Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When England turns down his street in London late in the evening, to his town house with the nice white brick that he grows fonder and fonder of as the years turn its fellows to flats, he is not surprised to find that France has invited himself over to his home.

Although visits from France were most certainly not something England ever asked for, or even willingly planned, France arriving unannounced on his doorstep is a common enough occurrence that it's not in any way odd in itself. England will frequently come home or wake up to find him already inside, holding his kitchen captive and humming old French love songs under his breath. France has always seemed to think of England’s space as his own to use, no matter how many times England has tried to tell him that this sentiment isn't shared.

No, what England is surprised about is that France is seemingly waiting for him, there on his doorstep, eyes downcast and hands twisted deep in his coat pockets. This is what's strange, because France does not wait for England to let him in, usually; France just comes in regardless of England's feelings on the matter. He knows all of England's many different key hiding holes and makes liberal use of them all: under the flowerpot, buried below the rock in the hydrangea bush squashed flush against the brickwork, in the middle of the hollow ugly garden gnome by the gate.

All of England's houses, all of his homes across the ages, France keeps note of all of England’s hidden key spots tucked in his mind and knows them off by heart, seemingly almost as soon as England creates a new one.

England has tried to prevent this; has moved keys around, removed them entirely, placed a decoy once or twice to try and dissuade him, but somehow, always, France manages to get inside, without forcing entry. England knows, in a not so deeply buried part of himself, that France has copies of all of England's keys, so that short of changing each and every one of his locks France doesn't need to scrabble about in England's dirt in order to gain access.

England knows this, but hasn't once yet changed any of them, despite telling himself, telling France, or telling anyone who will listen that he will. Now, it's been so long, so many centuries, that France probably has more keys to England's houses than England does; houses that England hasn't lived in for decades, houses that now sit in ruins- their key seemingly sits in France's pocket, waiting for England to move back in.

So, this is a surprise. Because this time France is outside, not inside already where England would expect him to be. Instead of making himself quite at home in a home that is not his, France is standing there in England's doorway, slumped against the wall, and staring at the cracks in the alcove with an expression England cannot read.

England approaches, with caution, because this is very strange and if there is one thing he's learnt about France is that he is a predictable creature, for all his mocking of England being so; predictable in his age old patterns and behaviours that he wears like a gaudy summer coat.

'Francis?' he greets from the gate. It creaks as he pushes it open and he idly makes a note to oil it sometime soon. He gets no response. 'France.' He says again, softly, moving to stand next to him and close enough that any passing humans cannot hear them talking. He can smell France's aftershave, a light floral thing that turns heady in the summer.

England regards him as France turns his head and straightens with a small sigh, pushing off from the wall; he looks as well put together as always but there is an air about him, a weighty feel in his movements that England notices. 'Ah', France says, a smile in his voice but not in his eyes. 'Look who's finally returned home. You're a bad host, you now, to keep me waiting here.'

A beat of a moment before England scoffs and nudges him out of the way so he can get to the keyhole, pulling his set of keys out of his pocket. 'Can one be a host if they were unaware that they were supposed to be hosting?'

He goes to open the door and France leans in close behind him. England feels the chill of him near his neck; he’d been standing outside for a while. 'Should a good host not prepare for everything?'

England shakes his head and inserts the key, twisting it. 'You are indeed everything'.

France hmm's. 'Flattery, so soon? My, you must have had a long day.'

England nudges him off and swings open the door, frame catching on swollen wood, before stepping inside and flicking on a light; France chuckles, deep and throaty, and follows him.

'Do you not think I know you have a key?'

France makes a wounded noise behind him, shrugging off his coat to drape on a hook and slipping off shoes to rest them by the door, a lazy placement next to England's uniform lines. 'You always tell me that it is impolite to enter when the host isn't there.'

England huffs. 'As if that's stopped you before.'

Shoes off, France moves past him, leaving him in the hallway and ignores this. 'I'm making us dinner,' he says, instead, and England can already hear the light click in the kitchen shortly before the opening of his fridge and the grumble of disappointment at the findings. He feels a familiar irritation prick at him but bites his tongue and doesn't rise to it.

He instead slips off his own coat, turns the heating up a few degrees, and leafs through the post collected on the floor. There quickly comes the sounds of begrudging success from the kitchen: drawers opening, a kiss of metal against metal and a thunk of his nice chopping board on a counter top.

Soon a chop chop chop, a vegetable of some kind, and the run of water and the clang of a pot.

It is silent.

France usually hums, or sings- rarely truly quiet and almost always filling the air with something. Maybe it is this quality that has rubbed off on America because France exists within sound happier than he exists without. France when silent is usually louder, more obvious, more overt than France being loud and this particular silence is heavy; a tense anxious thing curling steadily around the corners of England's home to linger in the edges, thick and stifling.

'What poison are you planning on feeding me?' He calls in the direction of the kitchen- assessing the ground between them, the role he must play.

A click and hiss of his stove top as it ignites. 'Potatoes au Gratin.' he gets in response. 'If there is anything you're consistent for, my dear, it is that there are always potatoes in your cupboards. It is concerning, if not reliable.'

England selects the one legitimate letter out of the bunch, the others adverts or notices to be put straight into recycling, and rolls his eyes, comforted by the degree of normalcy. 'There's bacon in the fridge, somewhere.'

There is only a tut in reply but it speaks volumes, nonetheless.

Although rare in comparison to the other, more common, sort, England has had these visits before and he knows enough of how they go. Post in hand, he moves into his living room and turns on the radio, changing the channel to Classic FM and taking a moment to listen to what's being played. Gymnopédies No.1- Erik Satie; not exactly the most uplifting of pieces, but it could be worse. England’s letter is tax related; fitting, perhaps.

The chopping continues, but now, faintly, there is a slight hum from France; a small concession.

England leaves it, as it is, whatever is building or ruminating, and heads up stairs to change, swapping dress shirt for t-shirt, trousers for joggers and completed with an oversized woollen jumper; he wants to be comfortable. A dig through his wardrobe finds an older pair of joggers, well-worn and soft and slightly thinning at the knees. He takes this, and a large baggy t-shirt, and leaves them in the spare room, folded neatly on the bed. He assumes that France will be staying the night and also guesses, from the lack of suitcase or bag accompanying him, that this decision was made in the spur of the moment.

Heading back downstairs England grabs his worn old laptop from the living room and sits himself, with a sigh, at the kitchen table, flipping it open to turn it on. He does not offer to help with dinner, his duty will be to wash up as payment for his fare and he is more than okay with this unspoken arrangement; there is already a warm smell of onion and potato and England notices how hungry he is, feels the day press on his body. It’s only a Tuesday.

‘What were you planning on eating, if I were not here?’ There is a parental scolding tone to France’s words that England does not care for.

‘I was planning on ordering a take away; I knew I was going to be home late.’

France glances at the clock perched precariously atop the crockery cupboard and shakes his head in exasperation. ‘It is not late.’

‘It is half seven pm.’

‘That is not late’.

England huffs.

France turns to look at him and England meets his eye, searching for more, but France offers nothing further and turns back away, chopping some fresh garlic England had quite forgotten he had. Whilst France does this, methodical and accurate despite his speed, England clicks to BBC World news, just in case, but finds nothing out of the ordinary- nothing burning or collapsing that he isn't already aware of.

If it is not national or politics related, England isn't sure what made France slink his way across the sea to lurk at his door, a curtain of moods that shift beneath his hair, but it is likely that he will not find out. He rarely does when these visits happen; he's not sure that he's supposed to. Some things do not need to be said out loud to make them real; some things are just supposed to lie there, unacknowledged, to rest themselves unchallenged before disappearing. England is no stranger to these moods himself; knows that, sometimes, they need to be felt and experienced before they will leave again. Such things cannot be chased away or cloaked with words, they will only hide and wait, returning later when things are quiet and still.

France keeps chopping, knife flashing, and England says nothing.

They move to the living room after dinner, hot coffee and tea and the dishes soaking for later, and pool together on the sofa, one per end and legs a tangled channel in the middle; a blend of them both. England leaves the radio on but grabs a book which he holds upright against the sofa back, elbow propped on the top and chin pillowed in his hand. He sees France, when he flicks an eye up at him discreetly, staring at the radio, the ceiling, their legs twisted together; mostly inexpressive aside from a slight downturn to the lips, a crease between the eyebrows.

Mostly, France stares at something long past, a solo look through time that he needs to take, but he shifts, occasionally, pressing a calf more against England’s knee to hold it there a while, or worrying a loose thread in England’s joggers; tug tug tug but doesn’t snap- a reminder of his presence. Or, perhaps, confirmation of England's.

England forces a foot to squeeze between France and the sofa cushion, pinning it there under his weight. Solid, steady- a reminder in kind.

A few hours later England leaves him there, stretched out liquid-boned in the space he had just left, to first do the washing up and then to head to bed, wordlessly. There is little to say to someone, often, when you have known them for so long and a slight wave of his hand is more than enough to say what he needs to.

France does not follow him up and England gets ready for bed in a slow amble, taking an extra hot shower before brushing his teeth and then towelling his hair dry. When he comes out of the bathroom, he can hear the TV on downstairs- a soft buzz of noise from a late night show he can’t identify. It’s most likely for distraction, more than anything else; France isn’t usually much of a TV person.

He clicks off the landing light and goes into his bedroom, keeping his lamp on to read. England doesn’t like to make a habit of this, but he gets out his phone again to check the news, scrolling through French media sites in case something has popped up. Still, nothing has, and England turns it off, leaving it on his bedside table where he tells himself it’s going to stay untouched until tomorrow. He’d never have thought he’d get so reliant on the thing, having gone so many years without one, and it’s odd now that he finds his hands reaching for it absentmindedly. He picks up another book instead, always at least two on the go at any one time, and gets into bed.

France come up not long after, his familiar tread on the stairs, but he goes straight to the guest room, coming out again only to use the bathroom. England turns his lamp off and listens to the house breathe, the creaking of floorboards and timbers and it settles around him. Despite himself, the late hour, and his wonderfully comfortable bed, he can’t sleep. It feels as though he’s waiting for something, stood on the edge of a moment to come, and he can’t get his mind to go loose, to unwind itself from whatever thoughts it’s tangling into knots.

He lays there, expectant.

England is still awake when France slips into his room an hour or so after he has turned out his lamp, silent and gentle in the dark. His eyes are shut but he hears the breath of the door against the carpet and the small click as it shuts, before a soft padding of feet moves towards the bed. The mattress dips and there's a shock of cold air against his back before he’s covered up again and things still, settling.

England waits.

France turns to lay on his side and England lays still, waiting. No movement, no noise other than a forced slow breathing, and eventually England turns his head to find France facing the other way, his back to him and covers pulled to tent around his body, tucked down to leave no gap. England can see he’s curled into himself, knees tucked in a foetal position that’s unusual for France, who usually sprawls and reaches to touch or hold whoever is nearby. This hesitation for contact, this restricting of himself is what concerns England the most, what causes him the most worry more than anything else he’s seen this evening. There feels like a distance around France – a coolness- that is usually something England wears with worn familiarity; a closing in on himself, curling in tighter to feel that anything’s there at all.

England hesitates, weighing up his next move in his mind. He turns carefully, onto his own back, then on to his side when this prompts no reaction.

Gently, carefully, a thousand years of understanding, he shifts closer, shares France's pillow and slips his arm around France's waist; leaves it there. Under his touch, he feels the soft fabric of the t-shirt and worn old joggers that he left on the spare room's bed, waistband resting over France's hip. He’s warm, around his middle, and solid and England presses just so, a little tighter, and shuffles a little closer so they’re joined together all the way down.

There's a pause, England watching with his eyes open on France's head, before France moves his arm down to lay across England's own and hold it, still cool hand stark against England's bed-warm skin.

They fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Despite the busy crowds and how tired he was, it did not take France long to realise that he was being followed home.

It was early evening. He had just left the hotel they were using as a location (battleground) for the latest UN meetings and was hoping to catch his favourite farmers’ market before they packed up and closed for the day. There were some things he’d been eyeing up for dinner that, now he’d set his mind on it, he knew he would be loath to change and if there was something France would never compromise on, it was ingredients. So, as soon as the last meeting of the day had ended, he packed up his things, bade his assistant and president a tired farewell, and hurried out of the door before anyone could grab him and ask him for something.

The meetings themselves were nothing fancy, just long national security and trade talks with government officials and other such persons, but which were thankfully being hosted in Paris. France did not like travelling about much these days, he’d done quite enough of that in previous centuries and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he was happy to enjoy a more relaxed lifestyle at a polite distance from politics. England might call it lazy, but France knew that his northern neighbour was just as old and content to stay at home in his own lands, left to his own devices and away from the angry, irritating buzz of politicians.

‘It’s not the same!’ England had lamented to him once only a decade ago, too drunk on good wine that was wasted on him for how quickly he drank it, ‘We don’t even really get to give our opinion anymore; we just sit there and then help do all the bloody admin whilst they argue about this that and the other. What’s the point? If they don’t want to listen to our advice or let us make decisions, leave us the fuck out of it.’

France had sighed at him and shook his head; not because he disagreed, but because when England felt like he was being patronised he’d puff up in a ruffled indignation that France found too funny not to risk his person provoking. England had sworn at him, as France knew he would, and the evening had ended up with them sprawled on top of each other at the bottom of France’s vineyards.

Thinking with a bitter happiness that there was only one more day of this tedium to go, France made great strides in removing himself from the premise, ducking and weaving his way through the pedestrian traffic and losing himself in the flow and thrum of his people as they made their way across town.

He hadn’t got very far, only managed to cross a road and turn down a right-hand street, when he noticed that he had acquired a shadow.

Many centuries of existence had given him a sixth sense for this sort of thing- a keen awareness of people who followed for too long, a feeling for eyes watching the back of his head. Even in peacetime his mind was sharp, alert for tiny movements that could indicate a potential threat and hooking his attention to make him zero in on certain behaviours, regardless of whether he wanted this additional mental fatigue or not. Such things were second nature to their kind. He hadn’t survived for this long by relaxing and blindly trusting those around him, after all. Nations could be brutal things, humans just as much, and the complacent among them never remained for long.

But this presence was familiar, a known gait and step that France had learnt to recognise the fastest, out of necessity as much as from repeated encounters.

France smiled to himself and slowed his pace.

England wasn’t trying to hide himself; Lord knew that when the man wanted to, he could simply disappear into a crowd and never been seen again. If England wanted to follow someone without them knowing, they simply wouldn’t know about it. MI6 didn’t have the reputation it did for nothing and England enjoyed, with a smug superiority that France often couldn’t stand, putting whatever talents and skills he’d worked out with them to use when the mood took him; presence undetected, footsteps light and soft, manner and bearing disguised and changed as quickly as if he were shedding clothes.

No, England wasn’t hiding himself or trying to remain unseen, but that didn’t mean that he would appreciate France drawing attention to the fact that he’d noticed him so soon. Let him think France was frequently oblivious, it always made for fun later.

Besides, France didn’t think now was the best time to push him.

He’d noticed that England had grown quieter the last few days, withdrawing more and more into tense silence as the week went on. There was something happening at home, he’d heard through his own ministers, something brewing that kept England working later and later, pushing himself more and more. He hadn’t had the chance to talk to England about it himself, hadn’t had the chance to talk to Arthur at all, but France had seen him grow steadily more stressed and taut, like a tightly wound string.

An impatient man anyway, England grew snappy when stressed, biting and prickly and quick to shout and vent his temper at whatever poor unsuspecting victim fumbled the small task he’d given them. After this though, if nothing changed, England would turn into a muted white noise, all tension wrapped and bound and condensed until you could feel it pulsating from him in palpable waves. All of his energy would go towards surviving what was happening and finishing whatever it was, and he’d go and go and go until either the source of the stress went away, or he’d collapse somewhere- a boneless puppet with cut strings.

The way things had been going, France wouldn’t be surprised if he were nearing the latter of the two and he’d been expecting England to seek him out eventually, for one reason or another.

France stopped at a crossing just as the light for pedestrians turned red, and he felt, rather than saw, England close the distance and approach him from behind. ‘You’ve left earlier than I expected.’ He said to him over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the cars. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be out for another few hours at least, the way you’ve been working these last couple of days.’

England grunted but said nothing further, shuffling to stand closer to France to avoid an old lady and her grandchildren when they stepped too near to him.

France turned to look at him and, up this close, noticed the slight flush to his cheeks and the paleness to his face, eyes tired and drawn as they regardless the traffic. The day was not a terribly cold one, but England had burrowed himself deep into his coat, collar turned up high to cover his neck and hands tucked into his pockets.

France hmm’d and hooked an arm through England’s, pulling him closer. He didn’t shrug it off. ‘I’m going to the market before I go home.’ France informed him, because he knew that that was what England was planning on doing- follow France home and expect to be fed. (He would be, he always was).

He felt England shrug, a slight upward twitch to his shoulder. ‘That’s fine.’

The lights changed and the crowd around them moved forward, taking France and England with it. They followed the rush along for a while before France tugged them down an alleyway to break onto another street, smaller with cars parked on the pavements and less people around. They stuck to the side streets from then on, winding their way through the back alleys of Paris in a comfortable silence with France leading the way.

The market itself, when they eventually arrived, was a small one, tucked in a small cluster on the cobbles of a square, but the produce was fantastic and it was a local secret. France, as a local to all in his lands, adored it. ‘I was thinking of cassoulet for dinner’ he told England as he slipped his arm free to approach a stall for vegetables and other farm produce, eyeing up the selection of carrots. ‘You like that, yes?’ There was no answer, and France turned around to find him staring vacantly off at the next display. ‘Arthur.’

England blinked, coming back to himself, and turned to him. ‘What? Sorry…’ he frowned, ‘did you ask me something?’

France tutted at him. ‘Yes, but no matter, you weren’t going to get a choice anyway.’

England said nothing but turned away to stare at the table display again, a selection of cheeses France could tell he wasn’t really paying any attention to. France pursed his lips but let him go, purchasing the necessary onions, carrots, and tomatoes that he needed before hurrying England off to the next vendor, handing him the bag of vegetables to carry which he accepted without complaint. 

After the butchers for sausages and mutton, France handed England the purchases and taking out his notebook from his pocket, checking that there was nothing else he needed whilst he was here. ‘Do you need anything?’ He asked, turning to England.

England shook his head and shivered, rearranging the bags on his arm. ‘No, thank you.’

France reached to take one from him, freeing up an arm, and drifted his hand down England’s coat to hold England’s own, buried in his pocket. He was displeased at how cold he found it and squeezed it tightly, pressing the pad of his thumb over England’s knuckles. There was a slight squeeze back, the smallest increase in pressure, but there was something, at least, and France let it go.

‘Come on then, before you lose one of my bags somewhere.’

Back at home, France unlocked the door and pushed England inside first, closing the door behind them. ‘Go and take a shower, I’ll start dinner.’

England frowned at him, confused. ‘I don’t need a shower.’ He turned to make his way to the kitchen, bags in hand, but France caught him by the elbow and took them from him before stepping forwards and pressing a kiss to his temple. His skin there was just a touch too warm, but the rest of him felt chilled. ‘Go, you’re cold and it’ll help you relax.’

‘I don’t need to relax.’

France looked at him, unimpressed. ‘You need to relax; you’ve overworked yourself stupid again.’ He nudged him with his elbow. ‘I’ll not start cooking until you do.’

England managed a weak scowl at him but didn’t protest and shrugged off his coat before hanging it by the door. ‘Fine. If it makes you feel better.’

‘It will.’ France slipped his shoes off and rolled his eyes when England nudged them with his foot so that they sat straighter against the wall. ‘Go.’

After England had safely moved away in the direction of the bathroom and France could hear the comforting sound of his shower in use, he walked through his flat to the kitchen and set about getting things ready for dinner, collecting his knives (always the best quality, always sharp) and washing the vegetables before chopping them as needed. Before too long, he heard the hot water turn off and the bathroom door open, the one to his bedroom closing shortly after that. A while later, England emerged in the kitchen, slightly damp and dressed in some of France’s old clothes: baggy, large things that France couldn’t bear to throw away, even though he hardly ever wore them. Kept for times like this, maybe. For either one of them when they were needed.

Evidently, the shower had revived enough of England’s energy to allow him to dig about in the depths France’s wardrobe and drawers; he’d pulled on an old woollen jumper that he’d left behind the last time he’d visited France’s Paris flat, a frumpy looking thing with bobbled thread and stretched sleeves that fell past his hands to graze his fingertips.

‘What state have you left my bedroom in?’ France asked. He uncovered the white beans that he had left soaking the day before and regarded them seriously. They looked ready.

England moved past him to sit at the table, slow and sluggish, before leaning forward to bury his head in his arms, cheek cradled in the crook of his elbow. He sighed and shut his eyes. ‘It’s fine.’

‘I’m sure it is not, I tried to bury that hideous thing at the very bottom so it couldn’t be seen; every time I opened my wardrobe it quite ruined the overall look when I caught sight of it.’

England didn’t answer him. France filled the kettle up with water and flicked it on before grabbing a mug- a bulbous, large bottomed monstrosity that England had got him a few years ago to spite him for something or other. It was incredibly tacky but France found that it was growing on him most annoyingly.

He didn’t need to ask if England wanted tea, this would have been a pointless, silly question, and nor did he ask if England wanted the honey instead of sugar that he put in it. His voice had sounded ever so slightly hoarse, maybe from talking all week for hours on end, maybe not. Either way, England would not ask for anything that hinted or implied that he had some sort of physical weakness and France had learnt, over many frustrating years, that the best way to handle England like this was to simply not say anything and give him what he needed anyway. Asking whether he was feeling well would imply that you had noticed signs he was not, and would, for reasons France still did not even try to understand, make him more stubborn in pretending that there was nothing wrong at all.

Roundabout methods for a roundabout man.

‘I don’t know how you can possibly believe you have the right to insult Wales on his clothes when you own something like that; you’re lucky I didn’t mistake it for rags and throw it away.’

England made a sound that could have been a laugh. ‘This one is Scotland’s, actually.’ (1)

‘Well, all the more reason to be lucky, then. You should be grateful that I didn’t throw you to his ire.’

‘Yes, I do plenty enough of that myself without your assistance.’

England sounded almost fond and France allowed a smile, keeping his head turned away to focus on cubing the mutton. England’s relationship with his brothers has always been much like his own with England: stormy, rough, and quick to change but long lasting and durable, nonetheless. Some bonds do not need frequent, pretty words and kind acts to keep them strong. Sometimes, seeing someone fester at their ugly worst and choosing to keep them your life anyway was a greater sign of affection than anything else. What are sweet words and acts, to ones who live as long as they? Fleeting things, whispers that fade quickly into the long yawn of time. Years do not remember the small niceties; after centuries and millennia, you remembered who stayed, who came back, who didn’t take the shot that would have hurt the most. The ones who did take it, and then helped put you back together.

Sometimes, that was enough.

The kettle clicked itself off and France put the knife down, washing and drying his hands quickly before pouring the water in the mug and leaving the tea to steep. He glanced at the table. England was still hunched over, a curl of bent elbows and downturned eyes, and was wearing a slight frown as he squinted into his forearm. France couldn’t tell whether he was falling asleep or not, but he was very aware that England would not appreciate staying there if he was.

‘Your hair is still wet.’ He told him, pointedly.

England made an unhappy noise.

‘I won’t be looking after you, if you make yourself worse.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sure you think so.’ France stirred the tea, squeezing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon before removing it. Adding the milk, he stirred it again and took it to the table, setting it down in front of England who looked up, finally. ‘But like I said, I’ll be leaving you here to die of the consequences regardless.’

‘Leave it.’ England’s voice was firm but his eyes were soft; a foolish contradiction.

He sat up and reached out to cup the terrible mug in both hands, letting the warmth bleed into them. He took a sip and, very briefly, his face opened to show small, innocent pleasure. France always loved to catch the fleeting instances England let softer emotions shine through- a bark of laughter when a joke caught him off guard, the times he looked at his younger family members when they were turned the other way, the mornings he sang to himself when he thought no one could hear.

England was often pointy lines and sharp smiles, hard looks and careful study; cold emotions cut into him with intentional strokes and built there as a wall to hide whatever was bubbling underneath. There were few occasions, few people, that could peel him away so completely that nationhood and age would melt away and that for a second, just one second, he could be anyone at all.

France tucked this moment away carefully in his mind, committing it to memory, and clicked on the stove.

Dinner was mostly a one-sided affair. France watched England pick at the food, pushing bits of it around his plate and taking small, tentative bites.

France kept up the conversation the whole time, happy to fill the noise. Regardless of what he said to contrary, England enjoyed the sounds of something happening, of life continuing, just as much as he enjoyed silence and solitude. France had always felt that, when England was in less-than-ideal moods, maybe noise and distraction allowed his mind to finally switch off and tune out, to fade away in the buzz.

Maybe the silence prompted him to think too much.

After they’d finished eating, (or, France had finished eating and it became apparent that England had given up), France permitted England to pack up the leftovers into Tupperware before prodding him to the living room, where he pushed him down on the sofa and ignored his protests about how the dishes needed soaking.

‘Leave it for tonight, they’ll be fine.’

‘But-‘

France sat on one end of the sofa against the armrest and reached out to grab England around the waist, causing him to stop speaking in surprise. France pulled and twisted him close to sit flush against his chest, head coming to rest by France’s collarbone. ‘You are being a very bad guest, my dear, to not listen to the wishes of your host.’

England muttered something about France being a terrible host who didn’t deserve to be listened to in the first place, but stopped struggling to escape and leant against him, heavy. If anything, this quick concession to something France wanted him to do, especially when that something involved leaving a job half finished, was more alarming than comforting, and France reached up to bring a hand to feel his forehead, pushing back his fringe.

‘Look what you’ve done to yourself.’ He chided him, feeling stronger heat than before. Pushing England upright again, France felt under his sofa for the blanket he had thrown there the other day and grabbed it, before straightening back up to lay it across England and pull him down again. One he was settled, France tucked it up around his neck, making sure that he was fully covered, and burrowed his arms underneath to join him.

England rearranged himself slightly to fit more comfortably, slightly on his side with his head turned to rest on a cheek and nudging one of France’s knees to fit better against him, and let out a deep breath through his nose, slipping his eyes shut. Under the blanket, France felt him begin to run a cold hand over one of France’s arms that was resting on his middle, fingers brushing gently over his skin. ‘Thank you for dinner.’

France hmm’d, burying his nose in England’s now dry hair. He could smell his own shampoo that England had stolen but, underneath that, the familiar smell of England himself- an unnameable mix of things that could belong to no one else. ‘How strange to hear gratitude from your lips.’

England stopped stroking his arm to pinch it and France chuckled into his hair. ‘And now abuse of the host; my, how terrible.’ England huffed at him but resumed the less violent ministrations to his arm. France extracted the one currently at liberty to bring up to England’s head and card his fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the roots.

‘So, what has caused all of this?’

‘Caused all of what?’

‘You know full well what I’m talking about.’ The long hours, the bags under his eyes, the compressed strain that radiated from him in the way he held himself.

England was silent for a moment and France wondered, briefly, whether he shouldn’t have asked. But there were few things England was shy to talk about and few instances when talking about something didn’t help him, whether he was consciously aware of it or not.

England opened his eyes. ‘Nothing too disastrous, initially. Fraudulent claims have recently been made against a standing MP, but he’s involved in a lot of charity organisations and political campaigns.’ He shuffled to rest himself higher against France, tucking his forehead to lay more into the hollow of his neck. ‘The other day it all came to light at once and now things are quickly unravelling; everyone’s digging about to see how deep it all goes and how big the fall out is going to be.’

France made a sympathetic noise. ‘The joys of damage control.’

England hmm’d and brought out a hand to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course, I know the most about all of them, so I’m being hounded from all sides for information: contact names, dates, expense amounts, sources of income. Who else was involved, what else he’d been involved in, how many sectors are affected…’ He trailed off, weary, and France felt him shake his head. ‘And slap bang in the middle of UN talks about national security.’

‘You do have impeccable timing, as always.’

England tutted and fell silent. France avoided thinking about the specifics of what he’d said too much and instead forced himself to keep quiet. It was all too easy for his ears to prick up at that sort of thing and apply it to himself with cold, analytical detachment. How will this affect my economy? Was this man involved in anything that could influence French interests and policies? Will this fallout affect me? It was all too easy to demand a name from England and begin research into this himself. The urge to sift through French banking and trade agreements, international policies and French government ministers was strong- very strong. The numbers were right there behind his eyes, words caught on the tip of his tongue whilst national agreements bubbled in his chest. But he swallowed them back.

France liked to think of himself as very capable of detaching that part of himself, choosing to think of it as a job he could turn off and on, a choice he could make. He was always France, would always be France first and foremost, regardless of anything else. But also wanted to be Francis, just Francis, sometimes.

England ducked his head down to stifle a sneeze into his elbow.

France blessed him. ‘I cannot let you go to work tomorrow, you know, now that you’ve got to this point.’

England lifted his head up and put it once more against France, who resumed playing with his hair. ‘I’ve got to worse points.’

‘Just because you’re previously done something foolish, does not mean that you need to continue to do so.’ France countered.

‘There is only one day left.’

‘Ah yes, but it is the worst one. Russia is speaking, and you know full well how that’ll go.’

England, presumably thinking of how America would no doubt behave, groaned and twisted to lay more on his front. France rearranged the blanket around him. ‘I can’t leave my Prime Minister there to deal with it all, they need me to be there.’

‘They’re all grown-ups, they can handle themselves. Come on,’ France cajoled, lifting a hand to pick at a particularly large loose thread on Scotland’s missing jumper, upturned against England’s neck, ‘you’ve skipped meetings before. If I remember correctly, in the 1600’s you didn’t turn up to a single one that you were supposed to have with me.’

‘I was at sea.’ England replied, a smile in his voice.

‘You were, and if I remember more correctly, you were requested to return many times.’

England snorted and lifted his head up a little before letting it fall back on France’s chest with a soft thud. ‘That’s different.’

France continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You missed so many meetings with me and my Kings that it was very hard to convince them that it wasn’t an intentional slight against them.’

‘It wasn’t, it was a slight against you.’

‘Well then,’ France bent forwards to kiss his forehead, ‘as you have already demonstrated that you have no qualms about missing meetings with me, that means you are quite capable of missing a meeting that I am hosting.’

England frowned, caught by his own logic. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Who says so? I, who is the host, might I remind you, is actively encouraging your bad behaviour.’

England lifted his head to better look at him, shifting his weight onto a pointy elbow that was thankfully not pressing into France’s sternum. ‘So, you admit that it’s bad behaviour?’

‘Do you think it’s good behaviour to go to a meeting feverish?’ France countered easily.

‘I am hardly feverish.’

France reached out to press the back of his free hand against England’s too warm cheek and made only an unconvinced noise in response.

England moved his head and brought an arm out from under the blanket to bat France’s away from him. ‘I am hardly bedridden.’ He corrected, sounding somewhat petulant.

‘Is bedridden your standard for when to finally look after yourself?’

England ducked his head again and stifled another sneeze in reply.

‘Arthur.’

‘No, Francis.’

France pursed his lips. ‘Very well. I cannot stop you from making a stupid decision. As host, however, I am duty bound to inform the other attendees of your condition to ensure that they remain healthy.’

England sat up properly and turned to scowl at him, worst nightmare being threatened. People knowing. ‘You wouldn’t.’

France merely raised an eyebrow and gave a sly smile. They looked at each other for a moment, England searching for a bluff. Finding none, he shook his head and lay down again, arms coming to wind around and behind France’s back. ‘I’ll decide in the morning.’ He said, muffled against France’s chest.

France, extremely content that he’d won, tightened his arms around him. ‘Of course.’