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England is up at the crack of dawn, has his suit neatly buttoned up and his briefcase packed before his alarm is even due to go off. His tea scalds his throat as he swigs it down quickly, then with a rake of his hand through his hair and an, “I’m off to work, bye!” he’s gone before France has even blinked open his bleary eyes. He sits up in bed, one hand rubbing at his eyes, the other patting down the mattress beside him to feel the warmth where England was, and yawns.
France has this day off. At this hour he can’t exactly remember why he’s not at work today, only remembers that out the window he’ll see London rather than Paris, the result of a spontaneous late-night visit that England pretended to disapprove of for all of three seconds. France cracks a smile at the memory, stretching his arms over his head, and slips out of bed, padding towards the kitchen.
He makes himself a coffee in his usual mug – the I <3 Paris one that England denies ever drinking from, but there are tea stains on its rim and France certainly didn’t put them there – and sits at England’s kitchen table, peering around the room. There are a few notes stuck on the fridge, many in his own handwriting, reminding England to buy this, to feed the cat, not to forget his keys again. There are photos, too, on the wall beside him, and there are even more out in the hallway. The one right next to his face is of Japan, America, and a very sunburnt England up Mount Fuji. Beside that is a slightly older picture of the two of them kissing in front of a rainbow flag.
France remembers well the way England had grinned against his lips, the warmth of his hand on France’s waist. He reaches up to stroke the picture and feels his cheeks grow slightly warm, wondering why he’d never noticed it there before. It is just like England to keep something so romantic here and never tell anybody about it.
It is when he turns his eyes to the other side of the room that France remembers exactly why he is here. It is the 8th of April, their ‘anniversary’, or as close as they’ll ever get to one. And this year it is England’s turn to make preparations. England, who is currently at work. The calendar does not reveal anything about their plans for the day, much to France’s disappointment, and if he were anybody else he might think that England had forgotten.
Luckily he isn’t anybody else, and he knows that, forgetful as England may be, he couldn’t forget this. He is sure of it.
Four hours of daytime TV later and he’s not so sure anymore.
He knows the paranoia is probably just a result of watching so much Jeremy Kyle, and he really ought to be fairer to England rather than just assuming he’s forgotten, but once the thought has crept into his mind, he can’t seem to get rid of it. It doesn’t help that England’s flat feels very lonely when he’s not in it; his embroidery is abandoned on the sofa, there’s a stray tea cup on the coffee table, but England himself is all too absent.
It wasn’t exactly how France had planned to spend the day.
England has never been one for grand romantic gestures like France himself, preferring the more spontaneous, subtle moments of affection, and France appreciates that and loves him for it. He understands that England often finds it difficult to express his emotions, which is why this day usually begins with cuddling or an ‘enthusiastically cooked’ breakfast. But today…
His thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, and he answers it before he remembers he’s not at home.
“Arthur Kirkland’s phone, who’s speaking?”
“Ah, France?” a familiar voice crackles from the other end, “Bonjour! It’s Canada.”
“Mon petit, bonjour!” France greets him, gladly switching to French. “But it must be early where you are, what are you calling for at such a time?”
“I’m over at the Netherlands’ house at the moment, actually-“
“Oh, are you now?” France smirks, and he knows Canada will be blushing.
“Not like that!” he gasps, reminding France somewhat of England. “But anyway, I was just calling to wish you and England a happy anniversary! I’m sure America will get in touch some time later.”
“Merci beaucoup from both of us. Well, Angleterre isn’t here at the moment, but I’m sure he would say thank you as well.” Canada makes a pleased noise and France can hear the faint buzzing of a radio and the Netherlands talking in the background.
“How long has it been now?”
“111 years,” France sighs wistfully, “longer than I ever imagined it would be when we signed it. I don’t think anybody expected it too last for so long, not after our history.”
“We’re all glad it has, though. You have no idea how happy I was when you two finally decided to get along.” France laughs softly.
“Vraiment? It wasn’t really that much of a change from the century before, though. We’d been working together for some time before that.”
“Yes, and I was grateful for that too, but to have it officially recorded…” Canada’s smile can be heard through his voice, “well, it’s like having a happy family, you know? You two were always like parents to me.”
“Ah, mon chou, you are too sweet!”
“It’s true, though! It’s so wonderful to see you happy together, not fighting all the time. When you cooperate together you do some amazing things and the world is better for it, you know that. I hope it’ll continue for a long time.”
“So do I, cher, so do I.”
There is a pause for a moment as France lets that sink in, realising that he hadn’t fully considered the effect this agreement would have on other nations. Of course they’d come up with the whole thing simply to annoy Germany and maintain the security of their colonies, but he hadn’t ever thought it would have such an impact on them emotionally. Neither of them had really known how much this would mean at the time.
So much had happened since then, however, and it was almost as though the world was now spinning on a different axis. France thinks of the wars, of muddy trenches and clipped radio announcements and fighting on the beaches. He thinks of decolonisation, the two of them desperately clinging onto the last of their colonies but knowing that their time was up. He wonders if they would have even survived the past century without each other.
“So,” Canada continues, oblivious to France’s thought, “what are your plans for today?”
“I have no idea,” France confesses, “I’ll probably make some lunch some time soon, and then we’ll see from there. Angleterre is at work, you see.”
“Oh yeah, he mentioned not being able to get the day off before. I suppose he’s busy preparing for the election. It’s a shame you won’t be able to spend much time together.”
“Oui, it is. But I’m a mature nation, I can wait until the evening to have my fun.” He winks at nobody in particular and hears Canada laughing loudly on the other end.
“I’m sure. Anyway, I’ve got to head off now, so I hope the rest of your day brightens up a bit.”
“Merci, au revoir, Canada!”
“Oh, and by the way, I heard it’s an excellent day for biscuits. Bye, France!” France’s brow knits together in confusion.
“Quoi?”
The line cuts off.
“What on earth did that mean?” France mutters to himself, still holding the phone. Curious, he returns to the kitchen, leaving the TV blaring away to nobody, and peeks into the larder. Aside from the usual bread and tins of beans, there’s a large plastic box resting on one of the shelves. When France peels the lid off, inside he sees many cream-coloured, heart-shaped biscuits, presumably the result of another one of England’s deluded midnight baking sessions. He sniffs at them carefully.
“They don’t look burnt, so they’re probably edible,” he concludes, and his stomach rumbles rudely. “I’m sure Angleterre won’t mind if I have one or two. Who else is he going to give them to?”
His eyes light up as soon as he takes a bite and he almost moans in delight. They’re soft and light, with a sweet lemon curd filling, and he can’t detect a single imbalance of ingredients anywhere. They might just be the best things England’s ever managed to make, which obviously warrants another, and then another.
Before he can lose track of how many he’s eaten, he thrusts the box away from him, determined not to eat any more. England must have used magic on them, it’s the only explanation for why they’re saying delicious, and too many magic biscuits will probably turn his hair blue or something equally horrifying. It’s not like England hasn’t done it before.
Lunch is rather pleasant after that, and it even looks like the morning fog is beginning to lift. When France opens the window he can just about hear birds singing over the sound of cars on the road, and for a brief moment he imagines listening to England humming along to the radio.
After lunch it’s time for a shower, using up all of England’s hot water, of course. The bathroom is cluttered with France’s ever growing collection of moisturisers and conditioners, which England always promises to throw away but never does. When he reaches out of the shower to grab his favourite rose scented one from the counter, France peers at it through the spray and frowns. It had definitely been running out the last time he was here, he is sure of it, and just to be certain, he checks the rest of the set that came with it. Sure enough, they all seem to have magically been refilled with the pale pink substance, the steam in the bathroom beginning to smell pleasantly like England’s garden.
The hot water pounding on his back feels too relaxing for France to bother worrying about how this happened any longer, and it’s another half an hour until he can escape the warm embrace of the shower and start getting dressed. Even then he dallies about, pausing to admire the vase of fresh tulips that appeared on the windowsill, until finally he’s lounging on the sofa with his legs dangling over the edge, England’s cat curled on his lap, scrolling through congratulatory texts on his mobile.
It’s when he’s unoccupied that the loneliness begins to settle in again, squirming into France’s ribcage uninvited and pestering him petulantly. It’s turning out to be a lovely day but there’s nobody here to share it with him. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, promises himself that Angleterre will be back soon, it’s nearly the end of the working day, and then they can do what they like, oui, then the evening will be theirs.
It’s some time past five when France hears keys twist in the door and perks up immediately. England steps into the hallway, calling out a greeting as he hangs up his coat.
“How was your day?” he asks, making a beeline for the kitchen for his post-work cuppa.
“It was all right,” France replied hesitantly, sitting up and willing away the flutters of anticipation curling in his stomach.
“Only all right?” England’s voice is slightly more distant, difficult to hear over the bubble of the kettle. There is the sound of a cup being fetched from the cupboard. “I sh….it would...right.”
“Pardon?” Footsteps in the hall. England enters the room, sipping his tea.
“I said that I should think it would have been more than all right,” he repeats himself, setting his cup on the table, “considering what day it is.”
And of course England hasn’t forgotten, France realises, because even if the flowers were the faeries’ fault, somebody must have at least told them to put them there. England had been there all day in spirit, and now he’s finally here in person, looking as beautiful in his shirt and tie as he had on a rainbow background.
He barely has a chance to reply before England leans forward and captures his lips in a gentle kiss, his arms sliding over France’s shoulders and drawing him into an embrace. Their lips press together softly, France returning England’s affections with his usual enthusiasm, and England murmurs, “Someone’s been at the biscuits,” with a knowing smile before they melt together again. France’s eyes flutter closed when England’s hands find his hair, their legs tangling together on the sofa, his own hands fisted in the back of England’s shirt.
England’s breath is warm on his face when he pulls away gently, resting their foreheads together. Against all odds, France is blushing, and England is looking far too pleased with himself.
“Happy Anniversary, France,” he whispers, “Je t’aime.”
France squeezes his eyes shut as he fails to rein in the huge smile that spreads across his face. He reaches out to drag England back into his arms but he’s gone already, and when France blinks his eyes open again he sees the other in the doorway, sliding his tie from his collar.
“We’ve got a reservation at half six,” he is saying, “so if you want to get changed I’d suggest doing it now. Not too formal, mind you, but-“
He cuts himself off when he feels France’s arms wind around his waist, and lets his head roll back onto the other’s shoulder contentedly.
“Merci beaucoup, Angleterre,” France says, “today has been wonderful. I love you.”
“I know.”