"What on Earth do you mean? Of course you'd be missed, mon amis." France couldn't help but chuckle to break the tension. This died rather quickly as England's expression didn't change. He was serious. He paused his work on England's leg and sat back on the coffee table. "Why do you bring this up all of a sudden?"
"I figured you're the only person who would be brutally honest with me. I suppose I was wrong." He took a sip of the wine, eyes unmoving from France's. The man had a habit of making direct eye contact. It made even France more than a little nervous on the off occasion, this was one of those occasions. Despite the clear green, the thoughts and intent were clouded. His poker face was impeccable, but the rest of his body language spoke volumes. His knuckles were nearing white as he gripped the glass, his toes curling for a brief moment in his socks. This man was afraid, but of what? France couldn't think of the words he intended to comfort him with, not in English at least for the moment. He continued to dress the wound, the eyes pinpricks on his scalp as he broke the contact to focus on his work. "Thought so." Perhaps a few more glasses would loosen the poor man up, maybe he could get more out of him then. He worked in silence for a few minutes, the tensing of his leg in reaction to the rubbing alcohol and the pulse under the skin any indication that this man was even alive. He pinned the new gauze over top of it and picked up his own glass of wine. England had since directed his attention out of the large window in the suite, the London Eye spinning slowly against the orange sky. He sat on the couch, not directly next to him, but certainly close enough that his options would be open.
"Arthur, what's wrong?" England shook his head and sighed, a small smile on his lips.
"Well I have an absolute lunatic clone of myself from another dimension locked in the basement barred by all of my living room furniture, for one." There was England. Wisecracking and dry in his humour as ever. France couldn't help but laugh from both his previous nerves and ludicrous of the apparent cause of England's grief.
"Oh thank God, you had me worried for a minute there." England chuckled and took another sip, easing himself into the couch. "Now would you mind telling me how you got this nasty gash in your leg? Let us clear up another mystery, no?"
"Freak accident in kitchen, Francis. That's all you need to know." Not that France would want to inquire any further as to how England had somehow planted a knife in his thigh whilst cooking, he was somewhat curious of the events that led to such. "Don't." England must have noticed this curiosity because it was instantly shut down by the man. France chuckled and took a sip of wine.
"But tell me, Arthur. Why do you feel as though you wouldn't be missed? Surely you know how much of a lie that is." The faint smile ran from his lips, his fingernails drumming against the glass for a moment.
"You gossip like there's no tomorrow, please Francis, I need you to be honest with me. Am I likeable? Because I don't really know. I've never bothered myself with it." This was a surprise. Why was he asking him of all people? France thought for a moment. His immediate thought was how no in fact England was not exactly the most likeable of people. A sharp tongue, chilly attitude, and prideful nature were certainly omnipresent in nearly all aspects of his personality. There were good things too, like… Like his sharp wit; which more often than not lead to him insulting someone. Maybe his ambition? Of course it took a kind person to put that to a beneficial use. He could be kind, but that kindness seemed to be solely directed at small children and imaginary friends. Now that France was genuinely thinking about it, there wasn't much he could find to work with that wouldn't sound like a half-baked report card comment. England was like a cactus to him, a prickly green thing that had grown on him over the years that probably had some good stuff in there if you dug deep enough. Though France couldn't be sure. He'd never broken open a cactus before. He opened his mouth to respond, but had to shut it. His silence appearing to tell England all he needed to know. The expectant look quickly turned to one of realization and then one of defeat.
"Well, maybe you can use this time to-" His phone buzzed on the table, lighting up to signify a text from Canada. France leaned over to check it.
"Really? That's more important? That's fine, I was just thinking of leaving anyway."
"No, Arthur no. Don't be like this, it's Matthew. He was just asking how you're doing. He was worried." The nation downed the rest of his wine in one fell swoop before looking at his own phone.
"Oh, certainly explains why he texted you and not the person he was supposedly worried about." He pulled the slacks all the way over his boxers that had given France access to the wound. "It's fine. I'll leave you be." His words were cold, so were his eyes as he stood up. It was obvious that we was attempting to hide his limp as he walked to get his coat. That fear from before seeming to have crept back in.
"Arthur, listen to yourself. It's Matthew! Of course he cares. You're in no position to be walking around." He tried to bar him from leaving, honestly more than a little concerned for the man's safety. England looked up from his buttoning, the two eye to eye. It was a fierce stare that met his own, but France wasn't about to back down this time.
"And you aren't in a position to keep me in this room. Step aside." He was unblinking and as stubborn as ever. He would return this stare until England sat back down and that was final. His refusal didn't catch the Englishman off-guard, but rather resulted in a furrowing of his brow. "Are you deaf all of a sudden? I said step aside."
"Non, Je pense que vous devriez vous asseoir, Angleterre." England scowled. Whatever chance of getting through to him France had, he watched it slip away behind a defensive barrier.
"Va te faire foutre." England forced his way to the door before throwing it open and disappearing down the hall. It wasn't often England insulted France in his mother tongue. Not exactly a welcome experience, in his opinion. What could possibly be wrong with him? He set to cleaning up the small mess in the hotel room from his first aid endeavour. He could have at least said a short thank you. He fired a text to Canada. Il va bien. Juste de mauvaise humeur. Dis à Alfred de l'éviter, d'accord? Il serait préférable de lui donner du temps seul. SVP et merci. Alone time would do the man best perhaps. England always seemed to be calmer when left alone to his thoughts after all.
Alone time was exactly what England needed, not that he could get it. He slammed open the door of his house and stared at the barricaded basement, he wasn't alone. He quietly walked up to the barricade, everything was still in place as far as he could tell. The man was probably pacing around the basement, like the creep he was. He realized he hadn't closed the door as a cold draft washed over his coat. He returned to shut it and hung up his coat. For all intensive purposes, he was on edge. He flicked on the television for white noise. A murder case? Not the best thing to ease his nerves, but it would work. He turned it up and walked into the kitchen, pulling a box of frozen fish sticks out of the freezer. He slapped them on a baking sheet, his only baking sheet, and set the oven to preheat. He watched the degrees slowly work up. The news was grim, not a single fingerprint to point them in the right direction. Every detail of the murder was all too familiar to England. Of course in the long run, the killer had to be long since dead. Then again, they never caught that one either. His fingers drummed on the counter. A knock on the door drew him from his stupor. He made his way to the front door and opened it. No one was there. He closed it once more and turned the deadbolt. There was that knock again. It was coming from the basement.
"I'm not opening the door." He walked up to the basement, a voice beyond sighing about being hungry. "I don't care. You can starve down there." The oven beeped, signifying that it was time to throw the fish sticks in.
"We both know that isn't possible, love. I promise I won't try to get out if you slide a plate of cheese under the door." England thought for a moment before pulling a block of cheddar out of the fridge. He carved a paper thin slice off and took it to the door, moving the couch out of the way so he could throw the translucent orange slice of milk under the door before putting the couch back. "Oh, thank you." The voice sounded cheerful, though a little disappointed. "What are you having for dinner?" This man was quite docile now that he wasn't try to kill him. Hopefully it would stay this way until England could figure out what to do with him. "It's awfully lonely down here, could you perhaps leave the telly on when you leave tomorrow? You don't have to talk to me, but it is comforting to have some noise."
"Is it now?" He walks into the living room and shuts the television off. He could always watch the report on his laptop, with headphones. The man seemed disappointed, but didn't complain. "I haven't had the best day, so if you could kindly shut up tonight." He sat down on the couch, pulling his phone out. Still nothing from Canada, nor anyone else for that matter. Of course they didn't care, why should they?
"I could listen if you'd like. If it would make you feel better, we are one in the same. I'm sure I could understand."
"I still don't believe you. You know how ridiculous your story is, right? It doesn't make any sense." His eyes trailed across his newsfeed, despite the close proximity to the man he felt much safer knowing exactly what was happening around the basement door than not being able to see it.
"Well, who would I be then? I'm obviously English, a nation, and we're nearly identical. I can tell by your gait that you have already figured out that I'm not human. I know it's difficult to believe, but you do need to understand that I am here to help you." Yes, help him through murder. "They don't care for you, do they? Is that what's wrong?" England remained silent. He didn't answer him because he didn't want to affirm anything. "I already understand, you don't have to answer. I'm sorry about the leg, by the way. It wasn't really a part of the plan, it just sort of happened." God he sounded innocent, almost genuine in his apology. He blocked it out as best as he could. "Are you cooking fish? I had some last night, Matthew cooked it for me, it was quite good. Does he cook for you often?" Hardly ever if at all. "You know, Arthur? I could probably get out of here if I really wanted to, magic circle in the basement and all that. You left your wand down here too. A pity." He was right. He had leave all of his spell books downstairs, and if he was truly dealing with who he said he was, he couldn't risk it. Perhaps he could lull him into a sense of false security? Convince him to pass the books he'd need under the door? That seemed like his best bet, if not his only bet.
"Tell you what. How about you pass me the wand, and I give you some fish sticks and tartar sauce." The man agreed, saying it seemed completely reasonable. England could hear him walking down the steps from the landing. The timer went off on the oven and England got up to go pull them out. He took a few off and put them on a plate. They were a bit singed, but edible enough. He poured a modest amount of tartar sauce on the the plate. He took the rest and made a plate for himself before walking out and setting his own plate on the barricade couch. "Do you have it?"
"Of course!" He would have to take his word for it. He pushed the barricade ever so slightly out of the way, opening the the door slowly, ready to slam it at a moment's notice. The visage of himself did in fact have the wand. The man didn't make an advance, he instead slowly held out the wand. England slowly handed him the fish sticks and took that wand. He went to close the door, but the blond put a hand on the door. Oh no, this was a mistake. He must have seen the panic enter England's features because he quickly took his hand back off. "Just, before you lock it again, could you grab my contact case? It should be on the vanity in the bathroom I'll stay here, promise. These things are just awfully irritating."
"What? Oh, sure." There wasn't any harm in that, was there? He backed away from the door, keeping a solid eye on him as he walked back into the bathroom. The contact case was exactly where he said it was. He quickly grabbed them and came back out. The other man was just munching on the fish sticks, still on the landing. He handed them over and the man smiled, swallowing back his food.
"Thank you, love. Can you hold this?" He offers him the fish sticks. England found himself holding them and watching as he changed out the contacts, blinking before pocketing the lenses and taking back his fish sticks. This couldn't possibly be the same man from before. He looked quite normal in fact. England slowly began to close the door.
"You… You good? Need anything else?" The other man shook his head and continued to munch those fish sticks. "Okay then…" He shut the door all the way and moved back the barricade. Somehow he felt less comfortable and more comfortable with his current situation at the same time. Why was he being so docile, civil even? Was this even the same person? England sat down on the couch and picked up his plate of fish sticks, he slowly began to eat them. The voice chimed beyond the door.
"These are really good! Did you batter these yourself?"
"Uh, no. They're store bought." Well at least he liked them.
"Oh, well they're good anyway. You should certainly try to make some, I'm sure they'd be good too." Yeah they'd be great. He could see what he was trying to do now. Flattery wouldn't get its way with him. Right? It never had before, though it was a nice boost of confidence, especially after today. "Say, Arthur? What was wrong today? You said earlier that you were upset."
"Well firstly, isn't it weird for you to call me by your name? Because it would definitely be weird for me."
"Is that why you haven't called by name? Thank goodness, I thought you might hate me or something." He chuckles and England hears a small thump and slide against the door. He must be sitting down against it, on the cold hardwood. "Well, you could call me something else if you like. I'm open to anything really." England thought for a moment.
"What about Oliver? I've always fancied the name." He nodded to himself even though the other couldn't see it.
"Oliver… I'd like that. Rolls off the tongue nice, doesn't it? Oliver." He sounded quite pleased, satisfied with his new name, even if it was only temporary. "So Arthur? What's wrong?" Oliver inquired sweetly. England sighed. Where to start?
"Well I'm quite sure that almost everyone dislikes me in some way or another, honestly it feels like I can't even get a thought out most of the time without someone correcting me. Even if it's on a completely subjective front, honestly I know your opinion is different, but let me have mine for a minute, please. I don't understand how hard that is. I sit through countless hours of your idiotic ideas and then suddenly I say a single word and I'm the bad guy all of a sudden. Honestly…" He began to delve deep. It felt good to finally get it off of his chest, into the open even if the only person who was there to hear it was himself. Oliver listened intently, occasionally chiming in with agreement or understanding. He just listened. That was all England wanted, someone to listen to him for once in his life. If he looked back on everything, there really wasn't ever a time he's ever been able to completely voice his opinions aloud to anyone. Other nations didn't want to hear a word of it, his older brothers were often a source of his frustrations, the Queen was meant to be spared of his personal tribulations for the sanctity of royalty. He had taken them onto himself for far too long. This person understood a surprising amount of his struggles, relating to them from behind the wooden barrier. It was almost comforting. Not comforting enough for him to trust him, but if this truly was himself, there was no reason for him not to spill supposedly shared conflict with him, right? Right. The conversation ran late into the night, cold unfinished and cold fish sticks plated on the floor next to the couch where he laid.
"Oh, you must be exhausted of hearing me go on. I'm sorry, Oliver."
"No, not at all! Don't be sorry, I understand. Say, what time is it?" England checked his phone. Quarter past one. He had gone on far longer than he had ever anticipated talking to another person, ever.
"Quarter past one, I suppose I should sleep. I'll need to be up in less than six hours and I haven't even tried to sleep yet. I'll leave you to sleep if you'd like." He got off of the couch and stretched, feeling far more relaxed. His steps felt lighter as he brought the wasted food to his compost bin in the kitchen. As he walked back to turn off the light, Oliver's friendly voice came once more from behind the door.
"Arthur, love. Could you possibly pass over a pillow and such? It's… Not the most comfortable to sleep on the cement down there. Only if you don't mind. It's fine if you can't." Well, it would be the least he could do after keeping him there for upwards of five hours at least. If anything he walked to the back of the house to a linen closet, pulling a fold out cot from within. He brought the cot over with a pillow and spare comforter. It was a little inhumane to keep him without any comfort. Even prisoners got beds after all. He carefully unjammed the door and opened it up just wide enough to pass them through. Maybe, if he could convince him he was trustworthy he could get the rest of his spell equipment back and banish him back to wherever he came from. "Oh, you really didn't have to get everything for me. Thank you." The man's blue eyes were soft as he gently took the various goods from the man, exchanging for the cleaned off plate of fish sticks. He was genuinely grateful so it seemed. "Good night, Arthur."
"Good night, Oliver." He closed the door, jamming it once more before heading to bed. Confidence bolstered, a smile on his lips.