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“I really don’t think I still have it in me, Arthur.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you do. Magic is not something you can lose.”
France squinted at the wick of the candle in front of him, his nose scrunched up.
“Just imagine the fire,” England said, “and search for it inside of you.
France’s mouth twitched. After a few moments, he sighed and crossed his arms. “This isn’t working.”
“You can’t force it,” England commented. “It’s got to come naturally.”
“How is it supposed to come naturally if I haven’t done it in like, a millennium?”
England stared at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me that all this time you haven’t used any magic at all?”
“Well, yeah,” France said defensively. “It was forbidden by the church, and I wasn’t a filthy heretic like you.”
“You could’ve done it in secret,” England pointed out. “That’s what I did.”
“I was already doing enough things in secret. I didn’t need another sinful pastime to worry about!”
“Alright,” England said, “I can accept that. But why not after you got some sense back into your head?”
“After I became secular, you mean? Well,” France shrugged. “Honestly, I didn’t think about it. I had a lot on my mind. And I was living in a different world, by then. I guess the voices of the old ways have lost their appeal.”
“But you want to relearn magic now,” England said dubiously.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Could come in handy.”
“Bullshit,” England accused.
“Fine.” France squirmed. “I guess... I realised it’s important to remember what we are.”
“That’s good,” England said, satisfied. “Get back to your candle then.”
“Can I get a demonstration?” France asked hopefully.
“I don’t see how that’ll help.”
“Inspiration,” France said.
“Okay.” England snapped his fingers. The candlewick caught fire instantly. He snapped his fingers again, and it went out.
“Holy shit,” France whispered.
“Thanks.”
“Why did you snap your fingers? Does it help?”
“No, that was just for show.”
“You—Ugh!” France looked at the candle. He stared at it until he got cross-eyed. “Damn it, not even smoke.”
England laughed. “I think maybe that’s enough for today.”
France made a frustrated noise. He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened.
England put his hands on France’s cheeks and turned his face towards him. “I told you, you can’t force it. Let’s leave it for now. We can try again when you’re calmer.”
France huffed. “Fine.”
England laughed again and pecked him on the lips. “It’s alright.”
France’s arms went around England by instinct. He buried his face in his shoulder. “Arthur,” he said, voice muffled, “I really think I might have lost it.”
“I told you, it isn’t possible,” England said gently. “It’s still there, you just have to find it again.”
“I don’t know,” France replied. “Maybe I just became too human.”
“It’s a great thing that you’re so connected to your people, Francis.”
“But maybe by achieving that I gave up my connection to the world of magic.”
“I find it hard to believe,” England said. “You were pretty good at it back in the days. Remember when you healed my broken leg?”
“Vaguely,” France mumbled.
“And the bees? When you got the damn bees to follow me around to piss me off?”
France laughed. “Yes, I remember that.”
“Well, I know you still have it in you. I can feel it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How does it feel?”
“Like sunlight behind a somewhat transparent curtain.”
France tried to picture that. He thought he felt something then, but it could’ve been just his imagination.
England kissed him again. France kissed him back, leaning contentedly into his warmth. When they pulled away, the candle was burning.
“Did you do that?” France asked.
“No.” England looked very self-satisfied. “You did.”
“What?” France frowned, puzzled. “I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.”
France looked into his eyes.
“You really did it,” England insisted.
France broke into a grin. “You bastard, you tricked me into it!”
“That’s ungrateful. I just helped you find your lost magic.”
France squinted at the candle, but it showed no signs of wanting to go out. He laughed, then blew it out.
“It’ll take some time to learn to control it,” England said encouragingly.
“Thanks, Arthur,” France said. Then, in a smaller voice, he added: “you were right all along.”
England nodded approvingly. “That’s more like it.”