. France made to run past her, but a swift kick to his side made him stumble, falling to the edge-
Eyes widening, England shoved Hungary out of his way using all of the strength that he usually contained, leaping towards the edge. France yelped, sliding over the edge, just as England caught his arm, both gasping out for breath.
Their eyes met, relieved and frightened and electric- England grunted, pulling France back up, falling onto his knees beside his companion.
"You alright?" He breathed, one eye on the stirring Hungary and the other watching France, who gasped for breath, their fingers still linked together tightly. His eyes met England's, smiling warmly, a look that made England's chest constrict painfully. Suddenly, he became very, very pissed, very, very fast- who would dare hurt the only brightness in his life? Turning, he faced Hungary who attempted to stand.
England pulled out his pistol and fired twice, once at her leg and the next in her shoulder- shrieking out, Hungary fell to the metal, crumpled at his knees.
In a cold, heartless trance, England lifted his pistol to her head, ready to obliterate her-
But France's fingers fell over his, gentle. England's eyes snapped up to his companion's, confused- France shook his head, curling his fingers against England's palm. "Come on," he urged. "We need to get lost."
They leapt off the train at the next safe and open area, leaving behind the dual Empire, carried off on top of the train.
—
"Dieu merde," France cursed softly, nudging his shoulder against England's. "You turn into Death incarnate when you're angry, you know that?"
England chuckled, glancing over at him. "Sorry. Instinct."
Their eyes met- both quickly looked away, hearts swelling for similar reasons. France swallowed, walking closer to England, trying to hold in a shiver as their shoulders brushed.
"You look like shit," France mumbled.
England let out a bright laugh, tilting his head back- France smiled, studying his exact expression. "So do you!"
They settled down beside a large oak, resting their backs against the rough bark. France let out a content sigh as he unzipped their bag and both started to eat. Night quickly fell, but despite the rough day, neither were ready to sleep.
"So," France started. "Where the hell are we?"
England laughed again, eyes content as he gazed at France. "No clue. But..." He smiled, their shoulders resting comfortably against one another. "I don't really care."
They settled into the first comfortable silence they'd ever shared, simply enjoying the other's presence. France fell deep into thought.
I should tell him about Rome. I trust him. God knows why. But I trust him.
"When Rome invaded my land," he began softly, Arthur's green eyes watching him, sensing the shift of mood- "I didn't submit to him at first. This was maybe a decade or so after we met. Maybe more."
"Francis," he murmured. "You don't have to... Don't feel like you need to-"
"No." He smiled. "I want to tell you." England returned the soft smile, waiting for him to continue.
"He beat me at first. It wasn't too bad, I could handle it." His smile faded, faded into a vulnerable, upset expression. "And then he started to touch me."
"He raped you."
"Eventually several times," France continued bitterly. He caught himself and tried to brighten up. "Of course, I don't remember much. I was young."
He was lying, and England knew it, knew those memories were vivid. He sighed out heavily, hand touching France's. "When Denmark invaded- close to when Rome was falling- he locked me up for a week with him." He smiled weakly at France. "He was my first. And I... I never forgot the pain, so I know you haven't, either."
Throat choked with emotion, France squeezed his hand, resting heavily against him. After a long silence save for the crickets, he whispered, "You didn't have to do that."
"You didn't, either."