Chapter Text
England hasn’t enjoyed Midsummer in a long, long time. He can still remember being young, and running over grassy hills and through thick forests with his friends, and feeling the thrum of magic that beat through the heart of his land. The villagers used to take him for a faerie, himself—they’d offer him sweets and flowers as tribute, and he’d take these tokens back to his friends with a childlike smile of triumph. Of course, for the fae, Midsummer was also about mischief. So England would sit back and laugh at the illusions his friends cast or the spells they’d weave, and in the morning it all seemed like good fun and no one was ever much harmed by it.
(“Why are you smiling so wickedly, Angleterre?” France had asked on one such occasion, looking at him sternly.
“None of your business.” England stuck out his tongue and shook his head, and if his friends pulled at France’s tunic and hair or got him lost in the forest, well, it was no more than the frog deserved.)
But those days are long past, now. He is an adult, a respectable nation who doesn’t have much time for engaging in magic and mischief. No, he gets to sit through meetings, and fill out paperwork, and field calls from irate bosses and officials. The world is a less magical place, these days, but it’s not as if England misses the way things were before—at least, not much.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us, Albion?” Puck always sounds teasing. He’s dressed in his Midsummer best, this evening, yet even so England doesn’t spare him a second glance.
“You realize it doesn’t work as it used to, Robin,” he mutters distractedly, pen against his lips as he looks over a pile of documents. “I’m not a child, and there’s hardly any forest or open countryside left.”
“You’re still ours, aren’t you?” Puck’s voice is all innocence, soft and entreating with a smile. “Her Majesty complains she hasn’t seen you in so long—is that any way to treat your friends?”
“Send her my apologies. But I really do have to get through this—”
Puck tuts, pressing small fae hands against England’s cheeks. “You’re growing old before your time, Albion.”
“Once you turn a thousand, you are old.”
“Ha! Tell that to Queen Titania. You’re still just a sapling to her, and me, too. Come on, just come out with us for the night, you’ll enjoy it.”
“Perhaps another time.” England’s barely paying attention, anymore. “I’ve got this briefing to go over, and then a meeting in Paris in the morning. It’s all very tiresome, Robin, it’s not as if I want to do it…”
When England looks up, again, Puck is gone. He doesn’t think much of it, however, because he really does have too much work to get through tonight. He leans back in his chair and wonders when he did get so old, when being England stopped meaning the hills and rivers and started meaning the bureaucracy of Whitehall. There’s nothing to be done about it, he decides as he covers a yawn with the back of his hand. This is his duty, his role in this new kind of world…
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but England wakes to his phone vibrating against the old wood of his desk. Jolting up his in chair, he gropes in the dark for the phone, fingers lingering against the intricate Celtic knots and other carvings on his desk. Still half-caught in a dream, he thinks they glow slightly. In the next moment he’s found his phone, and forgets all about anything else.
It’s the French government on the other line.
“Yes, frog, what the hell do you want at,” he glances over at the clock, “four in the morning?”
“Ah, Monsieur Angleterre?” That isn’t France’s voice. “My apologies for disturbing you, but we have an emergency. And Monsieur France said that if anything like this happened, we should call you.”
“What.” England blinks at his phone, mouth half-open. “Why don’t you put him on the line so I can bloody well tell him how much I care about his emergencies—”
“That’s just it, we can’t,” the Frenchman says with stressed patience. “The emergency involves Monsieur France. So we need your help.”
“I’ll be there in two hours,” England grits out. He’s already shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing for his jacket, when he pauses to think. Things have been as stable as they can be, lately, and France never calls for favors. In fact, the other nation has actually been deliberately distant lately, as far as England can tell. He spends his time with Germany and Belgium, or Spain and Prussia, and doesn’t give England a second glance except to turn up his nose at England’s suits or his diplomatic suggestions. Their governments are closer than ever, but England and France haven’t been this far apart since Waterloo.
And yet, when a call for help comes from France, England simply can’t ignore it. It’s a personal failing that he should really look into correcting, he grumbles to himself as he sits on the Eurostar and feels his own borders giving way to France’s.
The streets of Paris are never wholly quiet, and are still littered with people as England makes his way from the train station to France’s apartment. There are the stragglers from the previous night, women holding onto their heels and half-drunk men humming to themselves, as well as the early risers, bakers opening their shops and joggers getting in their morning exercise.
France’s government had messaged him furiously with more information—no, come to his home, no, the details are a bit delicate and we can’t tell you more, no, no—and so England walks to the apartment that France has lived in since before the world wars. It looks out over Champs-Élysées, with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. England’s standing at France’s door before he realizes he’s forgotten his key.
(“Just in case of emergencies, you know,” France had said with an idle wave of his hand. “You’re closest, don’t get the wrong idea.”
“I don’t want this.” England had clasped his hand around the small brass key, anyway.
“And I suppose,” France continued as though England hadn’t spoken, “if you ever did want to just stop by, cher…”)
England never had stopped by, until now, and there had been no emergencies to prompt his presence. The last time he had been in France’s apartment had been six or seven months ago, after a world meeting in Paris. He’d gotten drunk, and woken up the next morning in France’s bed. Before he could panic, he’d walked out into the sitting room to find France curled up on the couch, hair falling over his forehead, mussed with sleep. He didn’t wait for the five-star breakfast that France doubtlessly would’ve provided him—England fled.
Now, he knocks on the door and waits. It swings open a moment later, revealing a young woman in a fashionable blazer and pencil skirt, looking slightly ruffled.
“Monsieur Angleterre?” she asks, hopefully.
“Er, yes.” He’s not used to being addressed by his name—even translated—by humans who aren’t his. “But you can call me Arthur.”
“Oh no, it’s no worry.” The woman has brightened considerably, and now moves aside to usher him into the apartment. “My name is Axelle, Monsieur France’s assistant. We received a warning about a break in last night, but it wasn’t that. And now we can’t get him to come out.”
“What?” This entire situation is making less and less sense as time goes on. “Start from the beginning. What break in? Who won’t come out, of where?”
“He’s scared,” Axelle says, looking up at England with imploring eyes. “He doesn’t recognize any of us, not even the president. We asked him if we should call Monsieur Allemagne, but he didn’t recognize the name. And then we said we could call you, and he said yes, and now he refuses to come out unless you’re here. Which you are, now, thank you.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” England snaps, “that that tosser got drunk, or something, and now he’s sulking until I arrive to mop him up?”
“Oh, no.” Axelle turns, a step away from France’s bedroom door. “You’ve misunderstood. And Monsieur France would never do something like that, get so drunk.”
“Wouldn’t he,” England mutters under his breath, wondering how France manages to charm every single one of his citizens while England gets henpecked by his own.
“He’s—he’s changed, Monsieur Angleterre. Something has happened to him, and now he’s small and doesn’t remember what’s going on. He’s a child.”
“A child,” England breathes, trying to process. He can’t remember France ever being anything but older than him. He adopted the title of “big brother” very early on in his history, eager to show everyone how worldly, mature and experienced he was. Even as England tries to imagine France as a youth, he still sees him from a lower vantage point—he was always looking up at France, and chasing after the trailing ends of his silken tunics.
Axelle nods, eyes clouded with worry. “I do not understand how things work, for you. I am very honored, and very pleased, to work for Monsieur France, but nothing like this has ever happened before. But he is very small, and very scared, and I think you would be most familiar to him, no? So, please, help us take care of him.”
“Alright, alright, there’s no need to look at me like that!” England’s blushing, and now he crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “Just, let me talk to him, alright?”
Axelle nods again and takes a step back. England wraps his knuckles against the door to France’s bedroom and calls out, sternly, “France, you great stupid frog! Open the damn door!”
There’s silence, for a moment, and then a muffled voice sounds from behind the door. “Who are you?”
Oh, hell. England knows that voice, and the particulars of the language it’s speaking. For a brief, shocking moment, he’s thrown back in time to 1066. He sees France standing over him, smiling and reaching out with a hand.
(“You’re hurt,” the young kingdom had said. “That won’t do, that won’t do. Come, we’ll go find William. It will be alright, mon petit. We will be great allies now, won’t we? I will take care of you.”)
England clears his throat, trying to remember how to form words in Old French. “It’s me, France. England. Something’s happened, but I promise it’s me. Will you open the door?”
“How do I know it is you?” France’s voice is light and breathy, high-pitched and soft. “You do not sound like my Angleterre.”
“I was never your anything, idiot,” England grumbles to himself. But then, he tries again, “Of course I don’t. I’m older—and you should be, too. I promise, I will explain everything if you just open the door.”
“I don’t know you,” France declares, but England hears the uncertain hitch in his voice. “You could be lying to me. I am a great conquering kingdom, I will not be fooled.”
“Of course you are. But I’m not lying. Honestly, would anyone else be standing out here arguing with you about this? If you don’t want me here, I’ll just go home.”
“No!” France answers too quickly, clearly distressed. “Don’t go, please. Just… how can I be sure? Tell me something only Angleterre would know.”
England rolls his eyes heavenward, regretting each and every decision that has led him to this point. But then he recalls another memory, and he sighs. “Do you remember that game we used to—er, still play, in the meadow outside your castle? And the promise we made there, once?” He can only hope that this France isn’t from before that point.
Again, there’s a pause from the other side of the door. Then: “Yes, I remember.”
“And no one else knows about that, do they?”
“No.”
“So will you open the door, France?” The other nation doesn’t answer for long moment. “France?”
“I don’t know how,” France says, his voice sheepish. Then, defensively, “It’s not my fault! The locks don’t look like locks, they don’t work the right way! I don’t know how to open them!”
“Oh, for the love of god.” But England can’t help the small smile that’s pulling at his lips. Opening locks is one of the simplest kinds of magic, and so it’s a matter of seconds while England passes a hand over the door handle and murmurs the right words. But as he does so, he realizes—it’s Midsummer, one of the most magically potent times of the year. Could that have anything to do with what’s happened?
He doesn’t have long to think on it, however. As soon as the lock clicks, the door flies open and reveals a very young France. He stands in the doorway for a moment, shivering, wearing one of his older self’s nightshirts. It falls past his knees and the sleeves drown his arms, making him look even younger, and vulnerable. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a fae child—his features delicate and beautiful, his eyes wide and deep blue, his golden hair falling around his face.
France has cultivated, over the years, an image of restrained ruggedness that tempers his beauty and more feminine grace. The stubble he keeps on his cheeks, the tight muscles of his lithe body, and the deepness of his voice all lend credence to this image. But this younger France has none of that. His face is clean, his cheeks rosy, his body thin and bony and shivering slightly.
“France?” England asks softly, prompting him. And that’s all it takes. France lunges forward, wraps his arms around England’s waist and buries his face in the soft fabric of England’s sweater vest. England feels France’s grip tighten, even if he can’t make out the words that France is murmuring against his chest.
England kneels down, so that he will be level with France, and immediately the boy moves again. He grabs England’s face in both his hands, tracing England’s eyebrows with thin fingers.
“It is you,” France breathes, and England tries not to look directly at his eyes, which are red-rimmed and puffy. “Oh, Angleterre!” And France is kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, whatever part of him he can reach. They are childish, innocent kisses, just a press of his pink lips against England’s skin.
He’s still shaking, so England hugs him back, his arms fitting easily around France’s slight frame. He should have remembered this, England thinks. France has always lived and died by physical affection, but as a child he was even needier—he constantly wanted to be in contact with someone, physically reassured of their presence.
Eventually France pulls back, though he leaves his arms looped around England’s neck. “Angleterre,” he whispers, “I don’t know where we are. What is going on?”
“I’m not sure yet, France. But I’ll be here, until we’ve figured it out. Alright?”
France nods against his neck. He looks to be about ten years old, maybe eleven. Too old to be picked up, but England hoists him into his arms anyway. Axelle chooses that minute to come forward, smiling at the sight even if her eyes still hold concern for her nation.
“What did you say to him?” she asks. “To get him to come out?”
“If I told you that,” England says, switching with difficulty back to modern English, “it won’t work the next time something like this happens.”
It’s one hurdle crossed, England thinks, adjusting his grip on France. But Midsummer is a time of powerful, and sometimes irreversible, magic.