Chapter Text
England is back to sitting at his desk, although he’s not even pretending to deal with paperwork. Instead he watches the hours tick by slowly on the grandfather clock across the room. Last night—this morning?—he’d received the call from the French government at four am. It’s now closing in on three, which means the day of the spell is almost at an end.
His eyelids feel heavy, but sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. England props his elbow up on the table and lays his chin against his hand, gnawing on his lower lip as he thinks through the events of the day. He trusts Titania and Puck implicitly. Not because they are particularly trustworthy, but because he has known them as long as he has existed, and they know better than to permanently damage the balance of the world by leaving France as a child.
And yet, when England thinks of that child, he feels a pang of regret. France, in their youth, had been overbearing, arrogant, saccharinely affectionate, condescending, and simply irritating. He hadn’t grown out of any of those qualities, except that his affection had become bitter and patronizing as time went on. And England preferred it that way, because he at least knew that he and France were equally matched in their hatred of one another.
Now, he thinks of a bouquet of roses and a letter tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, and doesn’t know what to make of anything.
“Honestly, Albion, if you keep scowling like that your face really will be stuck that way.”
England doesn’t need to look up to know that Puck has appeared in the room. So he yawns, and says, “Is it done?”
“You know, I could stick your face like that, just to teach you a lesson. I’ve done it before, it’s quite popular at parties!”
“Robin,” England says, “is it done?”
He feels Puck settle on the desk, legs swinging. “Of course it’s done. Her Majesty never makes an oath she won’t keep! And neither do I, though that’s why I tend not to make very many oaths.”
“You’re giving me a headache,” England grouses.
“Lucky for you, that’ll distract you from your heartache!”
Puck is England’s oldest friend, and that is why England doesn’t reach over to strangle him. He does, however, turn away and mutter, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Puck’s heels continue to knock against the desk drawers. “Tsk, tsk, Albion. It’s not smart to lie to a faerie. But first let me tell you that your dear Frenchman is now properly old and mature once more, asleep in that gaudy Parisian apartment as though nothing ever happened at all. Aren’t you glad? You know, you’re lucky Her Majesty didn’t want to keep him. She does love pretty boys.”
“France isn’t pretty,” England gets out between clenched teeth. His hands are clenched, too, into white-knuckled fists against his knees.
“Yes,” Puck says airily, “that’s the takeaway, here. Not the fact that he loves you, or that he told you so, both as a child and an adult. Or the fact that you missed what you had with him as a child, and that’s what you were dreaming about when all of this began.”
Now England does turn to look at the faerie, mouth hanging open as he tries to decide which preposterous statement to address first. But all he manages to say is, “S-shut up! You’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”
Puck leans back on his hands, shaking his head. “Please stop lying to yourself, Albion. It’s very unbecoming. We raised you better than that!”
“You didn’t raise me at all!”
The faerie turns to him and grins, eyes glowing an eerie yellow-gold. “That’s right. Because you know, as well as I do, what we fae are. We are a manifestation of the magic of this land. We are part of the land of Albion.”
“Puck,” England says pleadingly, “Please stop.”
But Puck shakes his head, leans forward so that his forehead is almost touching England’s. “We’re a part of you, Albion, whether you like it or not. We act on your whims, and your desires. So if you’re ever going to get past this, at least admit that you wanted to see the little frog, again.”
England swallows convulsively. He doesn’t… he didn’t… he hates France. Every France, from Roman times to the present day. But even as he thinks it, he sees France clinging to his arm, smiling at him, kissing his face and looking eagerly after him. There can be no doubting France’s sincerity, at least as a child. But still…
“I’m scared,” England breathes.
“Well, at least you’re nation enough to admit it,” Puck says consolingly. He pats England on the head, ruffling his hair like he used to when England was a child. But when England looks up again, he’s alone in the room. Puck is gone.
England sits alone in the darkness for a moment longer, but he finally has to admit defeat. Sighing heavily, he carries himself off to bed.
He’s lucky that Paris is a commutable distance away, because he wakes up late the next morning and is almost tardy for the second day of the world meeting. He’d received an email at seven am from one Mademoiselle Axelle, containing a revised schedule and not speaking to why there’d been so many delays the previous day. England has to hand it to Axelle—if anyone’s handled this entire thing right, it’s been her.
Still, there’s a nervous current sparking under his skin as he steps into the meeting room. Like the previous day, the other nations are milling about and waiting for the conference to begin. India waves to England from one side of the room, and Portugal looks at him with a raised brow as England yawns and rubs a hand over his face. This is normal, he tells himself. He can deal with this. He’s the bloody United Kingdom of himself and several other lands, he can damn well get through one meeting—
And there’s France. He’s standing at the head of the room, lips curved into that knowing smile. His hair is tied back with a length of ribbon, and he’s wearing a wine-colored shirt under his suit jacket that makes his complexion look creamy. There’s a leather portfolio held in his hand—the case of his tablet, England realizes.
He’s standing at the center of a semi-circle, Spain and the Italies around him. He looks up from his conversation and catches England’s eye. For a moment, England isn’t sure how to respond, but then France crooks a finger and beckons him over.
England scowls fiercely and marches towards him, chin in the air.
“Ah, Angleterre,” France says as he steps closer. “I was just telling Espagne here that you were so helpful, yesterday. Or so my assistant tells me. Can you believe I slept through an entire meeting? Preparations must’ve tired me out more than I realized. And a man does need his beauty sleep, non?”
For a moment England can’t process France’s barrage of words. He looks to Spain, who just shakes his head very subtly. And then it dawns on England—France doesn’t remember. And for whatever reason, Spain and the others are fine keeping it that way.
He grimaces. “Too bad even a day’s sleep couldn’t help you, frog.” Even as he says it, he’s distracted by the line of France’s throat, the way his shirt is unbuttoned at the top to reveal just a glimpse of his skin. Infuriating bastard.
France looks at him for a moment—and god, what a difference nine hundred years has made to his eyes. They aren’t clear and sky blue any longer, but dark and fathomless. England isn’t sure what that look means.
“Anyway!” he says, throwing back his head and forcing a laugh, “Some of us have actual work to do. If you’ll excuse me.”
He shuffles away to his seat, fairly throwing himself down into his chair. It’s only when he looks up again that he notices the vase of flowers by the window—red and white roses, turned to catch the sun.
The day passes very slowly, after that. India gives a talk on economic expansion that England’s only half listening to, even though it heavily involves him. Then Vietnam gets up to speak and he doesn’t even know what she says. At lunch break, England avoids France and gobbles down his sandwich in the furthest corner of the room, as far away as he can be from those damn roses.
“You look like you’re about to explode,” America comments blithely.
“You look like I’m about to smack you if you don’t shut up,” England replies around bites of sandwich.
But even America and Canada say that if France doesn’t realize what happened yesterday, maybe that’s for the best.
“After all,” Canada murmurs. “It’s not like you two need something else to fight about, right?”
England wonders if Canada’s always had that hidden bite to his tone, or if it’s something he’s mustered up for today in particular.
The last session of the day is England’s scheduled timeslot. He gathers up his papers and heads to the front of the room, walking with his head held high as he always does. But when he gets to the podium his mouth goes dry, and he stares down at his notes like they’re in a foreign language.
His eyes scan the room and land, unbidden, on France. The other man is leaning forward in his chair, looking at England expectantly. When he catches his eye, he leans back and smiles. It isn’t a suggestive smile, or a mocking one. No, it’s pure and sincere and encouraging. It’s the way France used to look at him when he was hacking away at logs with his sword.
England’s heart abruptly drops out of his chest, so far away that he can’t even feel it beating. Somehow, he clears his throat and begins to speak. He’s been working on this presentation for weeks, and the words come easily once he’s gotten started. He even manages to get in a jab at Germany, which he always counts as a victory.
He takes his seat again and leans back in his chair. As France gets up to give the closing remarks, England stares at his hands, and wonders.
The others file out of the room quickly. Belgium and Monaco are taking Vietnam, Taiwan, and Mexico sight-seeing; Veneziano leaves with Germany; America throws an arm around Canada’s shoulders and marches him off for a drink, undoubtedly; Spain leaves with his brother and Romano.
“Are you planning on sleeping in my conference hall, Angleterre?”
England looks up abruptly to find France’s face inches from his own. He squeaks, throws out a hand and scoots back two feet in his chair. His palm smacks into France’s chin, and the other man curses and steps back, affronted.
“What on earth was that for?” France demands.
“Don’t sneak up on me! Have some decorum, honestly!” England crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at France.
“Oh, don’t start,” France says tiredly. “I was just going to ask you a question, rosbif.”
“So? Ask it.”
“Would you like to come see the tower?” France is looking at him with a veiled expression, no hint of entendre in his words.
“What?”
“Yesterday, when I asked, you said ‘later.’ It is now, I believe, later. So, are you coming?”
“Yesterday…” England bites his tongue. Yesterday, France was a child. And England had said that they’d go see the Eiffel Tower when they had time.
“Angleterre?”
“Yes,” England says. “Let’s go.”
They’re silent as they walk across Paris’ streets in the dimming light. France walks with a practiced elegance, waving to his citizens and expertly dodging crowded streets. England trails along behind him, hands shoved into his pockets as he tries to organize his thoughts.
France speaks to the ticket counter once they arrive, and England goes to stand directly under the tower. He’s never much cared for its style or imposing height, and he certainly doesn’t celebrate the revolution it commemorates. But it’s so much a part of France now that England can’t imagine a world without it.
(He can’t imagine a world without France, this France, either.)
France returns with two tickets, but they get around the line and squeeze into the elevator that carries them up into the skyline. England is still pursing his lips and starting at his hands, and France has turned away from him to watch their ascent.
They step out into the warm Paris air, and France leans again the railing and looks out on his city. England stands there for an awkward moment, and then clears his throat.
“So. You remember.”
France turns to him with a wan smile. “I have not slept more than four hours straight since the Great War,” he confides. “But it was easy to tell the others that, and avoid the questions.”
“And you don’t have questions?” England demands. “For god’s sake, you thought it was the twelfth century! You thought Eleanor was still your queen!”
France leans back on the railing now, shrugging. “I was not wrong. Merely misplaced, in time.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It all seems rather like a dream,” France admits. “I can remember it, but I do not feel as though I lived it, really. And why worry? Then I’d have frown lines, like you.”
England rolls his eyes skyward. “Why do I even try talking to you,” he mutters.
“Oh?” France arches a brow. “Is that what we’re doing? Because honestly, Angleterre, from where I’m standing I have talked, and you’ve said nothing in return.”
He can’t pretend not to know what France is referring to. In that way, Puck had been absolutely right. France has said what he needs to, time and again. And England has withheld his own answers.
He looks down at his feet. “Did you mean it?”
“Please be more specific, Angleterre, I cannot tell you the headache I have—”
“What you said, yesterday! And all those years ago! And in the card! All the things you say, and keep saying. Do you fucking mean them?”
France tilts his head up and smiles at England indulgently. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along England’s brow. “See? Worry lines. You need to stop thinking so much, cher.”
“Stop that,” England says, swatting France’s hand away. “Answer the question.”
France sighs, leaning back further. “I do not know how to convince you of my sincerity. But yes, I mean them. I always have.”
England chokes and steps back. “How? I don’t—how can you always be so sure? We’ve done, we’ve done so many things to each other, France! I’ve thrown you down in the mud and stepped on you just to prove I could! How can you just ignore that?”
The other man blinks at him. And, for a moment, his eyes don’t look so different from his younger self’s—they are open, and sincere, and affectionate. “Oh, Angleterre,” he says. “I ignore nothing. I remember each and every moment that has passed between us. I do not love you in spite of that.”
England sucks in his breath, and waits.
“I love you because of it, our history. It is a part of you, and a part of me, and I do not regret it. La vie c’est pour s’aimer, et non pour s’ennuyer.”
England doubles over as laughter bubbles out of him, blurring into sobs. He’s shaking, entirely out of control, but he can’t regain any sense of himself until he feels a warm presence beside him, and strong arms around him.
“I was so sure you hated me,” England confesses, pressing into France’s side and hiding his face. “And it was easier, wasn’t it, for me to hate you. You stupid—you terrible—you absolutely infuriating—” He cuts himself off with laughter and tears.
“You must be much more stressed than I thought,” France says, holding onto him. “You’ve gone quite mad, Angleterre.”
“I hate that you’re so sure!” England says to him. “Always, about all your feelings! In me, they just slosh around and I don’t know what to do with them, until I’ve hit someone or slept it off or gotten drunk.”
“We all know you’re terribly uncivilized, cher. But that’s not an answer.”
“I wanted it to be like it was, before!” England says. “Just, just like it was. When I could come visit, and you’d be happy to see me! And you’d care about the things I told you, and you’d tell me secrets, too. And even when you annoyed me I still thought—I still thought you were beautiful! And now you’re—now your bloody shirt is unbuttoned and you know what you’re doing, don’t you? You know exactly what!”
France smirks. “Peut-être. But you know, you can come visit. Whenever you’d like.”
“It wouldn’t be the same!”
“I know.” France strokes his graceful fingers through England’s hair. “It can’t be, can it? We’re not children, anymore.”
“I still feel like it, sometimes,” England mutters. He thinks of Puck’s smirks, and his own inability to understand himself. It’s deeply frustrating.
“Then embrace it,” France suggests. “Don’t pretend you’re some deskbound government official, always so proper. Be a child. Relax. Let yourself enjoy this long life of yours.”
There’s a moment of silence between them, as England mulls this over. Could it really be so easy? Could he just… let go?
“I’ll tell you a secret,” France says.
England looks up at him and nods.
“Nothing makes me happier than seeing you laugh.” He runs his thumb along England’s cheeks, rubbing away the tear tracks. “It’s very beautiful, even when you’re being wicked instead of kind.”
England swallows, and then, unbidden, he laughs. His mouth stretches to a smile before he can stop it, and then he wraps his arms around France and hides his chuckles in the hollow of the other’s throat.
“How can you say such stupid things so easily,” he wonders.
“I’m thoroughly inspired.”
“But what about—the promise! The one from when we were children! You were so angry, when you realized we hadn’t kept it.” And even though he can’t change that, he can’t stand the thought that he’s broken a promise.
“Oh, you foolish man,” France says, rolling his eyes. Before England can retort, France just shakes his head. “We are more connected now that we have ever been, don’t you think? Our governments cooperate, our people visit one another. It only takes two and a half hours to reach my heart, from yours.”
“So what?” England says, though his ears are turning red.
“So? So, I consider your promise fulfilled. We have been allies for a long time, cher. For us, isn’t that as close as it gets to marriage?”
Neither of them move for a moment, even though they’re positioned awkwardly. Then, England takes a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“What?” France asks.
“You said I hadn’t given you an answer. Well, that’s it. Yes.”
France pulls away, and England can tell he’s fighting back a smile. He can tell, because he can read France better than anyone, when he lets himself.
“Yes, what?” France says, and it’s teasing and nervous all at once.
“Yes, I love you, you great stupid frog,” England grits out. He grabs for France, one hand against the back of his neck and the other at his shoulder. He presses forward and pulls France close, sealing their lips together with singular intent.
Even this could grow to be familiar, England thinks distantly. France sets his hands on England’s hips, holding him close as they press their lips together again and again. The city of Paris lights up beneath them as England shifts a leg between France’s and tugs at his hair.
France is the first to break away, smiling brightly. “Does this mean you’ll accept my invitation to dinner?”
England does accept. He makes minimal comments about the virtues of French cuisine, and somehow they find themselves talking for hours. France hails a cab for them when they’re through, and England, overcome with exhaustion, falls asleep with his head against France’s shoulder.
France eases him down until England’s head is resting in his lap. As they drive through Paris, France cards his fingers through England’s hair and looks at the hand-drawn portraits he’s tucked away into the leather case of his tablet.
And when they reach his home, and England wakes grumpy and irritable, it is very much like when they were children. Except—it is also somehow better.
(Someday soon, they will dance together in England’s forests at midsummer, laughing like children. And England will ask France a question that he’s held close to his chest for almost ten centuries. France, who is always sure, will say yes.)