Because 'English', that's why.
"Tell me, Britain, which of us is older?" France asked suddenly.
"You are." Britain replied obviously.
"Oui, you are correct. Tell me also, which of us has been driving longer?"
"You, I suppose. But not by much. Why?"
"Because you drive like an infernal blind old man!" France criticised "If I had been driving, we would be there by now!"
"I'm doing the speed limit, you pillock!"
"And everyone is passing you! Look, that old lady is passing us! You're getting your ass beat by an old lady!"
"Shut the fuck up! Keep talking and you'll be walking the rest of the way to the Lake District!"
"And I would arrive before you! Put your foot down!"
"I'm doing fine – you just drive like a wanker!"
The two bickered comfortably down the duel carriageway, bags piled in the back seat of the car, with Fifi sat happily at Franceis feet, occasionally oinking. The weather was clear (which in England meant it wasn't raining) as they left London, and the further they got from the capitol, the clearer and brighter the sky became.
"Ah, I cannot remember the last time I went to the Lake District." France mused as they passed the rolling harvested fields "But I remember sitting beside those beautiful lakes reading stories with you when you were little. Ah! It was forever ago, was it not?"
"Technically, there's only one lake in the Lake District." Britain corrected as he changed gear "Lake Windermere. The rest are Meres or Waters."
France pulled a face.
"Waters?" he spat "I was under the impression that the plural of 'water' was 'water.'"
"Yes." Britain confirmed "Except when they're waters."
"So the Lake District only has one lake, and the plural of 'water' is 'water', unless they are 'waters.'"
"That's right."
France stared at him incredulously.
"I hate you, Britain."
They stopped at the services to refuel and let Fifi stretch her legs for a few minutes, although the poor thing looked more terrified of the trucks and cars than anything else, trying to hide under the car. Faster than Britain had seen France move in a long time, the Frenchman had buckled himself into the drivers seat and refused to move. Britain couldn't be bothered to fight with him, and took Fifi into his lap on the passenger seat, trying to ignore the reckless driving. The little pig promptly fell asleep (and she snored), and Britain amused himself by rummaging through his bag. He couldn't be bothered with the paperback he had bought, so ended up taking a closer inspection at the pills he had been prescribed.
"I'm going to stop taking these." He announced five minutes later.
"Eh? Why?"
"Known side effects include," He began "Serotonin syndrome; nausea; diarrhoea; increased blood pressure; agitation; headaches; anxiety; nervousness; emotional instability; increased suicidal ideation; suicide attempts; insomnia; drug interactions; neonate adverse reactions; anorexia; dry mouth."
"That's a long list." France admitted "But I think you should still-"
"Not finished. Somnolence; tremors; sexual dysfunction; decreased libido; asthenia; dyspepsia; dizziness; sweating; personality disorders; epistaxis; urinary frequency; menorrhagia; mania/hypomania; chills; palpitations; taste perversion; micturition disorder drowsiness; GI irregularities; muscle weakness; and long term weight gain."
"That's…a…hard to argue with." France agreed "But you promised Hungary, did you not?"
"I promised her I'd take it until I found something else."
"And have you looked for anything else?"
"No." Britain admitted "But you did insist on hauling that bloody lamp all the way from London."
"I paid good money for that lamp, you are going to use it! Besides, buying it is more than you've done."
"I don't think getting all touchy feely with a therapist is going to help me." Britain said honestly "That's more of an American thing."
"Don't be stubborn." France scolded.
"Oh, really? Would you go to therapy?"
"I already have." France admitted without remorse.
"What?! When?"
"After World War Deux." he went on "I had post-traumatic stress for a while, what with being occupied by Nazi's and all."
"Good god, man, why didn't you tell me? I had no idea!"
"Mental health was still very new to medicine." France remembered "Don't you remember how hard out veterans had to fight to have Shell Shock recognised as a condition?"
"Yes." Britain grumbled "It was shameful."
"I imagine you saw your fair share. You were on the front line more than anyone, mon ami."
"I was." he recalled "I remember when they were executed by their own generals for 'cowardice.' But that still doesn't explain why you've kept it from me for nearly 70 years!"
"Oh? And why didn't you tell me when you became depressed, Britain"
"Well… because…" he grumbled "It's an entirely different thing!"
"Why?"
"Because you had a good reason to be traumatised! The Second World War was a terrible thing, I can't imagine what you went through during the occupation. I know we weren't as close then, but you could have come to me if you had something legitimately wrong with you like that!"
"So, you think what is wrong with you is not 'legitimate'?" France picked up immediately, taking a glance at the smaller man.
"Well, it's… I mean… come on, now…you know."
"No Britain, I do not know." France said bluntly "Were you not diagnosed by a medical professional? Given medicine and told to take time off work, just like a 'legitimate' sick person?"
"But it's not the same." he insisted.
"Why?"
"Because you can't see it."
"Oh?"
"If someone's broken their leg, you can see they're wearing a cast." Britain elaborated "And you think, 'oh, that's not right, something's happened.' If someone's got a disease, you can see it in their face, and it's like 'they don't look well, they must be sick.'" He sighed "And for post-traumatic stress, I mean, it's in the name – you think 'they've been through something terrible, they need help and compassion to get back to normal."
He huffed and scratched Fifi on the back of the head, and she snuffled happily.
"But I look fine. I don't look sick. Even when I look in the mirror, I think 'stop faking it, you're fine. Pull yourself together.'"
"And what would it look like?" France challenged "If depression had a face? People with broken bones wear casts, people with cancer lose their hair. So what does depression look like?"
"I don't know… pale, withdrawn, messy hair… just… 'sick.'" He paused a moment "I know I'm sick. I can feel that my head's not right, I know I'm not myself. But I also know what I look like when I'm sick, and I don't look like that now. I look fine."
"Mon ami, you are naturally pale, your hair is always messy, and you have been pretty withdrawn lately." France pointed out.
"Oh, shut up, Pillock."
France just laughed.
"The very worst things cannot be seen until it is too late to anything about them." he pointed out "You know this."
"I know. I just think I ought to look the same on the outside as I do on the inside."
"I understand, mon ami. After all, it takes a lot of work to be as beautiful on the outside as I am on the inside!"
"If you weren't driving, I'd kick you."
Britain's spirits seemed to lift away from the dank grey claustrophobia of London. A little colour returned to his cheeks, he raised his voice more, argued with France, and even took up his needlepoint again. France himself couldn't be happier seeing his beloved friend looking so well. The two larked about all week, going for walks about the waters ('fucking 'waters', Britain? I hate your stupid language!'), doing the tourist thing in the towns, villages and heritage sites (with Fifi on a lead) and eating far too much good, fresh food.
Sat under a tree in a grassy field overlooking a lake – or perhaps a mere – France nodded off peacefully, back against the trunk, hair falling like curtains over his face. Britain admired the scenery, watching the bright red, white and blue ribbon on Fifi's neck bobbing up and down hurriedly in the tall grass. Just like a puppy, she wouldn't stray too far before coming back, oinking and snuffling, and then depart again for more exploring. He felt clearer. Perhaps because he was away from the tight winding streets, the anonymous mass of people, the vehicles and the noise. Maybe it was the clean, fresh air and the wind in his hair and having the time just to be, rather than always having to do. The quiet didn't bother him, because it was clear, not the muffled white noise he had become so accustomed to in London that he had forgotten it was there until he was away from it.
As time went on, he woke France up (by holding Fifi up to his face until her sniffing, 'kissing' and biting roused him) and the two of them headed back. Britain wasn't going to take no for an answer today – he was going to cook dinner. He liked to cook, and he thought there was definitely nothing wrong with his cooking, thank you very much. France objected, of course, but he had been cooking every day since he had arrived in the country, for gods' sake! France hovered over him like a clucking hen as he prepared the vegetables, begging him repeatedly to stop, before a loud bang and little pigs squeal interrupted them.
"Go and see what she's done!" Britain ordered "She's your pig!"
"Oui, oui, but for the love of God, don't touch the brisket! It was tres expensive!" France ordered as he left the kitchen.
Britain stuck up his two fingers behind the Frenchman's back and turned to his vegetables. A whole swede would be more than the two of them could eat, so he had to cut it in half – Fifi could eat the rest if he cut it up small. The bastards were difficult to cut when they were raw, so Britain got out his sharpest knife. He made sure his fingers were well out of the way as he put his weight on the knife against the swede. As the knife started to go down, a little pig ran through his feet.
"FUCK!"
"Britain?!"
France bolted back in the kitchen to Britain's sudden cry to pain. His heart stopped – Britain was bathed in blood from a deep cut along his arm: he grabbed a tea towel and desperately pressed it against the wound, but the white flannel quickly dyed bright scarlet.
"This is why you don't have fucking pigs in the fucking house!" Britain screeched angrily at France "Fuck, that hurts!"
France grabbed the phone from his pocket and immediately dialled 999.
Once again, France sat alone in the waiting room, his shirt warm and stained with his friends blood. His heart was in this throat, beating heavily and emptily. He couldn't calm himself down. It had been a while since he had seen that much blood. They may be nations, but they were still flesh. Fragile flesh. Fragile, bleeding flesh.
A nurse gently tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to the here and now. She smiled comfortingly.
"They're just bandaging him up." She told him "It wasn't as bad as it looked, I promise. You can go and sit with him if you like."
France took her up on the offer, finding Britain easily in the small hospital emergency room, who was chatting awkwardly with the nurse who was wrapping his arm. He smiled nervously when he saw France.
"Good lord, man, you look like you've seen a ghost." He teased "Did you lose more blood than I did?"
"All done for you, love." The nurse patted his hand "I'll just get your discharge papers for you."
"Thank you."
The nurse left, and France sat on the bed beside him. Britain laughed to break the silence.
"Had a hell of a time convincing them this was an accident." He admitted, holding up his sore arm "Luckily, they believed me in the end. Hurts like a bitch, I can tell you. Hehehe…"
France didn't laugh. He just stared at Britain.
"Hey, why the long face? You're making me nervous!"
France's azure eyes started to sting. His lower lip quivered and his vision blurred as a painful lump rose in his throat. He didn't try to stop his tears – stifling his emotions wasn't his style, but very little moved him to tears. Britain looked shocked, reaching out for him with his good hand.
"Hey, there…"
Gently, France wrapped his arms around Britain, holding him tight as he buried his face in the messy yellow hair, letting his tears flow. After a moment, he felt Britain's hands gently on his back.
"Hey now, it was just an accident." He tried to sooth "I've been hurt worse than this."
"I know." France sobbed "I know it was an accident. I know, but still…"
He pulled away a little and kissed Britain on the mouth. He felt the smaller man's body stiffen, as it always did when he kissed him, but France wasn't looking for anything erotic, letting the kiss end chastely and putting his head on Britain's shoulder.
"Don't you die on me." He sobbed "Don't you ever die. All that blood. I was so scared. I was so scared."
He gripped Britain tighter. The smaller man sighed and patted his back.
"There, there, it's alright. It's alright."
Aw, poor France :(. Although I don't think we can really blame Fifi - no micro-pig bacon in this fic! So, whats with the title? Believe it or not, I'm a trained teacher of English as a foreign language, and 'water'/'waters' is exactly the type of thing people learning English HATE. I don't blame them. A short chapter for your enjoyment, next time is the world conference. I don't think this story will got on for too many new chapters, since there's only so much I can say on the subject without repeating myself or getting ridiculous. Hope you enjoy and see you soon!