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England wakes with a start, shaking. He’s breathing fast, raggedly, and for a moment he sees dark figures around him, but then the world becomes focused and the shapes disappear. He’s in a familiar room — the bedroom in France’s Parisian apartment. He’d tossed the blanket off himself in his sleep, but he hasn’t cried out — or so he thinks, at least — so he hopes he hasn’t woken France up.
When he looks, they’re awake, lying on their side and looking at him. “What did you dream about?” they whisper.
“Someone’s death,” he replies, voice hoarse. Still shaken, he asks: “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”
As a reply, France reaches and flicks on the switch on their side of the bed. England feels his shoulders relax slightly as the room is filled with yellow light.
“Do you want to tell me?” France asks gently.
England doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then he takes France’s hand. He nods. “It was—” He clears his throat. “Someone who was important to me. A long time ago.”
“Who?”
“A human,” England says. “It was during the Wars of the Roses. He was one of my first human friends, I think. I think we both died in that battle. But he…” He shrugs helplessly, trying to make it seem light. “Well, he didn’t come back.”
France frowns. “Prince Edward?”
England nods. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I remember seeing you afterwards. You were furious… It was hard, realising that not all of our friends could be immortal like us.”
“He was only seventeen. I was so sad...” England’s voice cracked slightly. He shakes his head. “I haven’t thought about it in ages.”
“Sometimes things just rise to the surface,” France says. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I know how that feels.”
“That wasn’t really the worst part of the dream.” England closes his eyes, then immediately opens them again — the image is still too vivid. “He became someone else.”
“Who?”
England doesn’t reply.
“Me?” France asks, worried.
England shakes his head.
“Normandy?”
England shakes his head again. “It was—” he croaks. “Alfred.”
“Oh, God…” The springs creak as France shifts, sitting up and putting their arms around England’s waist. “That must have been terrible.”
“It’s alright... Just a dream.” England turns his face towards them, kissing their cheek briefly. “I’m going to get tea.”
“I’ll come with you,” France says. They let the blanket fall of their body and follow him into the kitchen.
England sets the kettle boiling. He fiddles with the tin boxes and prepares them each a cup of mixed green tea. France has all his favourites, just in case he comes to visit — which is every other day, nowadays. There’s even a special cup just for him — an ugly souvenir with the Big Ben and the London Eye and a red bus.
“I met him yesterday,” he says. “We had a coffee. I guess he was on my mind, and that’s what caused the dream.”
“How is he doing?” France asks.
“Alright, I think…” England shuts a drawer with a little too much force and the sound echoes in the quiet kitchen. “I don’t know, actually. I guess I’m worried. Not sure if he knows what he’s doing.”
“He’ll be fine,” France says. “He’s a grown up now.”
“Yeah…” There’s a little frown between England’s eyebrows. “Could you believe that? Our children are adults. It feels like yesterday when we were children.”
France chuckles. “Would you believe it if in the 15th century someone told you that you and I would have—”
“Definitely not,” England says. “I’d tell them they were crazy.”
“Me too.”
England seems very distant.
“They are alright,” France reassures. “And they’re gonna be alright.”
England winces all of a sudden. “I’ve been such a shitty parent.”
“Me too. But we get to make up for it now.”
“I don’t know if we can ever make up for what we’ve done to them.”
“We can’t,” France agrees easily. “But they love us, still. I think we’re really lucky to have that.”
England is quiet for some time. He knows that the dream still lies underneath the surface, that if he went back to sleep now it’d snatch him right back. He doesn’t want to keep thinking about it.
“Tell me something nice,” he says.
“Something nice?” France asks. “Such as?”
England leans against the counter. “Maybe something romantic?”
“Something romantic.” France smiles. “Well, there has been something on my mind, and I guess it’s romantic.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about my feelings for you.”
“Oh?” England almost smiles. “Do you think you like me?”
France rolls their eyes. “Arthur.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Well,” France begins. “I was thinking — it’s not like I never fell in love with anyone else, right? There were others. But it was always different, with you.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” France says. “But since I first fell for you, you were always in my heart. Even when I was with other people. And in a way I always thought that we’d end up together, eventually.”
England thinks about it. “Is ‘eventually’ now?”
“I don’t know,” France says again. “Is now the happy ending? Maybe not. I hope so, though. I’m happy with how things are now.”
The kettle starts whistling and England turns off the stove and pours water into their cups. He carefully carries them to the table and sits down across from France. Then he looks into their eyes. “I feel the same,” he says simply. “You’re the love of my life, Francis.”
France’s eyes go wide. Then they laugh quietly. “I’m still not used to you being so sweet.”
“Well, you bring out this side of me, Fran—” England pauses. “Is ‘Francis’ alright now?”
“I don’t know. It’s the middle of the night. I’m just tired.”
“Just ‘my love’, then,” England says.
France laughs again. The sound fills England’s heart with light. “I love you,” they tell him.
“I love you too.”
France leans in. England moves the steaming cups aside and they kiss, hands held over the table. They’re both sleepy and it’s a little messy, with England’s lips landing first on France’s stubbly chin and then on the corner of their mouth, but eventually they get it right. England can feel France smiling and can feel himself starting to smile as well.
England rests his forehead against France’s. He says: “Yeah. I’m really happy to be with you.”
“Let’s not let the tea go cold,” France whispers.
Slowly, they pull away from each other, still smiling. They wrap their fingers around the warm cups and sip in silence.
“I wish we could keep them safe,” England says, halfway through his cup.
“Me too,” France replies. “But they aren’t ours to keep. Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to feel bad about the past. You’re doing your best.”
England doesn’t know if he believes that, but he nods. He takes another sip, and slowly, a warm feeling settles in his stomach.
“Do you feel ready to go back to sleep?” France asks after some time.
“I think so.” England says. “Um, yeah. Sure.”
“Let’s leave the dishes for tomorrow.”
England puts the cups in the sink and turns off the light. They return to the bedroom together. France flops into bed with a sigh and England joins them, his eyelids already starting to droop. The memory of the dream still lingers, and he knows that he might dream again before morning — but with France’s arm around him, it feels like it’s going to be alright.