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France lit up a cigarette and let the smoke fill up his lungs. If he were human, he knew he would've died of lung cancer a long time ago. Well, actually, if he were human, he would've just died. Period.
But alas. He wasn't human. And today was one of those days when that fact was really present on his mind. A day when it bothered him. So he took a drag of his cigarette, and continued walking through the park.
The day had started as any other. He woke up, made himself breakfast, and ate at his balcony, quietly staring at the colourful streets of Paris.
That's when he saw it, like a movie, like watching somebody else's life pass through your eyes. A succession of events, of people, really, or maybe, just a cruel coincidence. The universe conspiring just to annoy him. First, two little kids playing, running around trying to catch each other. Then, a young couple, very much in love, holding hands. After that, another couple, a little older, with their own kids. Behind them, two older people, a couple as well, walking slowy, one with a cane, the other holding onto them.
God, how he envied them all. And the worst part was that they probably didn't even know how lucky they were. Oh, what wouldn't he give to be like them! To be able to grow old, to have a family, to get married without it being a political matter. He loved love, and not being able to experience it fully, killed him. Figuratively speaking, of course. He couldn't die, that was the problem.
There was a world meeting being held in Paris. A conference about climate change. That was why almost every nation member of the UN was in his city.
It went on for most of the day, ending with not much success. France didn't even remember most of it. And that was saying something, because he loved being the host, but today, as it was, as he put it, one of those days, he just couldn't find it in himself to care.
That's why he had ended up in a park near the building where the conference was being held, smoking a cigarette and looking miserable (in a fashionable way, of course).
He sat down on a bench, breathing in the cold air of autumn mixed with his own smoke.
Suddenly, someone else sat beside him. A familiar warmth, a familiar weight against his shoulder.
"Bonsoir, Angleterre."
England made a 'hmm' sound, lighting a cigarette of his own.
"What's up with you today?" He said after the first drag, breathing smoke in France's general direction. "You were not as annoying as you usually are in meetings"
"If that's your way of saying you missed me, it sucks."
"I actually appreciated the change, I'm just curious."
France didn't respond, simply taking one last drag before putting his cigarette out by crushing the burning end against the bench.
England knew the frog. He had known him for long enough to know that something was a little off. France often had these episodes of some sort, where he felt down. Usually the best course of action was to act as if nothing was wrong. Maybe. He wasn't a bloody psychologist, alright?
"Paris is gross," England said, making conversation, "there's rats everywhere."
"Yes, they're all studying to become chefs"
England tried hard not to laugh at that one.
"And anyway," France continued, "London is worse. At least you can actually see the sun here."
"The sun is overrated."
"Whatever you say." France responded, a bit tiredly.
He had thought arguing with England might distract him from his previous thoughts, as it often did, but somehow it had only made him feel worse. England was the closest thing he had to, well, a partner. Someone he loved (and hated sometimes). He wished they could talk without hiding their feeling behind empty jabs and threats.
"Just so you know, Paris totally beats London when it comes to tourists." He said lamely. Who cared about tourists who got engaged in his land and reminded him of everything he could never have, anyway?
Complety unaware of France's internal turmoil, England answered.
"Yeah, well, that's because tourists don't know you," England said, already thinking of an insult, "but once they do-"
"What?" France interrupted him. His eyes were serious, a bit sad, and so was his tone. "What happens when they get to know me?"
England felt a little taken aback by that. Had he gone too far? He didn't think so. It was hardly the cruellest conversation they've ever had. This was quite literally a walk in the park, by their standards. Maybe France really was having a bad day. He looked into those serious eyes.
"W-well, once they get to know you" he started, " they realise that some parts of you are shitty."
France rolled his eyes, looking away.
"But." England continued saying, his eyes to the ground, "they might also realise that some other parts of you... are not."
"Wow, Angleterre, I'm touched, really." France said, words dripping with sarcasm. "That's got to be nicest thing you've ever said to me."
Now it was England's turn to roll his eyes. And he was about to tell the other to go fuck himself until France's words turned serious again.
"Which parts?"
England really considered to just call him a narcissistic bitch and forget about the whole thing, but he knew France, and something seemed wrong. He sounded almost... sad. So he decided to answer honestly.
"I-I like the Champs-Elysées." He tried.
"Yeah, you and a million other people."
"Well, they are nice." England said defensively. "I also like Lyon. And, your countryside is not bad, either."
France was looking at him again, so that was a good sign. He kept going.
"Also, remember that time in 1985, when you took me to your house in Côte d'Azur? That was alright, as well." He coughed a bit awkwardly. "I actually really enjoyed that, it was beautiful."
France seemed to be satisfied with that, he smiled. England felt proud for some bizarre reason.
"Of course I remember." France said getting more comfortable in the bench and putting his left arm nonchalantly behind England's back. "That was certainly alright."
The evening sun was in his hair, making it more golden. England wanted to touch it, so he did. Carefully, as if touching something precious, he put a lose strand of France's hair behind his ear. His hand, strangely and almost on it's own accord, stayed there.
"Have I succesfully fed your ego?" He asked looking at him, caressing his hair. There was fondness in his voice.
France audibly laughed at the question. A musical laugh England hated. Or loved, he wasn't sure.
"Yeah, you have. Thank you for that. Today's been... difficult, for some reason."
"Some days are." England said without moving his hand. He didn't know what was bothering France, not really, but as a young couple walked past them holding hands and looking all lovey dovey, he saw how France's face fell, not with jealousy but with longing. And, yeah, he might have a vague idea of what the Frenchman was feeling. "Don't worry about it." He told him, moving a bit closer. "Let's just sit here for a bit."
And so they did. They stayed in silence for a while, simply enjoying each other's company. France didn't said anything about England's hand still in his hair, gently running his fingers through it; and England didn't make a comment on how close they were sitting, nor on France's hand on his knee.
France felt a bit better. The longing for a better life not ever quite disappearing, but the warmth in his chest and on both their cheeks made it at least bearable. England tended to have that effect on him. He made things not so bad, not so boring and pointless. He did that even when he hurt him.
The sun was starting to set and it was a bit chilly, the people in the park hurrying to get home after a long day, but the two nations seemed to be frozen in place, like they had always been there. France thought that, in a way, they had. But it was alright.
"Can you kiss me?" England said out of the blue, surprising even himself.
France raised an amused eyebrow at him, but nonetheless gave him a tiny peck on the lips, smiling.
"That was okay," England said, "but I meant a proper kiss."
"Mmm, I see." France answered, amusement audible in his voice. "A french kiss?"
England rolled his eyes. Who had come up with that stupid name, anyway? But then again...
"An anglais one," he said, properly facing France, "s'il te plait."
France laughed again and his whole city seemed brighter.
He, of course, gave England a proper English kiss.
...