Dark tails rustling, the carriage mares stomp their hooves as their driver dismounts, hobbling off to stretch his legs, so he claims. England sighs, snapping his timepiece shut for the fourth time in the past half hour. It is getting late; Canada should have returned by now.
"Where on earth is he?" England mutters, crossing his arms.
France glances up from his diversion – petting the horses – to smile. "Are you sure you would not like another cigarette?"
"Quite sure. I'd rather not turn myself into a chimney stack, thank you."
"Say what you like, but they do a wonderful job at quieting the nerves."
"Perhaps, but so does having your ward return on time."
"Is he normally punctual these days?" France inquires, giving the mares one last scratch behind their ears before stepping away and dusting off his hands. "From what I recall, he was a very sleepy and distracted boy. I often caught him staring off into space during his French lessons."
"No, not exactly. He's more often late than he isn't."
Canada's tardiness is one of his few bad habits, and try as he may, England could never break it. Considering that it is never more than a nuisance in peacetime – and that the habit vanishes in serious adversity – this little fault is easy enough to tolerate, most days. But occasionally, it needles England's mind and plays up silly anxieties that he would rather stay buried in the memories of his own tumultuous adolescence, when absence oftentimes meant tragedy.
France shrugs. "If it is his nature, then there is nothing to fret. He will come once he realises the time."
No sooner does England open his mouth to retort than he spots a jogging figure in the distance. Coming round the deserted street corner, blonde curls bouncing in the amber lamplight, shoes slapping against the dark cobblestone, is Canada at last. England's quip, whatever it was, dissolves to a sigh that hopefully portrays aggravation rather than relief.
"I'm sorry I'm late!" Canada says, panting as he arrives.
"And here he is," France happily announces. "Welcome back, cher! How was the performance?"
"It was very well done," Canada gasps, regaining his breath. "The costumes were wonderful. But really, I am sorry for taking so long. After the show, people were chatting and somehow, I was roped into a conversation with one of the performers. I didn't want to be rude, and I wasn't sure how to excuse myself, so..."
England manages not to roll his eyes. There is always a frivolous explanation that follows Canada's tardiness. 'I forgot to eat breakfast and became distracted when I walked by the bakery!' he said once. 'My citizens were handing out pamphlets and I couldn't just ignore them,' he claimed another time. Perhaps it is the rural nature of his land – his ample countryside that fosters a lackadaisy temperament. Regardless, England waits for the story to finish, so he can chastise his ward properly. Not too much, of course, because no harm has truly been done, but enough to maintain principle this evening, and then forget the affair tomorrow.
He is only half-listening to the babbling sentences, when Canada adjusts his spectacles, and the movement draws England's attention to a puzzling smudge on the side of his face.
"What is that on your cheek?" England interrupts.
Pausing his story, Canada blinks. "Huh?"
It must be dirt. Frowning, England instinctively pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and steps forward. He takes Canada's cool chin, gently tilting it into the dim streetlight, and sees that the mark is an odd, mulberry colour. Could it be a scrape or a bruise? No, surely not.
"Lean down a bit, I need to get a better look."
"Oh, um, all right." Canada bends, lowering his face to England's height, and it becomes obvious that, thankfully, the blemish is just some sort of smear. With a few quick wipes of the handkerchief, England cleans the mark off, then releases his ward's chin. "What is it?"
Inspecting the cloth, England squints. It is a soft, familiar stain; a burst of cherry that shimmers in the light.
"It's... lipstick?"
Canada gasps, eyes bulging. He tenses, shoulders rising to his ears, and glances between his elders. England's mind sticks, thoughts slowing to treacle as he watches Canada's mouth open and shut like a caught fish. An abrupt silence lands among them and stretches for two, three, four or more seconds, it is hard to say. Until England, with an arched brow, finally prompts for more information. "Canada?"
His ward flushes, scarlet blooming across his face, and he gulps. "I can explain that." However, he does not, and another pause settles in.
England controls his voice so that it only climbs one octave instead of three. "Go on, then...?"
"I was, I mean," Canada stammers. "We were, that is, myself and the actress who invited me to the venue... we met again after the show. She was very nice and I was happy to see her once more. Well, of course, she was part of the cast, and I did just see her on stage, but it's a little different after the performance ends, you know? So, um... then we talked, and I might have lost track of the time because... she and I, we... um..."
He looks away, twiddling his thumbs as the blush fills in his neckline. He coughs. "A-and then, she um... she asked that I write to her when I can. She gave me her address and said she would like to stay in touch."
England gapes, at a loss for all words, except one: "Correspondence." He says it deliberately, testing the syllables as they slide past his teeth into the air, into existence.
Nodding, Canada timidly reaches into his pocket and reveals a folded slip of rose stationery. The address of one 'Mademoiselle Aline Félix' is written in elegant cursive, flowery infatuation practically wafting off the paper and confirming that indeed, this was no dizzying hallucination. Canada is – has become – an adult, at long last.
Good Lord...
"Oh, magnifique," France coos. "Canada, just look at how you have grown. You are a man after my own heart." Smiling, he sighs. "First loves are always special. Oh, but is she your first?"
"Um!" Canada squeaks.
"Ah, never mind, that is not my business. However, I cannot stand idly by when romance is involved; I must share some advice with you!" France is glowing, eyes brimming with excitement, in that manner that England always found quite ridiculous. "Since she has requested your letter, be sure to write it immediately. Do not play waiting games; they never end well. Remember to always treat her with grace, but do not be afraid to show your affection. She should know how much you care for her!"
"R-right," Canada mumbles, lips tight and back bent.
England huffs. "I'm sure he will be perfectly fine with or without your advice."
"Of course, he will," France says. "But sometimes, a bit of extra help is an incredible asset. No?"
"Not in every case, I think," England answers.
"You know," France adds, hand going to his hip, "I remember a time when even you would come to me for romantic advice."
"That was a very long time ago!"
Behind them, a gruff voice excuses itself and England turns to see it is the driver, returning from his break.
"I ask your pardon," he says in a thick accent, "but is everyone ready to depart?"
Belatedly, England notices he has sprung into a rather aggressive stance. "Oh, right, yes." He slackens, banishing that very old, very embarrassing recollection, and adjusts the bunched-up sleeves of his jacket.
The gentleman tips his hat and dutifully hops up into the driver's box, coattails trailing after. England glances back at his rosy ward and inconvenient peer. "We should be off."
France turns to Canada, beaming, and clasps his hand. "Mon coeur, thank you again for coming."
"Oh," Canada mumbles. "I'm glad I could make it. ... um..."
France's expression melts, becoming tender and sympathetic. "There is no need to be ashamed, Canada. But if it helps, I promise I will keep your secret."
Canada sighs and murmurs a "Thank you," before slinking into the carriage with a wave and timid smile.
Then, France and England share a glance. "Go easy, Angleterre," France hums.
"With him?" England wheezes. "I wasn't planning to...! Oh, never mind."
"No, I am not talking about him; I mean yourself."
"Ah." England hesitates, unsure which of the many possible objections to that statement he should choose. Presently, however, he has one foot through the coach door and no compelling urge to argue. Warmth rising past his collar, he levels a mild glare at France and repeats his earlier sentiment. "I think I will find a way to manage."
France chuckles, the corners of his warm eyes crinkling. "Of course. I would not expect anything less."
Mentally shooing any affectionate thoughts, England hops into the stuffy cab. With the door clicking shut and a whinny from the horses, the carriage pulls away. France watches them go, waving easily. A fair figure, shrinking into the distance, left behind by the din of upturned gravel and creaking wheels.
England exhales, full of peculiar emotions he would rather not name, and an awkward heaviness stuck in his shoes.
The bumpy ride is quiet. Canada is fidgeting, avoiding England's gaze, and at a loss for words, England returns the gesture, staring out the cloudy window. Broad avenues curve into winding streets, and he catches glimpses of the old Paris, medieval stone peeking out from under brickwork and soot. The carriage lantern, too yellow and bright, sways in mocking mimicry of a clock's pendulum.
Adulthood.
Canada is a man, no longer a lad. When England imagined this day, he assumed he would be ready to greet it with open arms, but this was a terrible error. In fact, he is, and forever has been, woefully unprepared. Of course, Canada's maturing would happen eventually, but it was meant to be a far-off thing, to be addressed later. Not now, never now! There are still too many things they must discuss, even beyond courtship. Directing economic finances. Good governance. Commanding armies. Because, as England learnt short decades ago, adulthood for those of the New World is more than a mere milestone.
Maturity, for them, leads to autonomy.
England gnaws his lip. Is he daft? Christ in heaven, this matter has been put off for far too long. And now there is no more time for pondering; the inevitable future has arrived at their doorstep.
Where do they go from here?