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The sky outside was a dull grey. The clouds overhead were the same grey. The diluted light from the gloom was barely noticeable in the office room, which was lit from a similarly dim bulb from the centre of the ceiling. Thick plumes of smoke mingled and curled up the walls with each exhale. The room, like the outside, was dull. And reeked of tobacco. England’s eyes peered towards the outside from where he sat, comfortably with his legs up on the ottoman. To be honest, it was a bit of an exaggeration to call the space an office, really it was a lounge with a desk which had some maybe important papers.
England of course, did not find himself alone in this lounge, sitting across from him in a fat leather chair sat France, who was the source of the incessant smoke. He exhaled again, grey wisps the same colour as the clouds outside.Rolling ash off his cigar he spoke casually.
“You are being awfully quiet today,”
England returned his vision to the room. “Am I meant to be a conversationalist?”
“D’abord, this is your house,” And now it was France’s turn to cast away his gaze into the melancholy outside. ”Deuxième, even if it were not, you are still the one who invited me,”
England sighed. “Even if I were to say anything, I have no doubt that you would ignore it all and we’d stumble into a conversation about something meaningless,”
France set the cigar down on the ashtray. “Peut être… Maybe I wish to enjoy my cigar. You’ve bought fancier ones this time Angleterre!”
Everything about the atmosphere was oh so very dense. The clouds far away, the smoke, the walls that closed around them, the invisible barricade France had put up. England was not easily affected by tobacco smoke, or most ash and soot for that matter, yet he felt as if he would soon choke in that moment.
“France,”
“Hm?”
“Are you not scared?”
France went silent.
“Poland—”
“What? Are you saying I’m next?” France snapped.
Now England was quiet.
“... France, it would not be the first time. Speaking as your ally, I am nothing more but worried—”
“T’inquiéte. My bosses have it figured out, we have a line of defense,” France said, punctuated. He cleared his throat “Maintenant! I know your weather is horrible, but that does not mean your attitude must be!”
England glanced up at him.
“If all hell breaks loose, if war returns I do not want to waste my last moments of peace worrying and being miserable,” France stated. “I want to waste it being happy at the very least. So, Angleterre, pour me that terrible whiskey of yours,”
“...Fine,” England replied. After sitting in a tense and silent room for an hour, he had concluded it would be a waste to keep waiting. Instead, he gave the man what he wanted. He stood from his chair and strode to the desk, where he began to search the drawers for the bottle he kept stowed away.
“I would prefer wine, of course, but I assume I am correct in my judgement that you have none,” France teased as he continued to search.
“Unfortunately, on this rare occasion you are right. Perhaps an even greater misfortune, I cannot find any bloody booze in this office!” England complained.
“Non!”
“Indeed old chap.”
“It seems you’ll have it your way after all,” France sighed. At that England’s mouth curved, just a little.
With this, the air seemed to condense a little less. The lightbulb buzzed a little louder. Tensions in Europe were high, tensions overseas were similar. Had it already been so long since the last war? France — And many others — acted as if one wasn’t rapidly and suddenly approaching. England, as sick as that idea made him, knew it was near. As they fell into their classic rhythm of banter, England felt his anxieties melt, if only a little. France fiddled absently with his cigar as England rummaged for his misplaced whiskey.
England continued to search to no avail, at some point France had joined in, checking behind cushions and shelves. Time continued to pass, the cloudy day blended into a hazy ash-coloured night. England felt a lesser sense of frustration at this, until—
“Voila!” France pulled out a suspicious looking bottle from a box he found under a chair.
“Did you find it?!” England dusted off his pants, he had been checking underneath a large sofa. He stood
“Non! But I have found some horrible beer Prusse must have gifted you nearly a century ago!”
“That can’t be safe to eat!” England exclaimed as he flicked on a few lights to illuminate the room.
“Are you the type to care about that?”
England huffed in reply.
And so the two of them sat down again, on those stiff chesterfields, now debating the bottle placed on the centre table before them. With warm light beaming down on it, the bottle did look… less… suspicious…
“To drink or not to drink..” France said, tapping his fingers on his cheek.
“I reckon it was Shakespeare who said that,” England said sarcastically.
“Non, I am sure it was me at least two centuries before him,” France joked.
England glanced at the bottle, and then at France, contemplating. France did the same. They said nothing aloud, but had mutually come to the agreement that ”We have drunk much worse.”
England picked it up, inspecting the liquid inside. It was still liquid. Good to note. He screwed off the metal cap, and without smelling it took a swig.
He gulped it down and gagged.
“That is absolute shit! Bloody hell, did Prussia curse this bottle?!” England coughed.
France snatched the bottle from his hand “It is merely beer, it is disgusting on its own, how bad could it be?” He closed his eyes and drank.
It was strong. He spat it out almost instantly.
“England, are you trying to poison me?”
“You’re the one who suggested we try it. God!” England replied, still coughing. “Did we drink Prussia's piss or something?” His coughs were interrupted by giggles. Really. It was horrible.
France wiped his mouth and laughed. “Only you, mon ami, I rightfully spat it out,”
At this England could not help but laugh a little louder. France dared England to drink it again, and before they knew it the two of them were drunk. Drunk on enemy booze in a dim office while troops marched forward.
It was only the liquor’s doing. It had made England push France down onto the leather, and climb atop him. It was the drink that made France place his hand on the small of England's back to pull him closer, till their chests were pressed together.
How far and forgotten all those concerns were, of Germany’s new conquest. Now, in this cold, overdressed room, simply the two of them remained. Still, at the back of England’s mind an unease would wander to the front.
“...France..”
France smiled lopsidedly, waiting for him to continue.
“When Germany invades you..” England muttered. “I promise I’ll stay with you.. No.. I won’ leave ya’ not ever” He slurred, fiddling with France’s collar.
France opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and simply stared at England, with a softness in his glossy eyes. England made a noise like “hmph” and stared back at him expectantly.
“Mm.. What is it now?”
“Say it back, frog,” England pouted.
“Say what?” His accent was stronger under the effects of alcohol.
“You know.. What I just said t’ya” England furrowed his brows.
France copied him, and began to speak. “I.. will not leave you,”
England rested his head on the space between France’s neck and shoulder. France instinctively stroked England’s hair, which ushered him to bury his face within that crook.
“Say not even during war, or peace, or union”
“..Not under war or peace or union”
“An’ that you promise it..” England’s words were said into his skin.
“Je promets.” And France felt England smile into his neck.
“Good..”
France exhaled and planted a soft kiss to the top of England’s head. England reciprocated by leaving a chaste one on France’s neck, which caused him to flinch slightly. Drowsy, the two of them rested there, in each other’s arms, and rested until their affections melted to slumber.
…
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
…
Wind roared amidst the sound of soldiers running. They chased dingy boats to carry them across the channel. Sand blew from their footsteps, from the wind and the blaring horn of boats docking. Though it was spring, there was no indicator of it. Not from the sharp chill or overcast skies.
That scene before, a faded memory now in England’s mind. He had not expected it to be so sudden in its own way. The whole ordeal was expected but by God they were not prepared for the scale in the slightest.
Germany had arrived, and England found that France was being difficult once more. Now beside him, crouched behind bags of sand and piles of rubble, sat France. With a stern look on his face, as if he were looking for something in nothing at all.
“We’ve waited long enough, for heaven's sake, France we need to evacuate!” England had suggested this two days ago, on the 28th of May. Now it was the 30th, and France was still reluctant to leave.
By now, the majority of soldiers had left, and the hundreds that remained were leaving with great urgency on fishing boats and ferries. England knew that he and France should do the same. He had urged France to follow his lead, and escape across the channel, but France would not budge, despite thousands of his soldiers departing to England all the same.
England nudged France's shoulder, his hands were damp from the spray of the sea, and coated in small particles of sand and sawdust.
“France,” England started.
“I will not leave.” France said, punctuated.
It was the same answer every time, England’s patience was beginning to grow thin. He pursed his lips. England, being an island, had always had this sort of immunity in warfare. Hard to reach, hard to hurt. France never had that grace. Nevertheless England could easily empathise with France’s need to be there for his people. It was their purpose of course.
Evacuation was the number one priority, why couldn’t France see that? They would retreat to England and regroup for further planning. Simple! Churchill had said the same, and England did agree. With the Germans entering France so viciously, it was really their best hope.
France was a creature of the heart, not the mind; Stubborn as all weathered nations were. France was not completely and utterly unreasonable however! So why was he so insistent on staying?
When the evacuation had first started, England, with his heartbeat racing in his ears, had pulled France by the arm and dashed onto the first boat with all the other soldiers desperate for home. France had ripped his arm out from England’s steel grip the second he had figured that England was dragging him aboard. He cried some speel about how:
“I must stay for my people!” Do you have a death wish? England had thought that day.
The wind grew harsher as nightfall came, and France grew weaker with every second. He found himself lying down on the sand as the last rowboat for the night departed, with ten or so soldiers cramming aboard as it sailed off. England stepped out of the small tent he had assembled to bring France to the small inside he could offer. He looked down at the man, taking in the sorry state of his companion. Frances' breathing was ever so slightly ragged as he looked to the moonless sky above.
“It’s cold out here. If you are insistent, at least come inside,” England offered, frowning.
“I want to watch the stars. I have no need to hide away in that sorry ‘tent’ of yours,” France said.
England looked up to the sky, it was overcast. There were no stars to be seen, still, he decided he would humour the man. England scoffed and went inside his tent where he fell asleep soon after.
The next morning, England awoke to the same dreary scene. And the next morning, and the next, and—
England awoke to an outburst of radio static.
“—KIRKLAND”
”—CAPTAIN KIRKLAND ARE YOU PRESENT? OVER.”
England scrambled out of the fold up cot he laid in and grabbed for the radio. “Yes, yes! I’m alive!” he spoke frantically, pulling on his coat. “Over.”
“WE HAVE BEEN NOTIFIED THAT YOU ARE STILL STATIONED OUT AT DUNKIRK. WE DO NOT BELIEVE WE CAN CONTINUE TO EVACUATE. WE URGE YOU, AND ALL OTHER SOLDIERS TO EVACUATE BY TONIGHT. OVER.” Static again.
Suddenly, England thought of France. France would never agree to leave. Not unless England could drag him away before he could notice. That was the problem. That thorn in his side, again, it was France. Had it always been France? The Germans had given up on their little pitstop days ago. Casualties were piling up, this would be his last chance for he and France to escape this small, enclosed hell of theirs.
Quickly he began to unassemble his lodgings. He glanced over his shoulder at France, who sat resting his back to a few large, stacked bags of sand. The man's face looked paler than before. These past few days he had only continued to worsen, if only slightly. France would die out here if they didn’t make a break for it. His breathing grew shallower still, his eyes were pressed shut. England felt a lump form in his throat. He had only seen France this week a few times before. Once several centuries ago, when Normandy was still a man who could live and breathe. The second was merely a few centuries ago, back when he was similarly ill.
And England’s mind was suddenly caught up once more, in this millennium long caper between the two of them. Back when France was ill… He had come to England for help, then flaked and fled the second he got what he wanted. Years later, England had found that France was on a power trip of Europe. His lips twitched into a smile at the memory. Yes, back when war was a glorious thing, he and France were surely something.
England placed his coat on France’s body before checking up on his battalion.
If deception were the only option, then England was willing to take it. He approached France while he was heating a small tin of rations. The French ones had always been of higher quality. He cleared his throat. He had not mentioned the radio call he had received.
“Come to the beach with me,” England’s request was more of a demand.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been lying sick, cooped up in this corner for days,”
“Fine.”
“Let’s go,” England offered his hand. France took it and used it to lift himself from the ground.
The two started their stroll along the sand. England held France’s hand the whole time, as if he would disappear had he let go. England guided them along a strange path, passing soldiers, making small talk. If he could distract him long enough, soon enough the two of them would be sat on a boat destined for Dover.
“Angleterre,” France turned his head to stare at the footprints they left behind.
“Hm?”
“Where exactly are you taking me?” England halted.
“We’re going to walk along the beach,” He said, his voice wavered only slightly.
“We are already doing that.”
“A bit closer to the shore is all,”
“Angleterre,” France started. His voice sounded hoarser than days prior.
“Please France—” he begged.
“It won’t be of any use,”
“Your people won't disappear if you retreat to London, please France.”
“Have you heard what’s happened to Belgium? To Holland and Poland and everyone else?”
“Do y—”
“England, you know as well as I how they can destroy. You know I am brave, I am persistent. I will be hard to hurt” France looked England in the eyes.
England’s brows furrowed. “Well I don’t want you to be hurt!” He approached France, their feet only inches apart. “I don’t want Germany to leave you in ruin again. Can’t you see it would be better off if you left? Your people need you, yes, but I need you too!” He grabbed for France’s shoulders and dug his fingers to them, shaking him slightly. “You can’t just give up and blame it on some noble cause..!”
“I am not giving up! I am making a decision!” France shouted.
“A stupid decision!” England replied, his frustration now clear. “A stupid selfish decision that will help no one!” France was silent, and looked off, away from England. “Being stubborn helps no one! Honestly! When I see you lying out on the ground, with no care, no vigor, no— France, I wonder, when you give up like this, do you even want to live?” England spat.
France exhaled. He gave a small smile, one where you could tell he was lost in some other thought, judging you in some other way. “I cannot leave my people, Angleterre. In any other circumstance, maybe, maybe I wouldn’t pick this, but do I really have the choice? I am old enough to know I am a nation before I am a human.” He began to pry England’s fingers from his shoulder. “You act as if you would not do the same thing in these circumstances…” England frowned at this. France didn’t know that, what he would and would not do.
England has decided that France was blinded in his weakness. He was making a poor choice because he was too weak to think properly. England should be strong for the both of them. This is the conclusion England came to.
This was the course of action England took:
He let go of France’s shoulders and instead grabbed for his hand. England inhaled, and swallowed. “I understand you have made your decision…” At this, France whipped his head back to England, his eyes slightly wide in surprise. “As have I.”
And England ran.
He ran as fast as he could, grabbed France’s hand as tight as he could, gripped it so hard he could feel France’s racing pulse against his from even their smallest veins. Sand seemed to pull him down by his boots, and the wind seemed to send cold, sharp particles into his face, but it did not matter. If France would not make the right choice, he would. France in his weakened state, was dragged along, there were moments when England nearly tripped.
England’s heart raced. He panted, he could see the boat in the distance, full of people, seconds to departure. He felt the blood roar in his ears, his face felt cold. Less than two feet now, their gate out of newborn hell. Only a foot now. Water brushed against the fabric of England’s uniform as he pushed through the shallow.
One foot on the tarnished metal floor of the boat, he felt the dingy creak, at the same time he felt it move forward from beneath his feet. “We’re going home, France!” England shouted, loosening his grip on France’s hand, England would have turned around to face France, to pull him aboard.
“Je suis désolé, Arthur.” a whisper, England nearly missed it.
“I am sorry, Arthur.”
A soldier shouted something, and the boat began to speed away. England now only began to process what happened. As he looked back at the rapidly shrinking beach, he saw the face of France, standing there looking stern — As if to say “I do not regret what I have done.” France turned away, and melted back into the scenery of the western front.
England almost tried to jump off the boat, swim back till he could drag France on board for sure, but a soldier held him back. He did not fight back anymore. No, this battle was a loss. He sat back down, squished beside several other cold, tired soldiers. In the end, Dunkirk had been a horrible surrender. In the grand scheme, the Allies had lost another battle, having to resort to a rather embarrassing evacuation.
England had lost something, someone, very dear.
…
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
…
A month or so had passed since he had last seen France, let alone heard from him. England had last received word of his surrender, the coward. So much talk about standing up for your people, yet you surrender the moment you face the threat. England found himself scowling when he thought too much about it.
England had been stressed, and without France he felt like there was nowhere for him to turn to. No shoulder to hit or scratch or weep on. As spring carried on, and the war progressed, he found the days blurring amassed by the destruction and silence these new wars brought. England suddenly coughed hard, the kind that burns your chest and leaves your throat tingling, your lungs raw. He jerked in the way people do when they erupt in a fit of coughs, and messed the papers on his desk.
He had sent a telegram to America requesting help with the war effort, the boy had replied saying he would send his support. Well, America was less of a boy these days. England cleared his throat and shoved the remaining papers into his desk. His eye caught a flash of some half written letter, the writing was smudged and faded from a spill. His eyes scanned the page briefly, when he caught sight of who it was addressed to, he crumpled it and rammed it in the drawer with the rest of his writing.
He needed a break, that was all. Unfortunately he had much more work to finish in this sitting. Unfortunately. His body tired itself out as he continued to work through the papers, various orders, receipts and plans for operations. It had been a few hours and his desk was a mess once more. God, he needed some tea. He was massaging his temples when a knock came at the door.
“Captain!” A young soldier, England was not familiar with the boy.
“Yes, come in,” He could hold back the fatigue in his tone.
“It’s a letter for you sir! Er.. Sorry, Captain. Sir!” the boy stammered, producing a small letter from his pocket.
England didn’t look at the boy any longer, turning his attention to the accounts on his desk. Instead he motioned for the pile to his right. “Leave it in the pile, son,” And waved the boy off.
“Sir, you may want to look at this one now..”
“I’ll look at it like I’ll look at everything else, now run along,” He motioned for the boy to leave once more.
The boy approached the desk, leaving the letter on top of the pile, but urged again. “I don’t know what’s special about it but I think it’s very important for you Sir.” Who did this kid think he was?
“Right, I’ll look to it as soon as I can,” England said again, giving the boy a trying smile. Why was he so insistent? And couldn’t he tell England was annoyed?
“Private Williams said you’d be waiting for it.. Sorry…” The soldier must have noticed England’s displeasure. “..Sorry Sir!” He corrected.
“Williams? Canadian troops?” England’s head tilted, a small bit of curiosity struck him. And in the back of his throat, he felt a tiny lump of hope creep back up.
“Ah.. Yes Sir! I believe so! He said the letter—” England shooed the boy away. The boy understood and with a salute, dashed out of the office. England picked up the letter and looked at the stamp. France. For a second he felt his heart stutter.
He doesn’t even think he did anything for the first few minutes he held the letter, just gawked at it, examining it. The corners had been bruised slightly, the envelope crumpled, little jagged lines along the body of the creme coloured paper marked the letters journey. He looked at the stamp, a tiny sepia shaded patch picturing a nurse tending to a patient, a prominent red cross accenting the image. Along the back of the envelope, in rushed, slightly shaky, looping black ink read: ‘Westminister, To: M. Kirkland’. He just sat there, too scared to open it. Part of him could not fathom that it was real, and in his hands.
What would it even say? The writing on the outside was quite messy, in this condition he could barely tell if it was even France’s. What if it wasn’t? What if some other higher up, perhaps even a subordinate had sent it? Could it be a letter of casualty? No. They could not die, that would be absurd. — Unless, under the occupation..? What if this was the last message he would receive from France? He would never know. England’s breathing quickened slightly, he inhaled sharply, willing it to stop. England tucked the letter into the pocket of his shirt, he would not open it now. The paper inside could contain confirmation of all the wickedness his brain could conjure, or the last flower of hope his heart held. Maybe both, maybe neither. Either way, he refused to open that letter.
—
England would have to thank Canada later for sending it his way, he thought. His home was located close to his office, an antique looking house even for modern standards. Its bricks had seen more wear these days, England would have to renovate it soon. Stepping inside, he removed his shoes and dropped his bags by the door. He removed his jacket, pulled his tie loose and sank down to his feet.
England liked to think he had developed a defense to protect himself over the years, one only meant to protect the self, and only the self. It consisted of isolation, the imagination, and the art of denial, to convince himself that he wanted this. You cannot feel lonely if you choose to be alone. You cannot feel unloved if you convince yourself you are above love, that you do not need it.
And for the most part it had worked. When people left him he was certain it was because he wanted them gone, this was his choice. When he lost it was part of something greater. Those pathetic things that served to remind him of the shrunken hollow in his heart did not exist to him. He was persistent, he would move past all those terrible things, leave them behind and shove them aside.
France was an exception to this rule. France had always managed to tear down this defense of his. Even when apart there was this unspoken entente: When I run, chase me. When you run, I’ll chase you.
And this time around, France had stopped chasing, had stopped playing the game all together. Even if all was lost, England knew France would be there, insulting him, teasing him, smiling and frowning and laughing and screaming all the same. France would never leave his side. France was not allowed to leave his side.
France was not allowed to fall unless England was the one tripping him.
England scolded himself and picked himself up off the floor. He stepped through his house. One pair of shoes by the door. England was used to being alone. He checked his pantry, no food in the house. His eyes scanned the empty shelves. It was alright, it wasn’t an absolute necessity for him. He would just eat less. He closed the cupboard doors.
Each day it felt as if France’s absence hung over him stronger than his presence ever had. England wiped his face with the facecloth to the left of the sink. He buttoned up his pajamas, his fingers had to fiddle with the buttons longer than usual tonight. England tucked himself into bed. It was not simply the fact that France was gone, it was the fact England did not know when he would return, it was the fact he could not chase after him in the way he was conditioned to.
England remembered the letter in his pocket, his stomach knotted. Tomorrow. He’d open it tomorrow. He told himself.
The next day progressed as it did the day before, and the day after, and the day after. The monotony of war, ‘The monotony your absence has left me with.’ England thought as he shook his umbrella dry.
England’s keys rattled as he fished for the one to his home. Twisting the doorknob he allowed himself entry. Suddenly, his nose was ambushed by a warm scent. Someone was cooking food in his house! This alarmed England initially, but as the aroma lingered he realized it was something familiar.
Carrots, onions, celery, and the unmistakable smell of beef broth. England kicked off his shoes as fast as he could, he raced to his kitchen. He knew that smell, that unforgettable smell. France was cooking, France was here for him. France was back.
He saw the figure in his kitchen, tending to the stove. Tall, slim, medium length blonde hair hanging above his shoulders. His uniform was akin to England's. England’s heart stopped racing. No, this was not France.
“Ah! Sorry for intruding.. I heard from someone you seemed unwell these past few days and so..” Canada started to explain, dropping the wooden spoon in his hands onto the counter.
England shook his head, blinking a few times. “It’s quite alright lad,” Now averting his gaze.
“Did you receive the letter?”
“What?”
“The one papa sent a week or so ago”
“…I haven’t found the time to read it yet.”
“Oh, okay,” Canada turned back to the stove.
“Matthew,”
“..Yes?” He said meekly.
“That pot au feu, or what I’m assuming is pot au feu,” England corrected, and began to walk to the stove. “It smells remarkably similar to the kind the frog used to make,”
Canada smiled at this. “It’s his recipe… Uhm.. He always said it was your favourite so I tried to..”
England felt his throat tense. “Is that so?”
He should be angrier, he should be more vengeful towards France. Angry that the smell of ‘his’ cooking could nearly bring him to tears. His throat closed up, Canada stood there sheepishly. England suddenly hugged him, pulling his boy into his arms. Canada lost his balance for a second. The positioning was awkward, their bodies weren’t facing each other properly. Canada tried to lean down the best he could. They stayed like that for a moment, until England pulled away.
“I’m sorry Matthew, thank you for this. Really, thank you,” England said, trying his best to keep his voice level.
“It’s alright dad. I’ll always be here, you know,” Canada fixed his glasses, which were fogging up. England replied with a pat on the boy's back.
“Now, we should eat, shouldn't we?” He offered. Canada nodded. After a brief plating the two of them sat down and ate in relative silence. England savoured each bite, it smelt the same but the flavour was just a bit off, France used more salt.
He would open the letter tomorrow.
—
German airstrikes on London had left large open blisters all over England's chest and body. England had started changing the bandages wound around him habitually. This was the blitz everyone else had experienced and now it was his turn.
As the war progressed England had begun to cope, this was how things were meant to go. Nations should adapt, they should not wallow for too long, Both England and heaven knew no good would come from lingering around a single moment.
But when England laid in bed every night, amidst the burning of his skin and the booms outside the thought would creep back into his mind. Why didn’t he run faster, why didn’t he pull harder when he had the chance. Why did he look back? Why did he let his spirits rise so soon? Overthinking in this state made bile rise up his throat. England swallowed it down and then back up as he began to cough harshly.
That letter from months ago had not moved from the pocket of England’s shirt. He did not wear that shirt as often anymore, when he did he felt the weathered and crushed paper of the envelope burrow into his undershirt when he moved. England had been too busy, too sick, too scared of what Pandora’s letter may contain to open it.
England’s vision felt bleary, his lips felt dry, oh, he could barely move tonight. Every breath felt like an agonizing, sharp, pressure pushing down on his chest, daring him to inhale. England had not died in a long time. Was this what it felt like? He had forgotten.
He gasped for air, and coughed harder, forcing himself upright. England would not die tonight. He looked up to the popcorn texture of his ceiling, he could not die yet, he still had to drag France back. He heaved himself out of bed and towards his wardrobe, small tremors shook his hands.
Damn that bastard! Damn that fool who ran, that fool who keeps running. France was a coward, and England was not. England would not let himself fall into the same cowardice. France was selfish in his act of selflessness, England was the opposite. England would do the most selfish thing he could, he would take France for himself. He would rip him out of German hands if it meant losing his fingers. His lungs burned, his skin felt like it was going to fall off. He pulled a drawer open, skimmed through the shirts until he found the right one.
His fingers brushed against the rougher fabric of the shirt. Desperation came in many forms, England tried to not come across as a desperate man, but bleeding and hacking slumped over his wardrobe he could not seem any less. Maybe desperation is what he needed, maybe if he was more desperate that day he would be in bed with France, France would be sat tight against him, wiping his forehead of any sweat. England's lip trembled as he pulled the paper out of the fabric.
The same writing on the outside was harder to decipher now, marred by sweat and wear. England staggered back into bed, breathing growing more erratic as he peeled back the envelope. The paper inside was thin, and smudged. He pulled out the parchment and began to read.
Mon cher Arthur,
England wanted to crumple it up already.
I am sorry for not choosing you. In any other circumstance it would be you, you know this, right?
Liar!
I can not keep this letter very detailed, as I have fear that it will be intercepted. Things are not as bad as they could be, I think this every day. Aussi, I think of you. Every corner of my mind, every time I think of hope I think my Arthur will be here soon, my Arthur will write back to me soon.
England felt a guilty sort of sickness flood his stomach.
I am sure someone like you has been waiting for my reply for a while. I am sorry for taking so long. If we work together I am certain this war will not last long, no longer than the last, God forbid. Arthur, I have not eaten in a very long time, did you know that? At times like these I dream of food, I believe I would settle for even your excuse of a cuisine at this time. Can you imagine?
England felt his lips pull and crack, a stinging tingling sensation. France, the jerk, was trying to be funny. Dancing around his words, even in writing. That was a bad habit of France’s, his love to be vague about anything and everything. You could ask him a simple question, ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ and he would flourish the sentence but never give a proper answer. If England were to imagine, he would picture something along the lines of ‘Mon ami! All colours are wonderful, with so much variety! The heart cannot help but fall in love with colour! Oh yes! But, your favourite colour must be more interesting, non?’ and suddenly it was your turn to answer.
Even in such dire times France was willing to keep up the charade. A dark line pulled itself open along the creases of England's bottom lip, his mouth tasted like iron. England shouldn’t smile at something like this, this was no smiling matter, but seeing France’s writing, it was like he could hear his voice sprouting from the ink.
The letter went on, how he was doing, a load of strategic stuff on resistance. Every letter, every word, each sentence England savoured. He brought the paper close to his face, by now it smelt of himself, but England wondered if he had opened it sooner, would it have smelt of perfume? Ash? France’s preferred brand of cigarettes?
That sort of fear that disguised itself as bravery was gone, England’s eyes scanned the pages over and over and over, treasuring the words, yes, but also searching for something. He didn’t know what for, maybe being sick and weak made him superstitious. Maybe there was a sign in shorthand somewhere on the page, that France was planning his escape, and by now he’d be here. England bit his lip.
Minutes passed, maybe it was longer, England stayed hunched on the ground with that paper in his hands for God knows how long. With a grunt, he pushed himself back on his feet. He glanced at the letter one last time.
Arthur, tu me manques. T'inquiète, The war is not won. I am certain we will meet again.
Toujours,
Avec amour,Francis.
England sat down in bed, it creaked beneath him. He shuffled until he was under the sheets, in his hand he gripped the letter, creasing it further. He smoothed it out with his fingers and brought it close to his face. Bringing two fingers to his lips, he gave them a small kiss, then with oh so gently with shaking hands he touched the last line of the letter, letting his fingers rest on it. His eyes felt blurry and hot, his face felt wet. When did that happen?
He realized he hadn’t cried in years, what time was it? How long had it been? England blinked away the tears, and furrowed his brows, pulled his lips tight. How dare that man make him cry!
England would have to have revenge for this!
He’d have to drag France across the channel for something like this, wouldn’t he now?