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Ah, Paris
The city of love, the capital of one of the most adored tourist destinations in all of Europe. Maybe even the whole world. The country of France is one adored by many - famous for its culture, cuisine and of course, for being the Country of Love.
Naturally, the personification of this beautiful country was a man of romance himself. France was a perfect reflection of his country’s reputation: elegant, stylish, romantic, extravagant - full of feeling and expression that were almost that of an actual regular human being. The biggest difference was all the history, the burdens, the responsibility that come with being a sentient nation - and how much they weigh down one’s capacity to express those feelings properly.
And yet, he couldn't help but dream on with a smile. Some may call him a tragic, hopeless man. And maybe that’s true, but is tragedy not just a part of experiencing emotion?
The man in question stood out on his balcony, dawning nothing but a dark blue bathrobe, and a glass of wine in his hand - as if it were an accessory. He leaned over the railing, tips of dirty-blonde hair waving in the wind, as France looked over the night-lit city of Paris. Despite the dark skies, the streets were lit up by the glow of golden streetlights, and the people were as active and busy as ever. True to the city’s reputation, the street was buzzing with happy couples. Hugging by the streetlight, walking hand in hand as they talk about nothing in particular, returning from shopping together - it was domestic bliss outside on the streets. And France looked on, a saddened smile on his face as he watched the people of his capital city live their lives. He let out a sigh, leaning into the palm of his free hand that had been supporting his head, swirling around the glass of wine in the other. He’d already drank enough that day, but what kind of Frenchman would look out onto the streets without a glass in hand? So it ended up serving as more of a prop, than anything.
His eyes drifted from one pair to another - from one person to the next. They all looked so happy. And truly, France considered them all to be blessed. After all, they could live fully fulfilling lives, they could love, they could make decisions - follow their dreams, their free will as individuals.
All things that a nation could never allow himself to do.
His eyes followed a young red haired woman. She seemed mildly familiar - perhaps he’d flirted with her before? Or maybe more. Indulging in pleasure when you can’t commit to or experience pure lasting love is the closest form of relief, is it not? Of course, lust and love are completely different things - but one is better than neither is it not? Some may call him ‘dirty’ or ‘perverted’ and sure, those labels aren’t completely inapplicable, but in his mind what he probably was more than anything - is desperate. Desperate to touch, to feel, to love - to experience something forbidden to him. The red haired woman laughed as she seemed to have spotted a man, running over to embrace him. He accepted her with open arms, lifting and spinning her around in the air as if he’d picked up someone who’d meant the world to him. And probably, she did. A sight like this brought a smile to France’s face. After all, he - he himself - is the country of love, and if his people can find love - then he will happily watch as they celebrate.
And sure, there was a lot of truth in that statement - but France knew it wouldn’t stop him from the continued yearning for a different life.
To experience the life of a regular human being…
What would that be like?
Curiosity is a funny thing, is it not?
France could bet that many humans wonder what it would be to exist in his position as well.
If only they realized how much better their lives are.
‘Til death do us part’
It’s a nice thought to have, isn’t it?
“Oi, frog, what the bloody hell are you standing there so long for?”
A grating and far too British voice interrupted France’s thoughts, snapping his attention away from his dear people and onto the angry eyebrow man crossing his arms in the entrance to the balcony. “Ah, Anglettere, you’re still here?” France hummed, turning to face him, as he swirled the wine in his glass around in rhythm with his movements. “Thought you would’ve headed back by now. Perhaps you like it here in Paris after all?”
The Englishman scoffed at that, rolling his eyes, “As if.” he walked over to France, the deadpan expression not letting up - and being accentuated into annoyance by those. atrociously giant eyebrows of his. “What’s so interesting that you’d space out for half an hour here anyway?” He joined France, leaning over the balcony, and looking down at the view - unimpressed.
“Paris is simply beautiful at night, don't you think so, mon ami?” France replied with an elegant casualty as he looked back towards the street.
“No, no I don’t think so,” England responded sharply, yet his gaze remained transfixed on the streets.
The red haired woman and the man had disappeared out of view - perhaps they had gone home? The scenery is everchanging - yet the sense of isolation remains in that fondness with which France watches over his people. More happy couples traverse beneath the balcony as the two nations watch on.
“London has a much better scenery, really.” England commented, unprompted.
“Mon dieu please tell me you're joking.” France turned to look at him in astonishment.
“Why would I be joking?! there’s plenty of sights to see in London”
“Sights, yes, while you do have some.. decent locations at your place, it does not matter because it’s all covered in gray”
“What’s that supposed to mean exactly?!”
“It means that even if you had interesting locations or architecture, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy any beauty at all, because the weather is so dreadful"
“I’ll have you know - London is not nearly as ‘dull’ as all you foreigners seem to think it is” England retorted, lying through his teeth.
“Perhaps the amount of constant rain clouds made you blind to the dreadful atmosphere.. That's a plausible theory, non?”
“Stop spouting nonsense, you wanker”
At the sharp response, France let out a softened version of his signature laugh, as his gaze drifted back to the people. A beat passed, the two had entered a sense of unspoken agreement to watch the passing figures without a word. It was calm, quiet. France felt that in an odd way - this sort of tranquility was just what he needed now.
They really did know one another far too well for comfort, didn’t they?
The man beside him had also been looking down, yet unlike France - his eyes were unfocused. It was clear he was only tilting his head in that direction - not actually watching anything going on. France gazed over at his profile. Strangely enough, their everpresence in each other's lives was the biggest constant he could lean on, wasn’t it? The amount of rhetorical questions he’d been asking himself this evening must be reaching some sort of capacity by now. France felt his expression twist into a melancholy smile, after all - despite how much he really couldn’t stand this man sometimes, whatever they had - was truly special. There was a lot unspoken over the thousands of years, and yet, he felt they understood each other anyway.
“Merci, mon cher” he let out, softly, as if this sort of basic human decency was something sacred - that shouldn’t ever become real between them.
England’s head raised to look at France in a mixture of surprise and confusion, as all he uttered was, “huh?”
So, France spoke again, “Thank you, England”
“For what?”
“You know what.”
“I have no idea what you mean, frog.”
And just like that, the silence returned. France placed the, still full, glass down on the railing, and leaned on it himself with his elbows. The shimmering glow of the streetlights reflected in his eyes. It was quite pleasant, actually. In a way, this reminded him of similarly quiet moments between the two of them way back when. Thousands of years ago now, really. When they were both so young, so small - so brand new. They bickered even then, but every once in a while they’d sit by a river or beneath a tree and just enjoy the quiet of the moment. The soft wind caressed the two nations, playing gently with their hair. The insults thrown around had long since lost any meaning or true malice they used to carry - it was more like a custom they had to follow whenever they interacted with one another. France didn’t mind it, again, it was a stable constant he found himself being used to. But he definitely preferred the peace of a mutually understanding silence, or the warmth of unspoken feelings hanging in the air around them as they stood by one another's side by a lot. If time had stopped right here, and they could just keep standing out on the balcony together, looking down at the Parisian streets - he felt he wouldn’t mind that one bit.
Bathed beneath the faint glow of the moon, and illuminated by the golden streetlights below. What a beautiful state to be frozen in time in, is it not?
By the side of the one who knows you best. Who you despise as much as you adore. ‘Greatest adversary’ isn’t too far off from ‘confidant’ in a way, right?
“Have you ever wanted to become human?”
“Huh?”
France broke the silence without realizing, eliciting a response of befuddled noise from the Englishman.
Despite the latter's confusion, France didn’t elaborate, so England prompted him again, “What are you asking that for all of a sudden?”
France didn’t respond, his eyes transfixed on the scenery - on the liveliness - below the balcony. His gaze was distant, glazed over. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely. As if rather than being consumed by the nightly view, he was instead consumed by the notions of life that come with experiencing it. Such a far away and melancholy look was a rare sight on the man, who was usually so full of elegant or flamboyant energy in every interaction and any given moment.
Of course, England has known him forever. He knew that France had this.. odder, quieter side to him. In a way - it was fascinating. Just how different can his demeanor be? On the other, it always made England curious - if not a bit helpless. France had that side to him ever since they were young, and whenever he’d manage to catch glimpses of it back then - England would always be struck with the realization that he really didn’t understand this man as completely as he would’ve thought he does. Back then, back when they were kids - England would look on from afar at how France would sometimes choose to sit alone by the river and gaze into the distance - usually at villages full of people. While France would observe life, England would observe him - trying, and failing to figure him out. At some point, he started walking over to France in those moments and sitting beside him. Something about that just felt right to do.
Then the moment would pass - and they would go back to fighting and bickering again.
Thousands of years ago, he’d started noticing these sorts of moments. To this day - he hadn’t fully understood the inner workings of France’s brain in their entirety. And yet, to this day - he felt drawn to join him and share the quiet.
Another moment passed, before France turned to smile at him again, “Just a question, mon cher. Nothing to get riled up over.” his smile was light - resigned. As if whatever going through his mind was desperately looking to present itself as a casualty rather than curiousity or relief.
“Well it’s a bloody stupid question if you ask me”
France laughed, it wasn’t boisterous or grand as usual - it was soft, fond even. “Ah, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“If you keep asking me the same questions, I’m going to keep answering the same way.” England all but scoffed, under his breath. It was a frustrating question, really. ‘what if you were a human’ is a thought as depressing as it is unnecessary to think about. They aren’t. That’s all that matters. There should be nothing else to think about. “We aren’t, that’s all.”
“Hm? Is that your answer then?”
“No, it’s a recipe for scones - of course it's my answer” England huffed, rolling his eyes.
“Well now, if your entire recipe did consist of nothing but an unrelated phrase, that would explain a lot..”
“Don’t start.” England shot France down immediately, prompting a chuckle from the latter in response.
For a moment, silence fell again. England looked back out into the street, but he could tell France didn’t do the same. He felt a pair of eyes still on him, so he snapped his head back to face him with a questioning expression again. “What now?”
“Have you never even considered the idea then?”
“Bloody hell” England muttered under his breath in a frustrated sigh. He should’ve expected this prick to not let go of the annoying question so easily. And yet, when he looks to the side, and he sees those glazed over eyes - filled with uncertainty and a yearning that could never be fulfilled - he feels obliged to give some semblance of a proper answer. It takes a beat. Maybe two. As England picks up the few ideas scattered about his brain - and tries to formulate a, relatively polite, and coherent thought, “Well, I definitely haven’t thought about it as much as you.”
The response seems to work at getting France’s attention, so the Brit continues, “I probably humoured the idea at some point.. Probably over a thousand years ago.. When I was only beginning to realize the ways in which we are different from humans.. I hadn’t thought about it much on my own, but there probably was a moment in which I asked, ‘What would it be like to live as a human?’.. But to me, it was a passing curiousity. Nothing more than that” He finished, leaning on the railing again, after deeming his answer satisfactory.
It took a second for France to respond, it seemed like he was trying to pick his words very carefully when he spoke next, “I see.. So it never lingered in your mind as some sort of relief?”
“I’m not like you, and you know it, France.” England retorted, sharp, yet harmless. ‘Relief’. ‘Relief’ from what? “We’re nations, we have responsibilities. We exist to be political tools - but also to help the people in our countries have fulfilling lives. There’s no point in us chasing after such things ourselves. You know very well it’s impossible.”
“That sure does sound like something you would say.” France hummed in response, “Haven’t you ever felt tired?”
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of existing for a purpose, not being able to be an individual. .. Of every decision you make, having to be political or somehow impactful to your country. Of being unable to live - despite being alive for so, so very long..” His tone shifted in parts, it remained level and calm, yet some dips in his cadence felt almost like glass that’s a few wrong steps away from shattering. And yet, he remained wearing that resigned smile, as his gaze wandered along.
“France?” England took a step, moving against the railing to stand just a bit closer to the other man.
“Have you ever felt tired of living?”
“What?”
“Just the idea of living - knowing you can’t form any meaningful connections because you’d outlive them all. Of knowing you have to forever be alone because nobody you could love would last. I’ve seen many people of my country die, and many more witness deaths of their loved ones. Some grieved, some smiled in remembrance - but they all found comfort in knowing they’d meet again beyond life.. .. Then there’s beings like us. We have to watch everything shift, change, die and be reborn again, and one day we could just” France made a ‘poof’ motion with his fingers “Just like that to make way for new countries. We don’t ever truly get to ‘live’ - no matter how long we stay conscious in this world.. Doesn’t that get tiring?”
Silence fell once again, this time it felt heavier.
“You aren’t alone though.” England responded, cutting through the silence as if with a freshly sharpened blade, eliciting a noise of curiousity from the Frenchman, “Quit acting as if you’re the only one who’s a nation here. Sure, everything we do is meant to be built on political orders from our bosses but you consider many of these lunatics your friends, don’t you? You have multiple connections that have lasted over thousands of years.” He paused, contemplating what he was about to say next, before averting the others’ eyes by looking to the side, to utter “And you have me too, dimwit. How can you claim to be ‘forever alone’.”
France looked at him with a forced smirk, though his eyes still lacked the spark expected for teasing, “Sorry, can you repeat that, mon cheri? I’d like to hear that louder, please”
“It isn’t my problem if you’ve gone deaf, frog.”
“As original as ever with the insults I see.” France huffed out a chuckle, before leaning his head back down on his palm, though this time facing the Englishman, “You know that’s not exactly what I meant, oui?”
“..Of course I know.” England paused, deciding that the conversation may turn too personal if he doesn’t add an insult in fast, “You’re always flirting with everyone you meet, everyone knows what perverts like you want.”
“Jealous?”
“No way in hell.”
France huffed out a sound akin to a laugh, hand slowly shuffling over to that glass of wine he set aside, as the two went silent again. This time, neither were truly watching the streets, though their gazes may have been directed downwards. Each nation consumed with worries of their own.
A moment passed,
Then another
The wine swirled around in the glass, not decreasing one bit.
“Angleterre?”
“What now?”
“What are we exactly?”
“Huh?!” That question took the Brit by surprise clearly - as within seconds he had snapped his head to look at France with a look of pure shock and astonishment at the audacity to say these unspoken words out loud. And more than that, at the audacity to force England himself, to have to answer this question with even more of those unspoken words. How dare France put him in such a position?!
Once more, France did not elaborate. The most baffling display of this man’s audacity was that he’d throw out such a loaded question out of absolutely nowhere, and then go silent as if he didn't need to explain anything.
He did by the way.
He absolutely needed to explain himself.
“What in the world do you even mean by that?” England tried to prompt for an elaboration, yet received nothing but a weak shrug in response.
“I meant exactly what I said. Just that, nothing more” He responded, so easily - you’d believe he forgot about the unspoken rule of keeping this conversation silent, and existent only in implications. Are all French people this forgetful and unable to understand boundaries of unspoken questions??
Why was England even questioning this. Of course they are.
At the lack of response, France let out a sigh, strained smile persisting on his expression, “You can’t say, right? Of course you can’t - I wouldn't be able to either.”
England stayed quiet, turning back to cross his arms over the railing and lean on them, furrowing his brows as he looked down - avoiding France’s gaze which he knew was shifted onto him once more.
“Do you know how I feel?” France spoke again.
“Shut up.” It wasn’t stern - it was more avoidant than anything else.
“Je t’aime, Angleterre.”
“I know.” England muttered, tone bordering on annoyance and frustration.
“Do you feel the same?”
“You know how I feel, frog face.”
France laughed, “With the way you speak to me - if I were anyone else, I wouldn’t be able to tell”
“But you’re you. You know what I mean.”
“Oui, mon chéri. I do.”
And once more, silence fell. It was late, really late even. The people below started simmering out, yet many remained nonetheless. Parisians sure do love their late night rendezvous, huh?
France placed the wine glass back down on the railing, this time between him and England. It seemed as if the space between them had become much less than when England had first joined France in his late night people watching. The shift in distance had gone almost unnoticed by both parties - yet neither had complained. Instead, the two had accepted this distance as if it was the most natural thing in the world to them. And maybe, in a way, it really was. Just like they had always kept coming back to one another - whether it be for a fight, for an allyship, for an agreement or just for a drink - that comfortable silence from long ago would forever follow them.
“Would you ever marry me?”
“Would I- what?” England’s head instantly shot up to look at France in a mixture of astonishment and embarrassment. He felt an unwelcome warmth creep into the sides of his face. “What are you on about, you wanker??”
France merely hummed, staring off into the distance now, “Last time I asked you due to the Suez canal crisis, you said you wouldn’t marry me ‘for that reason’. .. So if it weren’t for a money-related reason, would you say yes?” As France spoke, he extended his arm forward, observing the back of his hand, as if there were a ring there.
England stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape, searching fruitlessly in his mind for what an appropriate response to this situation would end up being. Yet he couldn’t find one. Ultimately deciding to instead emphasize his dislike for this kind of conversation by retorting, “You know that’s not what I meant.” England huffed, rolling his eyes, as he flicked his head away, yet his eyes remained locked on the other.
“Is it not?”
“Incase you have forgotten, France,” England glared at him, putting a stern emphasis on his name, “As nations - we can’t ‘get married’ for anything but political reasons.”
“And isn’t that such a drab? One more downside to our existence”
“Are you about to go on the whole ‘being a human’ thing again?”
France went silent, as if caught red handed. England let out a sigh, face planting into his arms, before lifting his head back up to glare at France. Eyebrows furrowed, yet his cheeks still dusted a shade of rose that would’ve been invisible in this darkness if it weren’t for the shining streetlights below them and the glorious moon above.
“Angleterre..”
“What now?”
“If we were just simple humans, would you marry me then?”
England froze, his expression relaxing - because really, he had no idea which one to make now. He should have anticipated this question from the lead up, in truth he had, and yet - somehow hearing it said aloud threw him completely off guard. Once again, France had uttered something that was unspoken - sacred. And this time, England really had no fast response. Before he could even truly understand the seemingly simple question - France turned to face him again, proper, laying his own hand on top of England’s one that remained on the railing, the sudden shift in distance not going unnoticed, and instead forcing England’s eyes to dart over to their connected hands, and then back to France. He tried to mimic annoyance in his expression - yet didn't make even the slightest effort to pull away.
“What was that name you picked out again? Arthur?” France continued, cocking his head to the side, as the Brit nodded with furrowed eyebrows - still staring wide eyed at him, “So if I asked Arthur to marry me, simple man to simple man - would you say yes?”
England gazed over at France - it was a rare time the self-proclaimed ‘fashionable’ man wasn’t wearing heels, so England found them being able to stare eye to eye. He wanted to poke fun at such a question, to shove France’s hand away, to shove France himself away, so that he doesn’t return, because he knows questions like this hurt France. And he also, unfortunately, knows - that when France looks at him with such earnest eyes - desperately searching for an equally earnest answer, he can’t bear to push his feelings away like usual. It’s pathetic, how this man made England’s cold dead heart freeze in place while the rest of his body heats up, it’s stupid how much they argue, and how much they never say out loud. It’s annoying, how France knows what he thinks - yet still asks. Does he really need to hear it said out loud?
France doesn’t say another word, he simply waits. He waits for England’s response, while gently picking up their intertwined hands from the balcony railing, and placing the cluster of touch in between them, bringing up his second hand to cup England’s hand within his own. All the while his gaze remains focused - with that sad, almost pleading smile, he stares into England’s eyes, begging for an answer. No smugness, no facade of extravagance, no ulterior motive - just a weak, genuine plea. A silent, desperate request.
England stared back at him, expression frozen in a panicked state of astonishment and fascination - staring into those sapphire eyes that pleaded for his answer. His face felt warm, he was sure that colour had flooded his expression by now, his facade was crumbling - emotions were seeping through, and he didn’t know what to do. Hesitantly, he started,
“France–”
“Francis.”
“What?”
France smiled, squeezing England’s hand slightly tighter between his own, “If we’re pretending to be humans - call me Francis”
England paused again, staring blankly at France. Blinking as a couple more beats went by.
“This is so stupid” he sighed, eventually
“Just once, mon amour?” came the fragile request from the other man.
England muttered something under his breath, before turning back to look France- or, in this moment, ‘Francis’ straight in the eyes again. Acquiescing, England, or rather, ‘Arthur’ - the human being, began to speak again, with a firmness in his tone, such, as if he’s squeezing out the words that are desperately fighting to stay back,
“Alright, Francis.”
“Yes?”
“If you.. If.. .. I would.. say..”
“Cheri, would you like me to ask again?”
Arthur didn’t respond, but he did avert his gaze to the side. The actions seemed to register to Francis as a ‘yes’, so with a light laugh he began again. This time getting down on one knee, and holding out only one of his hands to grab Arthur’s own. He placed his second hand upon his chest, bare - as earnest as his words,
“Arthur, would you marry me?”
And Arthur, being a simple, weak man, stared into those sapphire eyes that reflected the stars and the streetlight glow, and felt his heart skip a beat again. He bit the inside of his lower lip, to stop it from accidentally spilling out any impulsive thoughts of his, instead, he took in a deep breath and spoke,
“Francis,”
“Yes?”
In this moment, what can he say, to not let all the unspoken woes of his own heart spill out?
“If you ask me properly, I’ll consider it.” He huffed instead, taking his hand away, and leaning back on the balcony, face burning with far too many emotions to understand.
“Wha- Arthur!” Came Francis’ response, visibly astonished at the reaction he received as he hurried to get up and point an accusatory finger at his green eyed and bushy eyebrowed adversary, “That was so not romantic! I can’t believe you..”
The other simply shrugged in return, causing another comment from Francis, “I did ask you properly! Why are you making it so difficult mon dieu”
Arthur simply shrugged again, a smirk creeping onto his face, as he let out a satisfied huff, ignoring the lively protest from the other man. When Francis- or no, let’s drop this roleplaying farce, France stopped his huffy complaining, he rejoined England at the railing, leaning his elbows over it once more. Silence dawned onto the pair again, and they simply stood there. Elbows almost close enough to brush against one another, yet the distance remained unclosed.
The night grew colder, the lights dimmed, and the people dispersed with time, yet the two nations - who couldn’t decide between love and hate - remained on the balcony, staring down at the world below them. Or at least, that’s what they seemed to be doing to an outside viewer, in reality, neither were focussed on the happenings below. Not anymore. France couldn’t care less about what pretty madame had walked by, because right now, he was thinking of the man who - despite not being all that handsome, really, when you look at it objectively - had become a constant presence in his life, and suddenly, maybe it is okay. To exist like this. Because without all those thousands of years of history - they wouldn’t have this kind of quiet here now.
And yes, this feeling didnt take away from the pain that is the realization that you’d outlive anyone you can make a connection with, but,
“Bloody hell, it’s freezing here now.. Hey, frog, come back inside.”
France stifled a fond laugh at the Brit’s frustration. It was definitely amusing, dare he say, cute even - but he’d rather become a mortal and drop dead on the spot than admit that England is physically attractive in any way.
“oui, mon cheri” He smiled, turning to watch the other make his way back into the apartment.
France gave one more look back to the street,
life goes on, doesn’t it?
And with a melodic hum, followed England inside, shutting the door of the balcony for the night.