There was little Seychelles could do, however, as the weeks progressed, to help ease the increasing tension England felt as his slave trading tip-offs kept leading him to more and more dead ends. Having to personally travel to wherever his indicator had divulged, with what little maneuvering opportunities he had, was certainly taking its toll. Even his self-promotion to Civil Agent, hoping to induce authority, would not budge the attitudes of her citizens.
And Seychelles really could do nothing about it. Nor did she want to do anything about it.
Despite England's constant, anti-slaving stance, there was little Seychelles tell him, even if she had wanted to help. Her colony literally lived off of the business of slave trading, and some law coming from a brand new legal system belonging to a country halfway across the world was not about to stop the trading from happening. It was that simple.
Seychelles made this very clear to England one evening, as she sat across from him during one of their, by now, routine dinners together.
She watched him stab rather vehemently at a piece of breaded fish after hearing her opinion (Seychelles had insisted on cooking this time; she had learned since the scones) and chomped down on it without his usual meal-time manners. She was sure he would have been livid if today had not been his first truly successful tip-off since he had first shown up here on Nisus.
This stubborn Nation had actually rowed forty-four kilometres north-east to Seychelles' second largest island, Praslin, to intercept and confiscate a cargo of slaves, recently shipped over from the African coast. It was a success, but a hard fought and basically useless success, considering the increase of tardy tip-offs.
"Yes, Seychelles, you and your people's attitude is becoming known to me with increasing clarity. Ye Gods, I hadn't thought I'd be meeting such belligerent citizenry so soon after -"
He cut himself off and grimaced, finishing off the last of his meal and muttering something about 'needing a drink' before pushing his plate away and standing to grab two small glasses, of which she had only seen in Quincy's cabin, and an unlabeled bottle of what could have only been rum, something Seychelles was not surprised to see come out of his cupboard.
She sighed and rolled her eyes as he poured, accepting the glass (could it even be called a glass?) from England and fervently hoping it did not taste like wine. Fervently hoping she would not have to deal with a drunk, love-struck Nation pining for someone else in her presence so soon after the last one.
He solemnly raised his glass and looked her in the eye from across the table.
"To your lack of honour, shame, and honesty."
Seychelles raised her eyebrows and grinned, touching the edge of her own glass to his, the dark amber liquid catching the rays of the dying sun shining in through the window.
"I'll drink to that."
She watched as England grunted amusedly, closed his eyes, and downed the entirety of his tiny glass before placing it back on the table. She copied his movements, swallowed, and gasped as the unfamiliar burn made its way down her throat.
I I I
"It's, um."
Seychelles squinted at the half empty rum bottle, mouth slightly agape, trying to find the right word. She felt extremely content. But English was hard.
"Sweet," she finally decided.
England snorted and reached across the table, taking the bottle from her and filling his glass once more. He set it down with more force that what was strictly necessary.
"You've never gotten drunk off rum before, love?"
Seychelles bemusedly noticed the casual slur to England's British drawl; she had never heard him use a contraction before, much less 'gotten' as a verb. She blinked and stretched, shaking her head, and frowned as she noticed one faded red ribbon dangling precariously from one side of her head. She didn't really trust the steadiness of her fingers at the moment, so she simply untied them both and placed them on the table, letting her long brown hair fall loosely around her shoulders for the first time in years. She noticed England following her movements in silence.
"Non, I've never really been drunk off of anything, to be honest."
As if to prove to herself her indifference on this matter, she drank once more. She had lost track of how many she had taken - maybe five? Six?
"Ah-ha! Then per'aps I should stop drinking now, seeing as it wouldn't be gentl'manly of me t'rob you of your dignity."
He was moving his slender forefinger in slow circles over the rim of the glass, smirking at her; Seychelles stared at it before tearing her riveted gaze away to look England in the eye. She was sure he had had more to drink than her.
"Oh, ha, ha, Arthur, so despite my lack of, c'etait quoi, shame, honour, and honesty, I still have some dignity left in me?" She reached over the table, meaning to jab England in the arm, but missed, so she opted to waggle her finger menacingly instead. "An' how would you take my dignity if youhad too much to drink, England, I'm curious."
She smiled lazily and put her hands down flat on the table, one over the other, and rested her chin on the topmost, gazing up at England.
He smiled right back at her and answered smoothly, "Oh, if I'se in the mood to be truly horrid, considering you're mine now, I daresay I'd, shall we say, consummate m'claim to you right here, at the mercy of your drink, prob'ly pining for America while at it."
He looked pointedly at her, as if impressed with himself, and went to lift his glass, finishing with a smile: "I'd say that'd sting a righ' bit, for both parties."
Seychelles didn't bat an eyelash as she straightened and leant back in her chair watching England raise his glass.
"Oh, France already tried that years ago - is that the best you've got?"
She laughed loudly as England choked on his drink, drops of rum flying across the table. She jumped up, expecting this, but did not expect the delightful rush to her head as she stood, stumbling slightly to grab a rag to clean up the table.
"Perfect timing, wouldn't you say, my dear?"
She giggled at the foreign endearment, and how strange it sounded applied to someone else other than France. She wondered how she would feel now if, that day, France had chosen to drink with her rather than because of her. Would she even be in this strange position, sharing rum with a Nation she had been told to view as an enemy for so long?
England continued to splutter, laughing, she now realized, as she reached over him with the rag she had (suddenly) obtained to clean up any spare droplets. He wiped the back of his hand with his mouth as his laughter finally died down, only after Seychelles had hit him playfully with the rag.
"Did he really?"
"Ah, tais-toi, oui, oui."
She stuck her tongue out in England's direction and leaned back against the table beside him, trying to disguise her mixed feelings on the subject. Truthfully, at the time of France's sudden advancement, she had been quite scared and confused, of course - what with him toeing the line between friendship and romance. However, now that she was able to call it an experience, she felt somewhat better about herself, more comfortable with the subject. The rum probably helped too, now that she thought about it.
"Mmhm," she continued, quelling any uncertainty her voice tried to betray, "it was act'lly quite awful. And what's worse is that he almost called me Mathieu."
Her voice lowered to a dramatic whisper with the last word, and without asking permission, she placed her hands on the table and pushed herself off of the floor to sit upon it, landing heavily with a small 'oof', legs swinging from underneath her as England, clearly not caring, burst into another laughing fit, rubbing his face with his hands a couple times. One came to rest on the table and the other patted her knee one, two, three times, staying there after the third pat.
"A sentimental git, I say. What rubbish he's put you through, eh, darlin'?"
He looked up at her, blond hair perhaps a little messier than usual, the scent of sweat and salt water and rum pleasantly strong from such a close distance. She sighed and rolled her eyes once more, leaning back on both hands and gazing absent-mindedly at England's hand on her knee, as if not really seeing it.
"I dunno if I'd call it rubbish. A lot of confusion, that's for sure."
England started and pulled his hand back, and Seychelles distinctly noticed the lack of heat, or wait, was it wrong of her to think that, considering it was England and not France, et merde, the confusion was rushing back once again as England rested his chin upon his fist, propped up on his elbow and studied her.
"Yes, Seychelles, I do believe that may be the only thing we're good for. Nations, I mean. We're only good for confusion," he clarified, and Seychelles wondered if his head felt as pleasantly fuzzy as hers did.
They continued looking at each other, words lost, time passing. Moonlight shone through the window, and the waves, as ever, danced at the shore, until England, for whatever reason, shook himself and looked away, taking his chin from his hand and slowly standing up, as if afraid he would stumble if he moved too fast.
Well, it's gettin' on, my dear, and as surprisin'ly, ah, enjoyable as this ev'nin' has been, work will surely be calling in the morning."
Seychelles did not move for a long while. She continued to sit as England washed the glasses in a bucket of water by the wall of the house, and as he put them, and the bottle back in their respective places. She watched his every move, slow and focused, studying him as he had studied her, only speaking when he made to grab his long red coat (that she liked so much), confused.
"Tu fais quoi?"
He looked at her, bemused, as he tried valiantly to shove his hand into the sleeve of his coat.
"Surely, you'll allow me the pleasure of walking you home, Seychelles. Only because you've had a bit to drink, of course," he added, and Seychelles was slightly horrified to feel the hint of a blush creep up the side of her face. She hid this by turning and collecting her ribbons, pushing them into the pocket fold of her dress, smiling to herself. She hopped off the table, holding a corner to steady her landing and walked purposefully over to England's side to help his flailing arm find the second coat sleeve.
"I'd have thought you wouldn't have time for chivalry, England."
She winked and smiled, hand lingering on his sleeve before turning towards the door, wary of her footing.
England scoffed and followed after her, blowing out the candles they had lit previously and shutting the door after him.
"I realize France is s'pposed to be the country of romance, but I like to believe I'm capable of demonstrating a little charm of my own."
Flustered, England seemed to forget the small step between his door and the slight decline in the land, and his foot slammed down upon the ground, eliciting fresh cursing and more stumbling. Already ahead of him, Seychelles turned and caught his arm, laughing, and they leaned against one another as they began to make their way slowly to Quincy's cabin.
"Oh, yes," Seychelles smiled. "Charming."
"Do shut up," England griped, trying to elbow her in the ribs. However, as their sides were pressed so close together, this proved to be quite the hopeless endeavour.
They fell into a, dare Seychelles admit it, comfortable silence, listening to the waves on the shore, the leaves of the trees in the breeze, and the sound of each other's breathing. After a while, she noticed the fuzziness in her head slowly begin to abate, but did not take this as an excuse to move away from England's side.
Perhaps she had unintentionally moved in a little closer, for England suddenly moved his right arm from hers and instead draped it across her waist, ensuring she wouldn't trip. They both glanced at each other at the same time, and looked quickly away the second their eyes met.
Seychelles looked straight ahead of her, marvelling at how different England's company was compared to France's interactions with her in the past. She recalled how France had suddenly appeared , working his way into her life with a fiery passion, never leaving her side, dictating her opinions and decisions, teaching her anything and everything he possibly could in such a short whirlwind of time. She understood that he had had the best intentions for her, but oh how she wished she had not been so young, so malleable.
Whereas now, spending time with England, she had her own personality, her own colony, and her own decisions to make, not based upon what her first mentor wanted her to believe, but based on what was right for the prosperity of Seychelles. These past weeks with England had not been a calamitous rush of emotion and (false?) longing, but a start from scratch, slowly and steadily getting to know each other for who they were. Knowing that she had opinions that clashed with England's somehow made her feel as if she had developed a bit more self, so to speak. She had grown into someone she was comfortable being, and how she wished France could see her now, as opposed to the indecisive little colony she had been ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred years ago.
But instead, she had the British Empire himself. Who had, at first introduction, suggested he lead her around on a leash like a dog.
She smiled to herself in the darkness. Some friendship.
But it felt...right. Or at least more right than the desperation France had thrust upon her. She understood, of course, the trials France and his country had recently gone through: The Seven Years War, the loss of Canada, the ongoing Revolution, the seizing of colonies, Napoleon's lust for power... But was it really right of him to drink his sorrows away and drunkenly crawl to her to seek 'solace?'
No, Seychelles decided. No, it was not right. And this was shy she appreciated England's company, his educated counsel.
She realized then with a rush that she did not fear England's presence, as France had so often told her to do so in the past. What she did fear, however, as she began to notice just how physically close, at this moment, they really were, was how willingly she was able to accept it. She had genuinely believed him when he told her he didn't want to be constantly labeled as 'heartless,' that politics and control was not always first and foremost on his mind.
Finally, they reached Quincy's cabin, and England, sensing her discomfort, pulled her to the side of the house, turning so that he faced her, a hand on her shoulder. His grasp was so different from when they had first met, calm and steadying as opposed to harsh and controlling. What had changed?
Everything.
England reached out with his other hand and lightly brushed her loose hair behind an ear. And Seychelles found herself exploding with memories of the same gesture, only carried out by someone so different, yet so alike, and the face so close to hers flitted from France's to England's and back and forth again, longing for both and having to choose, or not to choose, but all she had done was run, and maybe this time she would stand her ground...
But there was always someone else. She was too new, too isolated to know how greatly each Nation affected one another, how emotionally buoyed or distraught they made each other, which only added to the tumultuous feelings of the citizens they represented, and Seychelles still couldn't decide if she was being disloyal, independent, or simply curious, or if she should just wait another couple hundred years until she could interact more freely with others before jumping into relationships (relationships?) with older, wiser, more important Nations than herself, or, or, or...
To her embarrassment, England had moved his hand from her hair to the corner of her eye, wiping away a stray tear that had unfortunately decided to form there despite her efforts to contain her composure.
"What is it, my dear Seychelles?"
The colony in question lightly grabbed England's wrist, keeping his hand from drifting away from her face, and looked, really looked into his eyes. Her breath hitched and she tried to find the words to explain her doubts and her wishes and her wants all at once, but the only thing that came out of her mouth, all trace of slur gone was:
"Would you really only think of America?"
England blinked, but didn't move, staring back at her, expression pained.
"Would you not think only of France?"
Her heart seemed to stop and immediately, an answer popped into her head.
"I don't know."
England stepped closer, grip tightening slightly on her shoulder.
"In that case, to answer your question" he spoke clearly as well, voice lowering to a whisper, "neither do I."
Seychelles wanted ever so badly to lift her hand and run her fingers through England's tousled blond hair, but didn't dare, leaving her palms pressed against the side of the cabin. They were so close.
She hardly dared to breathe.
"Did - did you want to find out?"
And then, as if pressing her against the side of a wall wasn't provocative enough, England kissed her, confidently, and without hesitation.
All was still; time seemed to stop with England's kiss; not only did colonies, islands, and civilizations bend to England's will, but so did time itself. The waves stopped lapping, the breeze died down, and the native fauna fell silent. There was nothing other than England's mouth on hers, assured, but not invasive, apprehensive, but not unwilling.
And after several seconds of the world disappearing, everything rushed back at once with a roar of sound as England stepped back, breaking the kiss, looking at her with the strangest expression. Neither fear, nor uncertainty; those were not becoming of the world's greatest empire. No, it was something akin to gratitude, and Seychelles was sure the same expression in his eyes mirrored that of her own.
She smiled and allowed England's hands to fall back to his sides. She closed the gap he had created and straightened his crimson collar so that he wouldn't have to. Her fingers lingered at the hollow of this throat before she stepped back once more and regarded him, her new claimant standing in front of her with an echo of her own smile adorning his face.
"Thank you for walking me home...England."
She had almost said Arthur, almost, but at the last second it had seemed too personal.
"Charmed." He winked and his smile grew ever so slightly.
With a gracious bow of his head, he turned from her and walked back the way they had come, disappearing into the darkness, and leaving Seychelles wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into this time.
AN - ...I really didn't plan for more alcohol; forgive meeeee it just happened. (shot) I also had no feelins whatsoever for Eng/Sey when I started this, nor did I plan to have 18 chapters a,ready - waaat. Thank you so much to all of those who have stuck with me - it means so much!
Translations: C'était quoi = what was it Tais-toi = shut up Tu fais quoi = what are you doing?
Historical notes: Bartholomew Sullivan/England's account of every shitty thing that happened to him is all true. He only really had that one success on Praslin among a butt-load of failures. The quote about Seychelles 'lack of shame, honour, and honesty' is the actual reason Sullivan gave for leaving the island. Yeah, he leaves - it's inevitable.
The rest is just them being silly, adorable drunks. I loved it. Hope you do too. ;) Please review and until next time!