~|- . -| eight
~|. - . - . - . -| hundred
~|- . - . - . - . - . - . - . -| and
~|. - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . -| two
~|- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . -| years
~|. - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . -| later.
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Part II
2018
Washington D.C., United States
"Alright, guys, this calls for a celebration!" America grins, pulling out a bottle of beer and slamming it on the table.
Suffice to say, the World Meeting is over.
England leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh, tapping his polished shoes on the floor. "Where did you even get that from? I've already told you not to bring out—"
"You can't tell me what to do!"
"It's not me, Alfred. It's the policy of these damn meetings."
He casts his gaze around the room for any sympathetic faces, but no one is listening. Even Germany, the Nation normally tasked with maintaining any pretense of productivity, appears to have given up. England just barely manages to catch a glimpse of him slipping into his seat before he disappears into the sea of heads.
"What are we even celebrating again?" England asks as he reluctantly begins filing away his paperwork. "Is this some sort of obscure American holiday or what?"
Undeterred by this question, America pumps a fist in the air, as if to make a point. "Nope! We're celebrating the fact that we got work done today."
"What an achievement," England mutters sarcastically.
Although it probably is a bloody accomplishment if we're talking about this bunch.
Absentmindedly, he begins scouring the crowd once more. Someone's papers have already been soaked by spilled vodka, and he hears Lithuania frantically apologizing in the background. Somewhere down the table, Greece startles awake, mumbling about something that sounds like "Lucius Aemilius". An argument breaks out in the near distance, and behind him, Prussia is chattering on about subject matters that England would prefer to un-hear.
Does he never plan to stop attending these meetings? he wonders for a brief moment.
Quickly, though, he snaps back to attention.
Someone is missing in the room.
As he continues to search, it does not take long for him to become aware of the footsteps trailing behind him. England whirls around immediately, and it is just enough to catch the shine of France's shoes as it glints in the fading sunlight and disappears around the corner.
No one else notices as the door clicks gently back into place.
A surge of curiosity rushes through him, and England glances over his shoulder. Just to see what he's up to, he decides. Before he can change his mind, he sidles up to the door, pushes it open, and slips after him.
sunset is a battlefield. it is the frontier that separates invisible kingdoms, where the night's vengeful talons finally slash through the fortresses of her sister daylight. destruction descends until blood smears the sky red, and the distress calls of the anguished are known only by those who care to look—a bright orange flare desperately shooting out from the half-drowned sun.
England finds him almost immediately. Something about Francis manages to draw his attention every time, long before they ever became lovers.
Lovers is a strange word for him to process sometimes—alien yet comforting, a word that dances inside his mind with foolhardy confidence and all the grace of a one-footed duck. Lovers is silk on sandpaper, bitter remarks over hesitant reassurance, ashes above water and pain in a wistful smile. Lovers is sweet desert rain that turns into a capricious flash flood.
Lovers is why his expression softens when France looks up.
He is propped against a bench, legs crossed and his gaze restless. Behind him stands the rest of Washington D.C., silent in all its dignity as the sky casts curves and edges alike into darkness. England can sense his uneasiness even from his current distance—yet he's known France too long to be perturbed.
After all, what is melancholy if not a worldly constant?
"I needed some time to think," France murmurs, finally meeting the other Nation's eyes. "Alone."
He says it almost apologetically, like a physician announcing an unwelcome condition.
"Why?"
Tap. Tap. He can hear France's fingers drumming on the wood planks, rhythmic and absentminded and so unlike his usual self that it becomes unnerving.
"Why do you think?"
England positions himself on the bench carefully. Crisp green grass brushes softly against his ankles, tendrils that are so light and so gentle and so completely manufactured with artificial polypropylene and nylon.
Fake. Almost like...
"You like being dramatic, don't you?" England huffs. He awkwardly makes an attempt at imitating France's hair toss, before quickly giving up. "Wanted to get my attention, I suppose?"
There is no bite in his tone. Only tease with an undertone of concern. Francis seems to understand this, and offers a faint smile back. "You could see it that way."
Silence cuts a rift between them for moments that stretch to the horizon. Even through brick walls and a courtyard of space, they can still hear the commotion from the meeting. Finally, as France stands up and paces to a cluster of trees that border the bench, he hesitantly interrupts Arthur's thoughts.
"This is rather arbitrary, but... sometimes, I wonder how we got this way."
Long shadows pass over England's head as he joins him under the towering oak, while the dying sunlight struggles to penetrate the dense canopy above. He pauses as he considers France's statement, then sighs and reaches out to link his fingers through his.
It feels cold.
"I thought you had the whole 'love' thing figured out centuries ago," England scoffs.
It must have come out more cynical than he intended, because France merely manages a weak chuckle as he looks away.
"Yes, well... I really thought I did. And ever since you came around, I realized that I was wrong. Because you were different."
A peculiar sense of warmth washes over him. England contemplates whether to keep silent and let the other Nation elaborate, but Francis has begun avoiding his eyes and shows no indication of continuing. Slowly, buried questions and unanswered doubts rise to the surface of his mind from six feet under, and he blurts out before he realizes it.
"I can say the same for you."
France abruptly turns back around. He purses his lips again almost immediately, but his initial expression betrays him.
"You were always different too," England ventures. He is fumbling for anything to say, anything to fight his way out of the snowdrift he has stepped into. "So seemingly... untroubled and carefree, yet for all the wrong reasons. Even I could tell that."
Francis lets out a cheeky smile that seems much too forced. "Oh? Have I stepped into a therapy session?"
"I'm just saying that you never let your guard down around anyone else."
"Really?" he says, almost sarcastically. "Perhaps you are simply just that special."
"That's not what I meant."
"So enlighten me."
England pauses, frustrated—partly with himself and partly with the other man. What do I say?
His subconscious answers for him.
He finds his fingers reaching out.
And before France can react, Arthur tilts up his chin and forces him to meet his eyes.
"I was trying to say, Francis," he says irritably, "you should remember that I love you. And that means you can bloody talk to me if there's anything you need to discuss. That's all. No need to get your knickers in a twist."
A strand of golden hair slips free from France's loose ponytail. He does not seem to notice. Instead, his attention is divided between the man standing in front of him to his eyes and then his hands and back again. For a moment, the sunset is nonexistent. The shadows are an illusive apparition, and all the fire in the sky is a mere twin to the intensity of their gaze.
France takes a deep breath, slowly.
"I... I'm sorry."
As if becoming aware of the tension between them, England abruptly drops his hand back to his side. Some part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all—the hand that has since become so used to caressing Francis's skin had been the same one that'd broken and cut and lacerated it throughout so much of history. Because through the contradictions in his mind, he can still make out the blurry outline of distant memories from when he was young.
And stubborn.
And full of masked doubts.
And knew nothing at a time when I thought I knew everything. When I thought that kings ruled over my will and monarchies dictated my actions. When wars obscured our perception with blood and tears and cries in the name of the motherland, and we understand nothing of the hate we exchanged.
When the very thing I despised was a mere facade.
And a facade is hard to tear through. Even more so than synthetic grass.
"Don't be," he finally responds.
The next thing he knows, his hand is at the nape of France's neck. He senses warm breath against his cheeks and hesitation in a pair of bright eyes. When the other Nation tangles his fingers in his blond hair, England gently pushes him against the tree and presses his face against Francis's lips.
When they finally pull apart, France is out of breath, and England is hardly any different. All he wants to do is run his fingers down his skin again—even past the long-faded ghosts of cruel scars that lie in wait, scars that tell stories and the closest things they have to a childhood memoir.
Scars I gave to him.
His hand falters.
They settle down beside the oak, legs crossed and back against the trunk. Behind them, the last rays of the sun vanish beneath the skyline.
And just like that, darkness settles dutifully over them once more.
An unabridged, serene darkness.
Eventually, England feels France's hands on his own again—and he smiles faintly, even while knowing that no one else is able to see it.
Closing his eyes, he mutters, "I don't think we're supposed to sit here."
He hears a chuckle.
"Nations do as they please."
"I suppose so."
There comes another period of silence. After a while, France clears his throat, and he shifts on the carpet of leaves below him. "They say that hate is not the opposite of love," he begins, "but apathy."
England's eyes flicker over in interest. "Yes?"
"So forgive me if this seems absurd, but how do we know that this is not simply the result of hate manifesting in twisted new ways?"
It does sound faintly ridiculous, as if emotions are puppet masters that transcend their comprehension. But Arthur finds himself pondering over this question for longer than he should, and in the end, he still has no clear answer.
He looks down. "I don't know. The same way that you know anything is real."
A pause.
"Well," France sighs, "that must be when you know a conversation has gone off the deep end. I'm sorry. I should not have said anything."
"It's fine."
"Perhaps I should make up for it somehow. How about with something terribly romantic?"
It is enough to garner a laugh. "What?"
"Nothing."
England raises an eyebrow. "I could do it for you. When we get close, something flickers brightly inside my mind like... er..."
"Fireflies?"
"No," he decides. "The lantern of a will-o'-the-wisp."
"So... I give you the feeling of oxidized compounds and photon emissions."
Arthur's lips quirk up at the edges.
"Close enough."
They sit in the dark and quiet for who-knows-how-long, the only sound the distant rumbling of cars and buses. The oak suddenly seems tiny compared to the long-ago memory of his homeland forests, and an abrupt feeling of nostalgia rushes through him. But then England glances sideways, and he sees France leaning against his shoulder. Still here. Still here with him.
Maybe it is all he can ask for.
he shouldn't be here, outside, with the night breeze
and the cloud-smothered moon
and the cold unblinking stars.
but he isn't alone.
he has company.
a welcome company.
and he is at ease.
Fin.
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- A/N -
Excuse me while I throw up in a toilet. I hate this chapter :3
That... was my first attempt at writing any sort of romance, and it ended up being even cringier than I thought it would be. Especially since I tried so desperately to link their conversation back to the will-o'-the-wisp theme. Honestly, I'm not sure whether there was a 'theme' to this fic at all. It was just a poor excuse to write shameless fluff, haha.
~ Reviews are appreciated ~