Alfred F. Jones was going insane.
It all started in March, with England's hand resting on his lower back just a moment too long to be anything short of deliberate but gone soon enough that a slip of mind could excuse it. After all, he was reaching for the drink just across the bar from America, who happened to be just a tad bit sturdier than the hardened wood of the Irish pub the G8 had gathered in once all was said and done and the meeting was called off after three long days of charts and always fluctuating averages.
Trivial as it was, the incident was soon forgotten by Alfred, who found a better use of his memory in his newest mechanical project (because, paper work be dammed, he was a man of action, not long term planning and those pistons were begging to be toyed with). It wasn't until one late afternoon weeks later that he asked himself, pondered for a moment, what it would feel like to have that touch linger past fortuity and into familiarity.
That line of thought was soon dispelled. Boxed, taped, and shoved to the deepest corner of his mind. (Dismissed, yes, but not forgotten.)
Meetings came and went and often times lasted too long but little by little Alfred began to realize he didn't mind spending copious amounts of time sitting straight and keeping still if it meant spending a moment longer with England sitting by his side, making quipping comments and all for long, exasperated sighs should America even dare to open his mouth. England, and he had begun to stare. And if he had thought that the distraction of Arthur's cutting jaw was terrible enough, nothing had prepared him for when the Briton started staring back.
By September, America was catching the wayward glances and the subtle smiles of a man that thought himself unwatched (and was, really, all the contrary, Alfred hated to admit to himself). Their knees brushed under the table, their hands found a way graze when they walked together (too close, Alfred cursed, and yet wanted nothing more than to pull the other closer). When the young man finally found the courage to throw an arm over England's shoulder one evening and Arthur made no move to shrug him off, his heart soared. Understandably, when Arthur walked into the room the next day, not only late but scowling like someone had pissed in his morning cuppa and made him drink and choosing to sit away from all (away from Alfred), soaring turned to worry. This ebbing of spirit sunk into miserable apprehension when for the first time in close to a year England snapped and scoffed at his presence, refusing his invitation for a cordial dinner and choosing instead to meander off with France. That meant heavy drinking, which translated to trouble; America's job was to keep them out of trouble, so he followed. And because jealousy is an ugly thing, he eavesdropped.
"Francis, it is wearing my patience thin. Try to understand."
England and France sat on opposite sides of a tavern's table. It was an old alehouse, a quaint little thing just outside the skirts of Lyon, which they both frequented.
"Arthur, " Francis responded almost condescendingly "it is you who seems unable to come to sense. "
Arthur growled at that and brought a hand to his temple to keep what was undoubtedly a migraine at bay.
"It is not…" another growl and then he was giving France a pointed stare, hand gone from his face to wrap around a pint of stout "For fuck's sake, he is just as bad, perhaps worse. You know it. I know it. HE knows it!"
"You speak of him as though you are speaking of a great burden you cannot wait to be rid of." the Frenchman reasoned with a drink of wine "And yet, here we sit."
Arthur laughed and the sound nearly threw Alfred down from the seat he was perched upon.
"And yet here we sit." the Englishman chorused "I'll drink to that."
"Santé, old friend." Francis' smile was wide and sincere as they raised their glasses "Or better yet," his smiled turned impish "Slàinte."
England sputtered and scowled, gifting the unwilling ears of any bystander with more curses than could be considered healthy for a proper individual, until he deemed it appropriate to drown his tirade in beamish stout. Meanwhile, France cackled freely, the sound so far away from anything America had ever heard from his lips that he had to bite down hard into his tongue to withhold a snicker. The joke itself, however, was lost to him. Perhaps he should have spared a moment in understanding but England's sigh, and the change in mood it brought, hooked him back into the conversation.
Both Francis and Arthur were quiet for a moment. The former waited patiently with a knowing smile as the second appeared to gather his wits.
"He is my brother, Francis". England shifted to French and continued in a lowered voice.
France hummed appreciatively, took up his glass and swivelled the contents to watch them spin and settle to then spin them a second time.
"Yes." he conceded.
"But…" Arthur supplied with practiced ease, sensing a continuation in the Frenchman's hesitation.
"You want him," was the deadpan affirmation supplied "and he wants you." added before he drained the remaining liquor.
England was silent and Alfred felt his heart speed.
"…. for how long, do you think?" Arthur ventured softly enough.
"It would be hard to say." Francis admired the way the crystal cup reflected light in his hand "But I have seen the way he looks at you, Arthur. And I'd dare say since the very beginning. "
"I have wronged him countless times…"
"And he has you." Francis finished for him putting his empty glass down and frowning. "Who raised who, who fought who, who won over in the end. You're making excuses that are hardly solid enough to be considered such. Does it truly matter? Of course it does not. You have come to me for advice and I have spoken my thoughts on the matter. Argue with me; I do not expect anything less from you. But hear me, Arthur, when I say that you have stalled for far too long already, the both of you, when things could be simpler. You deserve it, HE deserves it, so do yourselves a favour and give it a chance. Wait a century longer, if you so please, but for Heaven's sake do it before you drive yourself mad and me with you."
A heavy silence stood stagnant after France's diatribe. England's voice, when he spoke again, was almost doting.
"I love him, Francis."
To that, Francis had to chuckle crudly.
"And yet, here you sit. "
The conversation shifted from there on, ranging from sports to politics to nothing. The mood lightened considerably as the minutes passed and when minutes turned into hours and two more rounds were drained, the Anglo-French duo bid farewell to the barmaid at the counter, paid their due, and took their leave without further ado, both ignorant to the fact that they left behind a young American with rosy cheeks and a pounding heart.
Just as a quick footnote for those unfamiliar with the terms: santé and slàinte are both toasts (in french and scottish gaelic respectively), the later of which I like to call foreshadowing.
About France and England, I truly cannot fathom how they could be fighting every breathing moment of their lives. After this long together, I'd figure they share quite a cordial relationship.
I'll try to update this as frequently as I can; the following chapter might be up in a week or so. Do point out any mistakes you may find, I would truly appreciate that.
Cheers!
HyfrydCymru (Iv)