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Small hands ran over the head of a new-tamed Hulstlander rabbit, curling the ears languidly with a pair of tender fingers as the morning breeze (which seemed more likeable to a morning tornado) swatted and pestered twisted strands of short blonde hair - much to his irritation as he thrashed and spat in the combination of scratching at agonising mosquito bites underneath his knees. Being the rather bitter and oddly introspective chap England was (even at his age of stereotypical childhood joy), he couldn’t suppose he’s ever taken a fancy to the season of summer and the carefree play it was supposed to bring to a child such as himself, despite frequently seeing the children of a local village he had visited frolicking around with sticks and makeshift dolls fashioned from corroding wax and occasionally the neatly selected yet torn cloth of some peculiarly discarded garment. In his immortality, the damned slow aging had a chokehold effect in such he could barely think of himself even on the same level as the townsfolk’s children with the neverending hours he’d spend reading and studying the behaviour of other countries toward himself, though his appearance seeming as though he were nothing but an adorable little boy who might grow up to be a strong Roman Catholic with good words of praise for his royalty.
The existential thought process of the future and how he could even dream of even but a fragment of quiet bugged him in the same equivalency as having to state something that is socially believed to be a lie to be true, and he couldn’t particularly point a finger on why that made sense in his head - supposing it’s just the gaslighting that he had to face in being a personification of such a well-built and economically viable island that the Roman’s had once gloriously favoured in invasion for resources and cattle. That was something he thought frequently of aswell, truth be told. Of course, it had been a long enough time for the shakiness in mentioning the events to fade to nothing but weighted mental ashes and a still-sore elbow scar from a relatively harmless impaling of such an uncannily sharp pilum that he could remember focusing more on the astute craftsmanship of the weaponry at the time of the stabbing despite his pain. Anyway, point being, he didn’t feel like a small child - and he wasn’t.
He snapped simultaneously at the conclusion from his thoughts as the albino bunny he had previously been giving love-smothering strokes on the head to scampered off with ears darting in as many directions known to mankind, Arthur’s broad and black eyebrows knitting together much to funnily resemble a specific (yet obviously uninvented) bar code you’d find on the back of a Sainsbury’s packet of carrots. The country stumbled to a slow-rising stance, teeth sliding against eachother as he rested a sole hand onto the brim of his bow with much agitated anticipation - something that he had felt time and time again in similar situations that had indoctrinated him to understand defence in vulnerability. His other hands unnaturally elegant fingertips snaked their way across the bark of the unmentioned tree resting behind him, stalking behind it and feeling as though he absolutely embodied the spirit of his national animal.
“Cher!”
The bow was almost instantly drawn with an exceptionally large English war arrow as the two synchronously pounced from the corners, the utterly vexing facial features of the elder France meeting him so ungraciously to the point that he must’ve leapt atleast five feet into the air the second he was hit with the jumpscare of such a revolting creature which in a result had the domino effect of the newly-recognised latter’s incessant French laughter that echoed through his ears like the force of impact from your average catapult. Sweat streamed down from his pore’s as he still intently fixed his bow position as was, blinking in adagio every so often as to mask the obnoxious embarrassment he radiated in a spiritual aura. Apparently, the opposing nation managed to find atleast some stable composure from his cackling fit - as he (dare he say) rather intimidatingly loomed over him with a finger pressed onto the tine of his bow.
“Ohonhonhon! Careful, Angleterre. You wouldn’t want to lose your little fingers now, non?”
Francis gave special emphasis in lowering the weapon for him with a fixed shit-eating grin that made Arthur livid in immediacy, fiercely tempted to shoot the arrow anywho and watch the infuriating French teenager choke on his own pride and hysterical chortling. The smaller and former paced a hefty step backward, huffing from the corner of his mouth in rapidly advancing annoyance that he made sure punctuated his steps onto the heat-scorched grass in such a mood that France could’ve gone another round of girly giggling - though made sure to keep silent as he watched his known frenemy pack away his archery in amusement.
“Hilarious, froggy. . What did you even come here for - you stupid tosser? It’s almost as if you WANT someone from Bodiam Castle to drive an arrow through your thick, melt skull!
In a brief moment of silence and mainly blatant ignorance sourcing from himself and only himself, Francis leant his hand onto the edge of the oak, other arm placed neatly onto his admirably frilly tunic that the English boy couldn’t help but internally envy over despite obviously never dreaming of voicing aloud.
“My, my! You’ve always had a temper, haven’t you? I just came to see mon ami!“
A hand drastically flung to his chest, naturally effeminate posture apostrophising the beginning to end of his certainly dramatising sentence to say the least. He didn’t know what exactly was so alluring about the geographically opposing nation that made convincing Arthur to do something he wanted to an effortlessly achievable goal, though if he still has his memory intact - which he can be sure of in any circumstance possible, France’s charisma battled dangerously to victory over most.
“Fine. Only for a while, then I want you gone, frog. Do turn down the histrionics, by the way.”
France’s smile pranced sideways off of his unsurpassable gob like a simple glitch in the matrix, England wincing in additional abhorrence as the teenager skipped further away - eventually situating himself onto a mound of earth and ushering the younger to sit beside him, which he proceeded with plentiful hesitation as he knew to do. Upon arrival, the French boy post-hasted grabbing his arm with such a force to be considered lethal and linking it with his, smugly playing with the ends of his hair as though they they were the sweetest of friends ever existent.
“Shame that you have such a nice complexion, mon petit Angleterre! You ruin it with hair like that!”
The former’s face puckered like he had crunched dead straight into a lemon, curling his lips into a mediocre snarl and contesting the urge to deck him straight on the nose. Not like it’d make a difference whatsoever - Francis has always been the odd sort for having a decently durable pain tolerance that appeared to punt him head-first out of all risky situations. The shorter huffed, puffing out his chest as he shuffled backward a step.
“Yeah. . You’ve got a face that could frighten an entire troop of cavalry, nevermind your hair, rapunzel.”
The other nation craned his neck like a barn owl, ceasing movement and hurrying to unlink arms as though it hadn’t been his idea in the first place. A passive-aggressive flash of smile was launched in England’s direction as he stretched his arms out in the sense he might be yawning, yet reached out to shove the smaller rolling down the hollow of the hill, stifling a laugh as he yelped in that of a betrayal surprise attack.
“Woops! Anyway, goodbye!”
Grass-stained and infuriated with the deepest kinds of loathe possible, Arthur hurled himself to his feet and began tailing the appointed fugitive with a breathe that nearly took half of the life out of him to perform. The French nation’s hands flailed above him in the air, occasional distant laughter being echoed here and there as Arthur pursued him in strides fuelled from a certain frenemyship. A frenemyship in which he didn’t want, but could be sure he needed as far as he knew.