The sun was beginning its slow climb into the sky, casting a golden hue across the lush gardens of Versailles. Inside one of the many rooms of the grand estate, all was still and quiet, save for the gentle rustling of fabric as England stirred in bed.
He blinked sleepily at the morning light filtering gently through the grand curtains of the Versailles guest chambers, casting a warm glow across the elegant furniture. The room smelled of lavender and sunlight, a scent that clung to the tapestries and bedding in the grand French palace. Beside him lay France, still fast asleep, his arms wrapped loosely around England's waist. His blond hair fanned out against the pillow, soft and tangled from sleep.
England shifted slightly beneath the luxurious covers, blinking groggily at the unfamiliar surroundings. He wasn't accustomed to staying in such opulence—certainly not with the sound of birdsong filling the air instead of the distant roar of the sea or the earthy scent of the colonies they were used to raising their boys in. But circumstances, as always, had a way of forcing their hand.
They hadn't planned to stay in France for so long. At first, it was only meant to be temporary. The colonies had become more unstable than usual—whispers of unrest among the settlers, tension with the native tribes, and rumours of foreign threats. It had become too risky for Alfred and Matthew to stay there, at least for now. They were too young to be caught up in such conflict. And on top of that, France had argued that life in Versailles offered the boys remarkable lessons — insight into diplomacy, exposure to the arts, and an appreciation for culture— all skills that would serve them well when guiding their colonies in the future.
Arthur had reluctantly agreed. He knew Francis was right; it was safer for them, and while they waited for the situation across the sea to stabilize, the royal court provided a rare opportunity for Alfred and Matthew to learn about European life. Still, as much as he recognized the necessity of their stay, England couldn't shake the tug of their distant lands. He missed the rugged landscapes of their colonies, the smell of fresh pine and saltwater, the open skies that felt free from the weight of European politics.
A soft rustling nearby caught his attention, and England turned to find France stirring slightly. The sight of him—his golden curls tousled and his expression relaxed in the morning light—stirred something warm in England's chest. He couldn't help but smile as France blinked awake, his blue eyes hazy with sleep.
"Morning already?" France murmured, his voice deep and raspy as he stretched, his arms tightening briefly around England's waist before he released him.
Arthur reached over and gently brushed a lock of hair from France's forehead. "Afraid so," he replied softly. "But it's peaceful… we don't have to get up just yet."
Francis let out a contented hum, shifting closer to him. "Ah, mon Lapin, you've grown soft in your old age. Once upon a time, you would've been up and storming the castle gates by now."
England flushed at the familiar old nickname; one France didn't always use. "I'm not that old," he grumbled, though his tone held no real bite. "And stop calling me rabbit". It was a name from so long ago it almost seemed like a dream now. They had been rivals then, always squabbling, yet France had somehow found a way to make even their rivalry affectionate.
"You'll always be my little Lapin," France teased, planting a kiss on the younger man's forehead. His voice dropped into a more serious tone as he added, "And I'll always love you for it."
England's cheeks flushed again, and he buried his face in the crook of France's neck, his heart fluttering with that familiar mix of embarrassment and warmth. The man's affection was unwavering, a constancy that he still found hard to fathom. Even after all these years, he hadn't fully adjusted to the gentle tenderness the Frenchman offered so freely.
They lay there for a few moments longer, wrapped up in each other and in the warmth of the quiet morning and England rested his hand on France's chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. But the lingering knowledge of his impending departure hovered like a shadow in the back of his mind. He would have to return back home soon—sooner than he wanted to admit. He surmised France knew it too, though neither of them had spoken about it directly.
Francis, observant as ever, seemed to sense the change in Arthur's mood. He shifted beside him, studying his face before his hand reached out to gently brush a stray lock of blond hair from England's forehead.
"You've been quiet," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with affection. "Is it your brother again?" he asked gently.
England exhaled slowly, his breath catching at how easily he had seen through him. "How did you—"
France smiled knowingly, his hand coming to rest on England's cheek. "Mon cher, I've known you far too long not to recognize when something is troubling you. And I know that look. You've always worn it when it has to do with… him."
"Yes," England finally admitted, leaning into the other's touch. "It's only a matter of time before I'm officially summoned back. There are tensions and issues I should deal with. I can't ignore it forever."
France's eyes softened as he stroked England's cheek, his thumb tracing slow, comforting circles. "It's always Écosse, isn't it?" he said, his tone tinged with both amusement and sympathy. "You two never find peace."
England scoffed lightly, though his lips quirked into a small, rueful smile. "Yeah, you could say that, we never do."
Sensing the need to steer the conversation in a lighter direction, France sighed quietly before leaning in to place a tender kiss on his cheek. "You'll have to leave soon, won't you?"
England swallowed, the weight of those words settling in his chest like a stone. "I don't want to," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost ashamed. "But yes. I'll have to."
"I wish we could stay here forever," he added, murmuring it before he could stop himself. A gentle yearning lingered within him, to remain by France's side, nestled in the serene world they had crafted with Alfred and Matthew.
France raised an eyebrow and smirked playfully. "Stay in Versailles forever? Angleterre, you do surprise me. What, no longing for the open sea? No yearning to return to your rainy island?"
England furrowed his thick eyebrows, pretending to be offended. "I suppose I didn't mean it quite like that," he muttered, though the wistfulness lingered in his voice. "It's just peaceful, I guess."
France hummed, his teasing fading into a more thoughtful expression. "It is, oui," he agreed. "And it has its advantages. The boys are learning more here than they could back in the colonies, you know. This place has much to teach them. They're growing into the leaders they'll need to be one day."
England frowned slightly. "You mean they're learningFrenchways," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. "I'm half afraid they'll forget their English heritage."
"Ah, no way," France grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Versailles is a place of refinement. It's good for them to learn diplomacy, to see how the Old World operates. They will take that knowledge back to their colonies one day. They will need these lessons, even if they don't realize it yet."
England let out a quiet huff, but there was no real protest behind it. France's words held truth—there was undeniable value in what the boys were learning here. "I suppose you're right. It's just… I miss the colonies. The freedom of it. The sea."
France's smile softened. "I know, mon Lapin. And we'll go back when things settle down." He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to England's lips. "Let's just enjoy this while we can," he whispered before falling silent, his fingers threading gently through England's hair in soothing motions.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was warm, comforting. "You'll come back, won't you?" France asked softly, almost as if reading Arthur's thoughts.
England shifted, pulling back just enough to look at France's face. "Of course I will. I'm just… delaying the inevitable, I suppose. But I'll come back as soon as possible."
"You'd better," France replied, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Because I don't plan to raise these boys without you."
A faint smile touched England's lips, and with it, the weight in his chest eased remarkably. "They'd be in a sorry state without my discipline."
Shaking his head, Francis laughed softly. "Ah, but they would have all the pastries they could ever dream of."
They shared a quiet laugh, and without a word, France leaned down to kiss England once more, this time slow and lingering, as if trying to hold onto this moment for just a little longer.
Then, he pulled back slightly. "Let's not think about that now."
England smiled faintly and nodded, grateful to set aside the thought of leaving, even if only for a little while. He relaxed into the warmth of the bed, his body unwinding under France's gentle touch.
"Wait here," Franis said suddenly, sitting up and slipping out of bed with the effortless grace that was so uniquely his. He stretched lazily, the soft morning light catching the golden strands of his hair.
England raised a thick eyebrow. "Where are you going?"
The taller man smiled over his shoulder, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "I know you'll miss me, but I'll be right back. Stay in bed."
With that, he disappeared out of the room, leaving England alone in the luxurious warmth of their shared bed. He lay back, closing his eyes and enjoying the rare moment of peace. The thought of having to leave, of returning to the constant pressures of his position, faded into the background as the minutes passed.
Soon enough, France returned, balancing a silver tray in his hands. With his legs tangled in the sheets, Arthur sat up slightly, curiosity piqued as France made his way back to the bed and carefully placed the tray between them. On the tray were fresh croissants, warm and golden, alongside a pot of tea, a small dish of butter, and a delicate bowl of fresh fruit.
"Voilà, mon cher. I thought we might enjoy a quiet breakfast in bed before the little ones wake up," France said with a smile, settling back onto the bed beside England who blinked, surprised by the gesture, but his heart warmed instantly at the thoughtfulness behind it. "France…"
"Don't worry," France said, reaching for one of the soft croissants and tearing it in half. "The boys can have their breakfast when they wake. For now, I want you all to myself."
"You spoil me too much," England mumbled.
France chuckled, his blue eyes softening. "Of course, mon amour. And I intend to spoil you for as long as you'll let me."
In a tranquil stillness, they delighted in the sweetness of ripe fruit and buttery croissants, their tea mingling with the soft air around them. The bustle of the outside world receded into a distant memory, leaving just the two of them.
Arthur couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at his lips. "You're far too romantic for your own good."
France grinned, offering him another croissant. "And you love me for it."
England took it, sinking his teeth into its golden, flaky layers, relishing the rich, buttery flavour that melted in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, glancing at France from the corner of his eye. "I suppose I do," he muttered, though his smile betrayed his affection.
France chuckled softly. "You're terribly adorable when you're being coy."
England blushed but didn't protest, too content to argue.
As they finished their small breakfast, England leaned back against the pillows, feeling a content warmth settle over him. He reached for Frances' hand, threading their fingers together as they sat there in the soft glow of the morning light.
"I wish every morning could be like this," he murmured softly.
France smiled and squeezed his hand. "So do I, mon amour. So do I."
For a few more moments, they stayed like that, soaking in the quiet intimacy before the day inevitably called them back to reality. Suddenly, however, a familiar sound of footsteps approached the door. England sighed, and France let out a soft chuckle.
"Here they come," Francis said with a knowing smile.
As if on cue, the door to their room creaked open, and a small, tousled head poked through the gap. It was Matthew, still half-asleep, clutching his stuffed bear tightly to his chest. His wide violet eyes blinked up at them, and he shifted nervously in the doorway.
"Papa? Père?" he whispered, his voice soft and uncertain.
England sat up straight immediately, his expression softening. "Canada, love, come here."
The little boy padded over to the bed, his small feet making barely a sound on the polished wooden floor. England scooted over, making room for him as he climbed up onto the bed between them. France smiled warmly at the sight, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
"Did you have a bad dream, mon petit?" France asked him.
Matthew shook his head, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. "Non… I just wanted to be with you."
Arthur's heart melted at the simple statement, and he exchanged a soft look with France. "You're always welcome here," he murmured, pulling the boy into his arms.
Matthew snuggled into the embrace, letting out a contented sigh as he rested his head against England's chest. France reached over to tuck the blanket around him, his movements gentle and careful.
For a moment, the three of them sat there, wrapped in the soft warmth of the morning light. It was the sound of hurried footsteps that shattered the peace, and seconds later, the door was completely swung open, revealing Alfred's bright, energetic face.
"Good morning!" Alfred shouted, bouncing into the room with far more energy than anyone should have had at this hour.
England winced, glancing down at Matthew, who grimaced at the sudden noise but remained curled up against him. "America, must you always make an entrance like that?"
"Alfred," France said in a tone that was far more amused than scolding. "You're going to give your brother a fright."
The boy, grinning from ear to ear, ignored the mild chastisement and scrambled up onto the bed with all the grace of a tornado. He squeezed himself between the older nations, not caring in the least that he was disrupting the peaceful scene.
"Are we having breakfast yet?" he asked, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm starving!"
England smiled fondly at the boy's boundless energy. "Yes, sweetheart. We'll have breakfast soon."
He exchanged a helpless glance with France, who merely chuckled in response. "I suppose that's our cue to start the day," he said, before turning to Matthew, who had burrowed further into England's arms to avoid his brother's energetic antics.
"Do you want to help me make breakfast?" France asked America, knowing full well that offering him something to do would keep the boy occupied.
Alfred's eyes lit up. "Yeah! Can we have a honey cake?"
"Mais oui, mon petit, but only if you promise to help."
England watched the interaction with a fond smile, his hand caressing the hair of a sleepy Canada. He could hear the muffled protests as the young colony shifted, trying to wake himself up fully. "I want to help too," he said softly, his voice barely audible over his brother's exuberant chatter.
Alfred's eyes lit up. "Yes! Can I prepare it?"
England chuckled at the boy's enthusiasm. "Only if you promise not to get batter everywhere this time."
Alfred grinned, clearly not making any promises. "I'll try!"
They spent the next hour in the grand kitchen, a soft hum of rare domesticity settling over the four of them. France and England worked in tandem, preparing the ingredients while the little boys helped—or tried to help, in Alfred's case. The scent of the honey cake wafted through the hall of Versailles, a warm and inviting aroma that carried the sweet, floral notes of golden honey, mingling with the rich warmth of freshly baked dough. As they sat down for breakfast together, the sun now fully risen and the day stretching out before them, England felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him. These were the moments he cherished most—the simple, quiet moments of family and love, far removed from the weight of his responsibilities.
After breakfast, they took a leisurely stroll through the lush gardens of Versailles, the boys running ahead, chasing each other through the neatly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds. England and France walked behind, and England grabbed France's hand brushing them together as they walked, the warm sunlight bathing them in its golden glow.
Arthur glanced at him sideways, taking in the way the light played on his longer hair tied back in a ponytail, the soft smile that graced his lips as he watched the boys.
"I'll miss this," he said quietly, his voice soft but sincere.
Francis turned to him, his blue eyes softening with understanding. "I know," he replied, squeezing his hand.
After a while, England lifted his gaze to the now cloudy sky. "It looks like it's going to rain."
France shook his head, a hint of playful defiance in his expression. "No way, Angleterre."
The other rolled his eyes in response. "I assure you, I'm quite the expert on such matters."
Indeed, the golden morning did eventually give way to an overcast sky, and as they continued their walk through the gardens, the first drops of rain began to fall. They were soft at first—barely more than a drizzle—but soon enough, the clouds thickened, and the rain came down in earnest, drenching the lush green lawns and rose bushes that lined their path.
At that, France chuckled, "I guess all that gloomy weather has sharpened your instincts."
England scowled. "We should head back before we're caught in a downpour."
America, of course, was delighted by the sudden change in weather and immediately began running through the rain, his arms spread wide as if to catch every drop. "Come on! It's just a little rain!" he shouted, laughing as he zigzagged through the puddles forming on the path.
Canada, wishy-washy but no less curious, looked up at them with wide eyes. "Shouldn't we go inside?" he asked.
France nodded. "Yes, we should. Your brother will catch a cold if he keeps this up."
England sighed, watching as America continued to run ahead, oblivious to the rain soaking through his clothes. "He's always been like that, hasn't he? Never stays still for long."
"Just like you were," France replied with a smirk. "Always running off into the woods or picking fights with me over nothing."
England's cheeks flushed, and he shot him a glare. "I didn't pick me."
"Oh, mon Lapin, you were so easy to provoke," France said with a soft laugh. He stepped closer, slipping his arm around England's slim waist. "Still are, I think."
England opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, a loud clap of thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain began to pour even harder, soaking them all in seconds.
"Come on, boys, inside!" he called, taking Matthew's hand and starting to lead him back toward the palace. "We'll catch our deaths out here."
Alfred grumbled but reluctantly followed, running to catch up with them as they hurried back inside. By the time they made it back to the palace, they were all drenched. The grand hallways of Versailles felt almost too large and cold after the warmth of the garden, but the little ones were in high spirits despite the rain. Matthew wriggled out of his damp coat and sat on the nearest bench while Alfred immediately plopped down next to him, shaking his wet hair like an overenthusiastic dog.
"Stop that!" Arthur exclaimed, trying to dodge the water droplets flying from Alfred's hair.
France laughed as he shook out his own hair, though with far more elegance than Alfred. "Come, let's get you two into something dry," he said, ushering the boys down the corridor toward their chambers.
Once the fire had been lit in the sitting room, they all gathered together, the rain still pouring outside. With a soft sigh, England nestled against France on the plush sofa, while Alfred sprawled cross-legged on the rug before the hearth, and Matthew curled up beside him. The flickering firelight danced around them, casting warm shadows on their features.
After a while, America broke the silence. "Can you tell us a story?"
His brother perked up at the suggestion, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Yeah, can you? Maybe about when you were young?"
France and England exchanged a glance, a smile tugging at the corners of their lips. It wasn't the first time the boys had asked them for stories of their youth—Alfred in particular had a fascination with hearing about the "old days," as he liked to call them.
"Ah, you want to hear about when we were young, do you?" France asked, his voice teasing. "I'm not sure your father would want you to know how much of a rascal he was back then."
England shot him a look. "I wasn't the rascal. That was you."
Alfred's eyes lit up with excitement. "What did you do? Did you have adventures? Did you fight each other?"
With a light-hearted chuckle, France shook his head. "Oh, we fought all the time, mon petit. But it wasn't always serious."
England leaned back against the sofa, a fond, distant look in his eyes. "We've known each other a very long time. Too long, perhaps. We've been through wars, peace treaties, and everything in between."
"But what was it like when you were young?" Canada asked quietly, his wide eyes fixed on the older countries. "Before we were here?"
France smiled and reached for England's hand, intertwining their fingers. "Oh, when we were young, he was quite the troublemaker."
England rolled his eyes but didn't pull away from the touch. "You always tell it that way, but you were the one who caused all the real trouble. Always sneaking into my lands, stealing my things…"
"I was merelyvisiting," France said with a grin. "And besides, you were always so angry. It was adorable."
England flushed, feeling the warmth of embarrassment and undeniable affection wash over him. "You were insufferable."
France chuckled, brought England's hand close to his lips and kissed his knuckles, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "You loved me even then, admit it."
The other huffed but couldn't suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips. "You're impossible."
"Tell us more!" America urged; his eyes wide with anticipation. "Did you fight in wars? Did you win?"
Arthur sighed but nodded. "Yes, we fought in wars. Many of them. But not all the time. There were moments of peace, too. Moments when we… well, when we were closer than rivals."
Francis smirked. "Indeed. I remember one winter in particular when we weren't fighting. We were young, barely more than boys ourselves, and it was the first time we really spent time together."
"It was… a long time ago," England murmured.
Alfred leaned forward, eager for more details. "What happened?"
A thoughtful look crossed France's face as he leaned back against the sofa, a soft, nostalgic expression lighting up his fine features. His gaze drifted toward the flickering flames, lost in the dance of the firelight. Then, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, drawing all of them closer with the energy of his excitement. "It was a cold winter, much more than this one. There was snow everywhere, and we had both been ordered by our kings to cease fighting for a time," his voice lowered softly as he recalled the memory. I found England alone in the forest. He was trying to light a fire, but his hands were shaking from the cold."
England glared at him, but the warmth in his green eyes revealed the opposite. "I would have managed just fine on my own, as always."
"Perhaps," France allowed with a smirk, "but I offered to help. And, begrudgingly, he accepted. We built the fire together, and for the first time, we talked. Really talked."
England looked down at his hands, the memory as vivid as ever. He remembered the snow falling gently around them, the fire crackling softly between them as they sat in silence at first, the tension of years of fighting still hanging over them. But then, somehow, the conversation had begun, and they'd talked through the night—about everything and nothing, about their rulers, their lands, their dreams.
"I never thought we'd become friends," he admitted softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Francis's gaze softened as he looked at Arthur, pulling him closer. "Neither did I. But we did."
America's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open in awe. "That's so cool! You became friends even after fighting?"
Canada, quieter and more thoughtful, looked up at curious eyes. "But… you weren't always friends, right?"
England shook his head. "No, we weren't. We fought many times after that, but something changed that night. We started to see each other differently, I suppose."
France pressed a soft kiss to England's cheek. "It was the beginning of something beautiful, mon Angleterre. Even if we didn't know it at the time."
"And look at us now," France continued, his voice soft and affectionate. "Raising two wonderful boys together. Who would have thought?"
While the rain painted the landscape in muted tones, the air inside was rich with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the warmth of shared moments shielded them from the dreariness outside. America, ever eager, began peppering them with more questions, while Canada listened quietly, his eyes shining with quiet admiration for them.
England glanced at France, their hands still intertwined, and smiled. Despite everything, they had found their way here, to this moment. Together.
And for now, that was all that mattered.
comments would be lovely!