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The thing is, England had been sure that he was ready for this.
It's not like he doesn't love France anymore- no wait, he doesn't love France! He... sometimes find his presence enjoyable. Yeah, that's more correct.
Anyway, as he was saying, it's not like he doesn't find France's presence enjoyable anymore. It's just that England is tired of the millennia long fights and bickering and insults - hard to believe, he knows. For once, at least for a year, he wants some peace. Peace means to stay away from France and his shenanigans at least for 366 days, since next year will be a leap one, which is better since it means that he gains 24 more hours of some god old alone time he so much craves.
So, that night, he had been ready: armed with his indomitable determination and a few bottles of whiskey drank with an empty stomach, he has approached France with the clear intent of telling him that things between them aren't working - wait, no, that makes it sound like they are together mh. Things between them could have gone better- no, no, that makes him look like he's yearning for something more. Things between them are a disaster like usual and he's tired. Yeah, that sounds alright.
So, he goes up to France and poking his finger into his chest and ignoring how everyone is looking at them the blathers with al the spite he could muster: "Things between us are working better, France!"
Which is not what he meant to say.
France tilts his head, confused: "Pardon?"
"I said, I meant to say, things are not, um, no wait," the two bottles of whiskey make their presence known in the form of a excruciating headache that makes it harder for him to think. "I, ugh, I meant to say-"
Next to them, Scotland shakes his head: "England, you are drunk."
"No I'm not, fuck off you bloody idiot!" he exclaims, pointing at his brother. Then he turns back to France: "Look, France, what I want to say is-"
The words get stuck in his throat for some reason, he can't go on. Uh, how bizarre.
"England, mon amì, if you are done rambling there's something I was meant to ask you," France says, looking strangely coy. Which is a horrible expression on his face.
"Yeah, but first, I need to tell you something-"
"Jesus, England, just spit it out!"
England flips at Scotland: "Shut up, I said!" he shouts before turning back to France, "I'm tired of us fighting."
The music of the bar suddenly stops. Everyone turns towards them, shocked, some amused, some horrified, like one of the signs that could indicate that the world's ending just appeared in front of them.
France blinks, then sighs in relief: "I'm glad you thinks so too."
Oh. That's surprising.
And England's heart totally didn't shatter. Nope.
"Y-You are?" he asks, unsure. The alcohol in his veins makes his eyes sting. Scotland looks at him, now worried,
"Yeah," Francis stands up, grabs his hands and in a move that surprised everyone even more, gets on one knee, "Arthur Kirkland, we are nations. Human things like engagements and marriages should not concern us, since we live for so long and who knows what humans will force us to do in the future. Yet, I know, I'm sure that there's some humanity in us, we are made of humans after all. That is why I want that part of me that is human to be completely devoted to you."
England's eyes bug out when France takes a small, blue box from the internal pocket of his jacket and opens it, revealing a golden ring with a small ruby at the center.
Scotland whistles in appreciation. Nations around them gasps in wonder, some are already teary eyed, some look proud at France.
"Arthur Kirkland, would you marry me?"
England blinks, then blinks again. The ruby sparkles under the dim light of the bar, red like a drop of blood and beautiful against its golden surface of the ring. His eyes sting even more now.
"I... I'm sorry," he manages to say,.
France flinches, dropping his hopeful smile. Scotland gets up, ready to intervene whatever the outcome will be.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry you ARE SUCH AN IDIOT!" England shouts before grabbing the box and laughing hysterically, "Now you are stuck with me Francis Bonnefoy, I'll make your life so miserable the 100 years war will look like a walk in the park, ahah!"
He keeps laughing as he gets up on a table with trembling leg, raising the ring above his head: "Everyone, look at what Francis did. I'm getting married you single bastards! I'm not going to be alone anymore!" he says and laughs again, and the relief that he feels almost makes him fall down and it's only thanks to the intervention of Northern Ireland and Ireland that he doesn't accidentally break his neck.
France sigh, exasperated, but smiling non the less.
"Well, congrats," Scotland pats his shoulder, "I hope you know what you are up to mate."
"Oh don't worry," France says, looking at England with heart eyes as he jumps around showing the ring to a perplexed but cheering crowd, "I am."