After traveling steadily west for two days, France and England, deciding they were far enough from trouble, slowed considerably. France complained the entire time that their clothes stank- eventually, England, tired of hearing it (and slightly self conscious- slightly), allowed France to take the lead and find a lake.
With France's strange nose, it only took an hour. The lake, surrounded by trees, was a beautiful sight to behold. Before England could speak France started stripping off his clothes, quickly hobbling to the edge of the water.
"Woah, woah, woah," England spluttered, flushing and trying valiantly not to turn his gaze downwards. "C-can't you strip in privacy?"
France sent him a seductive smirk, kicking off his boots and sliding down his pants. Instead of replying, he slung his shirt at England's face, conveniently covering his eyes.
England winced and tugged the sweaty shirt away from his face just in time to watch France jump into the water with a loud splash. He resurfaced, shaking his hair out of his face, and shouted, "Come on!"
Sighing and rolling his eyes, England turned his back to France with every intention of just leaving him there. Then he considered France complaining about his scent for God knows how long. And for some reason (he blamed it on his pride), he started undoing the buttons on his shirt. He heard France whistle as he threw the black garment to the ground, tattooed back exposed.
You're doing this because you like him!
England glared at France and the faeries giggling around him, stomping away for cover behind a cluster of large rocks. He proceeded to strip, finally noticing the grime covering his skin. Grimacing, he flexed his fingers, nails almost black- now there was no way around having to jump in the water.
Racing to the top of the rocks, Arthur jumped off the side with a shout, curling his legs up to his chest. It felt wonderful, sinking under the water, opening his eyes and gazing up at the shimmering, blurry surface. He finally pushed himself up, gasping for breath once he reached the surface. Shaking his head, his blonde hair whipped around his face messily, eyes carefully watching Francis as he swam closer.
France hummed, lips quirking upwards (definitely not checking England out). "You smell much better."
"Oh, shut up," England huffed, splashing him. France wiped his eyes, chuckling as England started swimming away.
"Chicken."
Whirling around, England's eyebrows rose, lips quirking up. "Excuse me?"
"Baaaaaawk! Ba-" France crowed, quickly cut off as England flipped onto his back and started kicking up water at him. He spluttered and tried to escape from the onslaught.
England started to laugh, eyes fixed on France as he charged and easily tackled the other. Both fell underwater, scuffling and kicking and hitting...
But it was gentle, and that was strange. They were nations, and nations didn't play with other nations, didn't laugh, were never gentle.
We were always different, England mused, still wrestling with France underwater, watching the bubbles all around them as he tried to contain his laughter, France's long blonde hair gracefully floating every which way. When we first met, it never crossed our minds to destroy, destroy, destroy. We were content to roll around in the mud and wrestle. Not until Ancient Rome separated us did we change.
They resurfaced with deep gasps, their hands pressed against the other's shoulders, all sheepish faces and doe-like eyes. That was when England realised they were both naked, and France had a ridiculously good-looking figure. Flushing, he readied to break away-
However, France traced a long cut from shoulder to chest, eyes focused. England shivered slightly, staring down at the top of his head. "What's this from?"
Their eyes met- England was confused and surprised when he saw France's nervous, upset expression. What could he possibly- oh. It hit him like a bag of bricks. He thinks it's from one of our wars. Stupid adorable bastard. Wait. Shit, not adorable.
"It was from Hungary," he explained, smiling slightly (punching himself inwardly at his stupid thoughts). "Not from a war. Not permanant."
Relief eased the tension in France's shoulders. "I see." His palms pressed against England's chest firmly, his knees close to England's- has he grown? France mused. He seems as tall as I am now. He looked down again, slightly uncertain. "Do you... Er..."
"Do I...?" England drawled softly, amused.
"Marks," France finally forced out. "Do you have any... From me?"
The question took England off guard, suddenly remembering all of their previous wars. "I..." He trailed off, eyes awkwardly meeting. It was uncomfortable to discuss, one's permanant scars- it wounded a nation's pride, showed weakness.
You can trust him.
"On my thigh, down to the calf," he said softly, throat dry. "Hundred Year's War."
France nodded slowly, unsure why he felt upset to be responsible for that scar, unsure why he was being trusted by this powerhouse of a personification, unsure why he himself trusted said personification.
We've fought a thousand years. Hell, we hated each other a week or so ago. What are we even doing, playing this game with each other, when we know how it'll end?
"I see," France spoke, uncertain thoughts still clouding his mind, voice quiet.
"We should be going," England said. France expected his default, walls-up expression, but instead received a smirk. "Now that you don't smell like shit."
France opened his mouth wide, shouting at England who laughed mirthfully and swam away for cover.
"We're close to the border," France said, trekking through the heavy mountainous brush with England by his side. "I can feel it."
"Getting closer to home?"
"Have to pass through Switzerland first."
England grimaced slightly. "Think he'll shoot us?"
"Probably. I'd shoot you if you waltzed into France uninvited."
England laughed, bright and airy. "I don't doubt that." He unzipped his backpack, pulling out the canteen of water and handing it to France, smiling.
France frowned, accepting it. "You're giving me more than you've had."
"You need it."
"So do you," France growled, arguing for arguing's sake even though England was right.
Rolling his eyes, England sighed out dramatically. "The things I do. You're not even grateful." Arthur was too good at guilt-tripping, Francis decided, and scowling, he obeyed the younger nation.
They settled down in between a cluster of large boulders as night began to drape over the sky. England started a fire, assuming they were deep enough in the woods for a small cloud of smoke not to be seen. France watched England, studied his jawline, how the glow of fire highlighted his nose.
"You know," England began, "My country still hasn't declared war."
"I have. On Germany."
"I know." Their eyes met. "And I have a feeling that Russia has also."
France sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. "I fear that if you don't join soon, Germany will destroy me."
Stiffening at his words, England bit his lip. "I can't control my people. And Germany hasn't invaded yet-"
"It's only a matter of time, England." France's voice rose. England fell silent, still worrying his bottom lip.
"I swore I'd protect you," he spoke softly. "At the Triple Entente. I swore it. I never would break a promise."
England never broke his promises, and France knew that all too well. He remembered England swearing revenge and torture from their gruesome past- all promises he'd eventually fulfilled. And during this hell of a week, he'd been protecting France assiduously.
Francis stared at England- no, Arthur, the human, emotional side of him that rarely showed- and smiled. "I know."
Another day passed, another day of endless hiking. France's feet were killing him: when they finally rested for the night, he about fell asleep against England's shoulder. He felt more than heard England's soft chuckle, his head pressing against France's.
"Cinnamon."
England glanced down at him, eyes widening as France's head rested on his lap. "...What?"
"You smell like cinnamon, and paprika, and basil, and it's one of the most confusing, enchanting smells I've known," Francis murmured, grimacing as he awaited rejection, for England to angrily push him off his lap-
Fingers carded through his hair, England rhythmically entwining France's blonde curls around his finger. France knew he was smiling, could simply tell, and his eyelids started to droop, England's fingers soothing- the only person France would ever allow touch his hair.
"I worry," Francis whispered, voice serious, as was prone to happen during the night with someone he trusted. "I worry about never finding love, and that my life will always be a dull throb, and that France will fall. I worry about my cat. I worry about what people think of me, what I've done in the recent past. I don't understand what I feel for-" he caught himself before he could admit something in his mindless rant, throat raw.
What the hell was he doing? England didn't care. England hated him, hated him for the Napoleonic Wars, the Seven Years War, the war for America's Independence...
"One day," Arthur hummed, "you're going to find someone who thinks the world of you, and wants nothing but to make you feel happy and safe. One day, you'll wake up and stare into one's eyes and see the miles and miles of love they have for you."
He fell quiet, fingers stilling in France's hair.
"And I'm sure your fat cat is taking care of himself," he added, trying to lighten the mood. France's eyes caught his and they both laughed. After falling contentedly silent, Arthur affectionately brushed his hair out of his face, finishing, "And when that happens, when you find love: that person will be damned lucky to have you."
For the first night of his lifetime, France fell asleep completely, no "one eye open," no fearful fits, not terrified of someone slitting his throat while he slept.
For the first night of his lifetime, Francis fell asleep with the words, I want you, I want you so badly, repeating through his mind.
The night watch wasn't a competition anymore. The two nations, finally at ease with each other, opened up- England didn't wear his guarded mask and neither did France. They were slowly cultivating a close friendship- it was as if the years of hate and war and destruction no longer mattered.
England tried not to focus on the past. He'd done terrible things to France, and France to him- but instead he worried himself over the future; not only what waited for him once he reached home (he'd probably be thrown onto a battlefield against Austria and Germany), but also what might change between him and France.
He didn't fancy losing what he'd worked hard to build. France had become very important to him very fast, and he didn't intend on giving that up. But England couldn't control anything, and something nagged at the back of his brain.
It would all go back to normal when they returned. No more deep talks at night, no more playful banter during the afternoon, no more flirting shamelessly, no more friendliness. They'd pretend to hate each other again, pretend for so long that it seemed real, just like it had happened the past centuries.
Arthur didn't want to pretend anymore.
"Dieu, look." France pointed through the trees, voice hushed.
"A town," England chuckled. "How the hell did we stumble upon this?"
"This time, can we not get caught?"
England huffed in agreement, both emerging into the busy street. People walked all around, making it relatively easy to blend in. England noticed France's strange look, and asked, "What is it?"
"I know this place. I've... fought here, against Austria, before." He shook his head. "Do you think they might recognise us? This is a fairly big town."
"I don't think the Austrian police have made it this far west," England said. "We should be fine, as long as we're quick."
They walked farther, eventually coming across a bustling marketplace. Roaming quietly around, both snuck food expertly. Feigning interest in people nearby who asked them polite questions, such as "Where are you from?" or "What are you doing out here in Feldkirch?", the two countries made up convincing stories.
"We're visitors from Switzerland," Arthur spoke, a friendly smile across his lips as he glanced at France beside him. He spoke perfect German- France noted to ask him just how many languages he was fluent in later.
He continued speaking to the woman who had approached them, making small talk and being pleasant. Bored (especially because he wasn't as fluent in German as England was), Francis wandered around, drifting farther from England.
Blue eyes caught sight of a man sitting on the side of the street, face downcast and clothes dirty. France couldn't resist a pang of sympathy, and making sure England wasn't watching, he neared the man and sat beside him.
"Do you speak English?" France asked, smiling at the man.
The man made sure his face remained shadowed by his large hat, muttering in a gravelly voice, "Sparesly."
France frowned, something oddly familiar about this man. "What is your name?"
"My name? I have several." The man started to laugh, almost madly- France stood, a sudden reservation welling up in him. This man, he was too familiar, and it didn't click in France's brain until too late.
The man stood, advancing toward France, tipping his hat up, revealing glinting red eyes. "But I prefer the name Prussia, France. So good to see you out here!"
Slam! Prussia's foot connected with his stomach, sending France flying back and into one of the stands, smashing it. People shouted in confusion, backing away from the area. France hissed out, pushing himself up and engaging in a battle of fists with his old friend.
Prussia fought like a mad-man, but France could hold his own, fist slamming against Gilbert's jaw. His head flew back with a satisfying crack. They panted for breath, Prussia spitting out and wiping blood from his mouth, snarling, "You little traitor. Looks like you're whoring yourself out to England now? You little sl-"
With a yelp, Prussia was sent crashing backwards into a brick wall, England's eyes dark and his posture absolutely terrifying. France knew it was only a matter of time before England came marching in, and oh, poor Prussia. He should watch his mouth. France smirked, catching Prussia's eyes- his face slowly lost colour as England walked up to him.
Eyes glinting, England towered over Prussia, lifting his leg and slamming his boot into Prussia's face. "Scum," he said, smiling in a sick, dark way. "That's what you are, my dear Prussia." He gripped Prussia's collar, lifting him up off his feet- Gilbert's hands scrabbled at England's grip, choking. Blood dripped down his nose- France, still watching, decided that enough was enough. He'd always care about his old friend, no matter how infuriating he was now.
"England," he called out softly. "Enough."
That was all it took to grab England's attention. He dropped Prussia to the concrete, who gasped for breath- Arthur turned around and walked back to Francis, looking calm and friendly once more. The people standing around hushed, terrified of the complete 180 this strange man had taken.
Alarms started wailing in the distance, and people started muttering, voices growing louder, backing away slowly. England glanced around, fingers clenching around France's wrist. "We need to get out of here."
"How the hell did Prussia know we were-"
His voice was suddenly drowned out by police sirens, cars advancing towards them quickly. People started to scream and run: the two countries' eyes widened.
"Shit," England cursed. Grip tight on France's arm, he took off down the street, carelessly pushing people in their way aside. "For the record," he snapped, "This is why we don't fraternise with suspicious looking people sitting in the street!"
Defensively, France shouted back, "I was just-" He was cut off as England released his wrist and charged towards a man climbing into his car. He pushed the poor man to the ground, taking his key and swiftly starting the engine. France tried apologizing to the man, who just stared at him, terrified.
"Get in!" England demanded, glaring at France.
France, feeling unusually stubborn, crossed his arms, staring at England inside. "You're a bastard."
"Yes, yes, whatever you say, princess," England retorted, waving his hand. "Now let's go!"
The police cars came swerving down the street, firing wildly at the two nations: France didn't need much convincing to hop quickly in the car. England floored the gas, and tires skidding, the car took off down the road.
France gripped the sides of the seat, fingernails digging into the leather. "Dieu, you"ll kill us both!"
"I'm a splendid driver-" Their breaths hitched as England jerked the steering wheel, making a sharp turn. France was too frazzled and overloaded in the mind to reply.
Glancing out the window behind him, France said, tangled hair whipping in his face, "I think we lost them!"
England opened his mouth to reply when a sharp, excruciatingly loud CRACK! sounded between them. He swerved, heart jumping in his chest, and lost control of the car.
In seconds, they were falling off the edge of the bridge they were on, the car slamming into the water, quickly and easily sinking. Frantically, England slammed his foot against the window, shattering it- gripping the jagged edges, he pulled himself out, bubbles floating everywhere as the car sank lower and lower.
He swam to the surface, gasping for breath. "France?" He rasped, wildly searching for his companion who hadn't yet broken the surface. He'd lost Francis within the chaos and confusion- he must have still been stuck in the car, or worse- shot.
England took a deep breath and dove back down, eyes catching blurry sight of the car. He swam to the passengers side, making a muffled sound when he saw France.
He appeared pinned in between his chair and the front wheel, which had broken through the car on impact with the water. He struggled frantically, eyes catching England's, pleading for help.
I could leave him here to die. I could take over his country and absorb him into my Empire.
England gripped the other's shoulders, anchoring himself, and firmly tilting France's strong jaw towards him, pressed their mouths together.
France gave a muffled shout of surprise, pushing against Arthur's chest until he finally realised that England was giving him air. He opened his mouth, trying not to get lost in thoughts like Oh god, I'm kissing him- because England was simply breathing air into his lungs. That was it.
But France, body thrumming with adrenaline, didn't give a damn. His fingers tangled into Arthur's hair, pressing him closer, and closed his eyes, inhaling England's breath. They simply floated, holding each other, breathing life into each other, underwater in their own world.
He felt Arthur's fingers trace along his jaw, a warning that he was about to move back. France held his breath and the two broke apart, staring at each other in a short trance before England swam lower, hands gripping the wheel pinning France's leg. He tugged, eyes squeezing shut as he exerted all of his force on the car, hands burning. Bubbles floated in a quick stream from his nose, straining once again, until finally, the wheel moved back, just enough for France to wiggle out.
Grabbing each other, England and France hurriedly swam to the surface, breaking free with loud gasps, panting for air.
"I-I thought-" France gasped out quickly- "When they fired, you veered so suddenly, I thought you'd been..."
He thought England had been shot. England, hair plastered to his face, breathlessly replied, "I didn't know what happened, and I, I just- I lost control, and- your leg, and- Are you hurt?"
France had no clue. His body and mind were still reeling in shock from the nasty accident and the mind-blowing feeling of England's mouth against his, so he simply gripped Arthur's shoulders. "Just- just get us to land."
Once they reached the bank of the lake, England collapsed on the sand beside France, both staring up at the sky and trying to control their racing hearts. They sat there in silence, replaying the incident over and over again- France finally glanced at England. "We have to get to Switzerland. We're sitting ducks here."
England nodded, pushing himself up, breathing finally under control. "Just tell me where to..." He trailed off, eyes locking on Francis's leg. "Oh my god."
France pushed himself up, confused- then he saw his leg, mangled and bleeding. He inhaled sharply, fingers curling into the sand and mud beneath, and that was when the pain starting crashing over him in waves.
Arthur, seeing his distress, kneeled beside him and hoisted him up, his arm over England's shoulders. "You lean on me," England said: France, groaning and wincing in agony, didn't think of doing anything but that.
Progressing slowly, the two nations finally took a rest, leaning against the wide bark of a tree. France slumped against England, breathing in and out harshly, shuddering as his leg throbbed.
"We lost most of our supplies in the water," England murmured, voice close to France's ear. His throat was obviously sore: France could tell as he spoke. "But at least we have some canned food left unsoiled."
He pulled out the two cans they had left. "Peaches," he grimaced, "And... More peaches."
Despite his condition, France let out a throaty, smug laugh. "Your favourite."
"Mm," England hummed, their eyes meeting. France couldn't help but observe his gentle smile, how his lips moved as he spoke, "I think I'll let you eat them."
"But-"
England pushed the open cans toward him. "Don't argue. I don't like them, I won't eat them."
England would have eaten the peaches in any other situation, France knew. But he also knew what England saw- his companion, gaunt and shaking, in pain. England had too much honour to eat when France looked quite frankly like the walking dead.
And that look, that gentle look- England would always win using it against France.
They lay together for awhile, quiet. France felt the fingers trailing through his hair, winding it around his finger, the way England always played with his hair. He could tell that England was growing sick, too- giving all of his provisions to France made sure of that. It angered France, that England wasn't caring for his own self.
"Francis."
Blue eyes opened groggily, locking on England's concerned face. "Mmm..."
"Francis, come on. They're on our trail. We need to go." He hoisted France's arm around his shoulders, dragging him up against his side- France's head lolled heavily, feeling as if he were about to retch.
The sky was still dark- France's eyes, blurred, could barely make out the dark clouds above. If things couldn't get worse, rain started to fall, heavy drops on France's too hot skin. He felt as if his body was on fire, burning up- surely death would be sweeter than this, he thought, sight and noise fading in and out.
They struggled through the dense forest for too long- France suddenly grew agitated, angry at the trees he'd seen non-stop for weeks, frustrated at the hell he was living in, livid that he'd fallen hard for a man that had wanted him dead two weeks ago.
"I can't do this," Francis finally cried out, pushing away from Arthur. "I hate this, I hate it so much-"
"W-what?" England looked confused, hair plastered to his face, dripping wet as rain poured around them.
"This game!" France hissed, dizzy but slapping away England's hand. "Why are we playing this game when we know what inevitably will happen?!"
"Calm down-"
"I've always hated you, and you've always hated me, and if that changed, merde, nations can't have feelings like this-"
England grabbed his face, holding him still, eyes locked. "My feelings are not a game." That was all he said, their noses brushing: France wanted nothing more than to kiss England senseless.
They hobbled on together again, mud streaked faces and sopping wet hair. It was miserable, like a nightmare- knowing you were being chased down like a fox.
By the time they finally crossed the Austrian border, France was ready to pass out. England was growing weaker, struggling to support France and his own self.
He felt the gun press against his head before he heard the voice. "France and England. Surprising to see you cooperating."
"Switzerland," England hissed, "We aren't here to harm you, for God's sake. Look at us!"
"All I see," Switzerland snapped, "are two countries who shouldn't be-"
"Brother," a soft voice pleaded. England glanced over to see Liechtenstein, glaring at her brother through the rain. "Give them sanctuary. Please, they're sick."
Switzerland had one weak area, and that was his sister. Swallowing, he dropped the gun from England's head and gestured irritably. "Come with us, then."
Lol, this has turned into a soap opera. Like everything else I write. *sighs*