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England is no stranger to outwitting others and, at the same time, humbling himself.
This is the root of his lack of companionship with others, which England waters frequently with his cherished pride.
Truth is, he only has Japan on occasion. Russia frightens him, and he doesn’t even try to chat with China. Not to mention, he loathes America and can never find Canada, so he's given up on talking to him entirely.
So who does that leave? Why, France, of course.
What does England think of France? Well, that’s irrelevant at the moment. In fact, England himself is still relentlessly seeking the answer to that question.
Paris is the capital of France, with a large population and vast size. Though England would never admit this, he's highly jealous of France and his glittery glam.
He only ever wants more people to visit his place, but quite frankly, it’s terribly boring. The food is bland; the sights are pretty–but not extravagant. England has a view on the statistics of tourists, and it’s unsurprising to see the same dismal result every time. “It’s utterly dispiriting,” he admits, though only to himself.
To fix this, he’s resolved to mug France. Now, England would never admit to being a hoodwinker, but he concretely believes that France has lots of money due to the sheer number of tourists that visit. Stealing France’s money, England believes, will help his ego.
If he can’t rake in the tourists and their money, he’ll take it for himself instead of futilely begging like he constantly does.
Which brings us to the present, where England is currently in a lilac bush and secretly analyzing France, taking note of the people he talks to, how he talks to them, his style, behavior, and-
He’s coming this way.
Good thing England thought of all possible scenarios and wore the classic UK street-fashion hoodie, which comes with rope-like strings. He tugs at the strings, providing a small, minute hole for him to peek out of and see the glimmer of day through.
England’s green iris blinks as it tries to get a clear view without the help of its other duplicate, but to no avail; France is gone.
“Where’d that wazzock go?” England mumbled under his breath, even more muffled by the fleece of his hoodie.
Since England’s hiding spot has now been rendered useless, he has to activate stealth mode and follow France. And we all know how good England's stealth is.
The black hoodie England is wearing helps him remain inconspicuous, but also makes it plain as day that he’s not French, let alone Parisian.
Even so, as he crouches and shuffles through the lilac bush (Syringa vulgaris)–his hoodie keeps him guarded from mild skin irritation–allowing him to move safely.
Now that he’s traveled to the end of the bush on the far right, he has a vision of France in bright daylight.
Quite an amateur decision–stealing someone’s money in broad daylight–but England doesn’t know any better. He truly thinks that his hoodie and matching black sweatpants will make him undetectable to the human eye.
And this fact remains as he absquatulates from the bush, lurching towards France and swiftly locking his head in place with his left arm, his right hand fishing in his pocket for his folding knife.
“Empty your pockets, mate. I ain’t playin’!”
France dramatically gasped, almost melodramatic and theatrical, the way he feigned defenselessness in England's grasp. Was this on purpose?
England’s right hand held his pocket knife securely, the blade a safe distance from France.
He only wants his money, not his blood.
“Arthur…? I didn’t know you were into this…”
France spoke, a gentle coo and teasing tone leaking through his words.
If it weren’t for England’s heavy British accent, his disguise would be unnoticeable–maybe. But it seems France knows exactly who he is now, rendering England bare and naked, hopelessly vulnerable to an enemy that knows everything about his weak spots.
Nevertheless, England scoffed in defense of his wounded ego and answered back with another sharp retort.
“I-Into-?! Just empty your pockets as I said!”
“Well…at the moment I don't have any euros on me…do you take any other form of payment…?”
France proposed with a helpless tone, biting his fragile lip and glancing over his shoulder to England.
France leaned into England, pressing his bottom against England's lower region.
England gasped and struggled with words, a bashful flush staining his entire face and neck in an instant. England was purely nonplussed–words gone.
France took this as an opportunity and grabbed England's right wrist–the one holding the small blade–and made a quick effort of steering it away from him and used his right leg to kick behind him and momentarily immobilize England. This gave him time to release his head from England's arm hold.
“Sorry, Arthur, but a seasoned French native like me knows exactly how to go against a mugger.”
France spoke with a supercilious tone, standing up tall and using his right hand to toss his dazzling blonde hair with majestic ease.
England, on the other hand, was in a completely different state. He was still slightly bent at the knees, his hands placed on top of them to keep himself from collapsing.
France kicked him pretty good…
“Arthur…? I didn't mean to-”
A quiet sniffle sound came from England, tears welling up and dribbling down, meeting the ground in a soft crash.
“Oh mon ami…”
France helped England stand up properly, his body weight now supported and doing only half the work.
“Let's find you a seat.”
England leaned on France as they ventured closer to the nearby park, which, in England's eyes, was exorbitantly lavish, even frustratingly so. Even his parks were better than his; how could he ever top him?!
As they sat down on the sleek wooden bench, England couldn't help but continue to weep softly in despair. He hid his face in his hands to protect the sight of his dramatic sob.
“Artie…what's wrong?” France cooed in what sounded like a mock, making England even more infuriated.
“Don't call me that!” England defensively roared out, choked sobs creeping out and croaking feebly. Small sniffles were also heard, somber and assailable.
“Oh Artie, mon ami…”
France made a sympathetic expression, a soft pout with his lips and blue eyes sparkling in a begging manner. England tried hard to avoid him, but when France cooed like that again–with his nickname–he couldn't help it.
“Tell me, what was the point in trying to steal?"
France spoke in a tone so overly pained it made England annoyed by his dramatics, but also fairly guilty as well. England's crying slowed as he grunted out through the gritting of his teeth, a huge huff escaping him at the contradiction between his emotions.
England moved his arms to his chest, his pale face still stained a splotchy pink from his fervent cry. His nose was threatening to run, but he kept sniffling to keep it in, which made him even more embarrassed at how disgusting he must appear right now.
"Here."
France revealed what appeared to be a napkin. How could he so conveniently have such a thing? Well, it was a curiosity short-lived as England politely grabbed it and responded with a quick 'thank you' before blowing his nose.
England made efficient work of doing the deed as he made sure not to get any of the yucky substance on his clean fingers.
Now that he was deemed presentable, he turned to France with the most posh attitude he could muster, which was natural thanks to his princely past.
"I simply..."
There goes his sensible demeanor. England knitted his eyebrows, struggling to continue as he bit his lip before continuing to focus on France with all of his being.
"I was a tad jealous of how easily you get tourists. So I decided to seek a wee bit of revenge."
England spoke with detached nonchalance, his tone neat and prideful, as if some of it wasn't a lie. He turned his head in front of him, his eyes squeezed shut and arms held tight to his chest.
France knew he was more than a tad jealous. And he also knew that England is jealous, not was.
England then faced France again, a slightly petulant look on his face.
"I apologize for trying to steal from you. It was imprudent and impractical. It was a spectacularly impulsive and improbable maneuver made by me."
England responded in a calmer and more resolute tone, his expression plain.
France had to blink, not once, but twice, as England said this. He really thought he had gotten to the bottom of understanding England and his behaviors, but this was unexpected. Not only did he apologize, but he faced him with enough composure to let the words flow naturally, albeit a bit awkwardly.
England raised an eyebrow at France and his shocked expression.
"I accept your apology, mon amour."
England's composure completely broke, and he flushed even more this time at the words France spoke; his reaction was astounded and bashful at the same time.
“W-what'd you call me, you pillock!”
As England spoke, his voice cracked at an embarrassingly high octave. He felt his heart beat at a frantic pace, jumping and leaping in his chest.
“What? You're not my love?”
France teased back with a wink, a smooth grin pulling at his lips. His unrelenting charisma took over England's composure entirely in an instant, turning him into yet another flustered mess.
“Sh-shut up-!”
England couldn't bear to look at France anymore, and he hid his face back in his hands, just like he did when crying earlier.
England truly couldn't take this anymore. All he wanted was to gain more attraction from tourists. If that happened, he wouldn't be here right now, all embarrassed.
The plan was to do this for his ego and, for once in his life, feel like he won against France.
But now, here he was. Right under France's shoe like a spit-out piece of gum, being stepped on and pressed to France's sole like he can't get rid of him.
Maybe he should've worked harder at mugging France. He should have, but that doesn't mean he could. Still, though, if he practiced a bit more-
“I mean it. You are my love, England.”
France spoke with a genuine tone, making England slowly bring down his hands, gazing at France with a disbelieving and almost vulnerable look in his green irises.
He glanced at France's curved eyebrows that resembled a sincere expression until his lips curved, exposing his amusement.
“Shut your lying yapper, you twit.”
England spoke with a light fluster, his eyes squeezed shut as if he could escape this moment and disappear into the void.
But as he did so, he felt a hand tug up his right sleeve, dragging him back to the painfully pleasant present.
England slowly fluttered his eyes open, his gaze locked onto France's delicate hand as he pulled his sleeve until it reached his elbow. With that, England's lightly freckled skin was presented, a small smile on France's face, without England looking.
France trailed his hand back down, carefully caressing England's now exposed skin, feeling through the softness of his delicate light brown arm hair.
“Th-that-”
England bit his lip, flushing immediately and directing his gaze opposite France's touch.
“Oui? You were saying~.”
“That…feels nice,”
France kept up his trailing touch on England's arm; his fingers almost lightly tickling his skin.
“So you admit it,”
France teased, his voice an octave lower with a playful lilt and mischievous tone.
“Huff...no,”
“Are you sure?”
“...No.”
France smirked at that, his eyelids lowering a bit. He began to inch closer to England, his left hand now gently wrapping around the same exposed wrist.
England tried to move back, but his body had a hard time doing so. The interaction was like trying to pull magnets apart from each other. Both are on opposite poles but attracted to each other nonetheless.
"Let me whisper in your ear..."
France said, speaking in a low and comforting tone. England had to admit that his French accent had quite an effect on him. Sometimes he envied that sort of power, the one to speak one of the romantic languages. He sometimes found English boring to speak--ironically--and he sometimes found it humiliating when others would mock his eloquent accent.
Even so, he never finds France to make fun of it. More often than not, he'll find himself pleasantly enjoying his accent. Like on the sparse occasions on which they chat during world press conferences. England finds it hard to believe; he doesn't know what to believe, as every day his mind is more and more plagued with imaginary visions. Everything is slowly scattered day by day until he can't make out what's true or not.
Though he does know that France has stuck by his side, geographically and personally speaking. And England can't comprehend why. Maybe that's why England is so self-conscious-- he simply just hasn't seen the special spark that France finds so beautiful in him.
France could just ignore him, as some French do to the English. Nevertheless, he finds him right by his side; annoyingly so, but amusingly as well.
"Closer..."
France whispered, his voice so alluring it kept practically pulling England in. Is this how it feels to be a tourist getting lured to take a trip to France? England understood how they felt now, the charm, the beauty, the attraction.
"Listen...do you promise not to tell?"
England, practically on command, nodded slowly with a shy look on his face. His cheeks were lightly dusted pink, emerald eyes blinking expectantly at France.
"Je suis amoureux de vous."
(I'm in love with you)
England couldn't hide his face in his hands anymore, not that he would anyway. He was stunned, but unabashed as well. This time, the words out of France's mouth were authentic, the kind of genuine that wasn't a frail fib.
England didn't know what to say back, what kind of response to give. He took a quick breath to calm himself down before moving his left hand to hold France's right hand as well as moving his right hand to hold France's left hand.
Now that they were holding hands, their faces close and eye contact unbroken, England spoke.
"I'm in love with you too."
France bit his lip, his gaze moving from England's lips to his jade green eyes. He held an affectionate expression on his face as he leaned in closer.
"Angleterre..."
France spoke, closer than before and with a whisper so gentle it spoke directly to England's soul.
"Francis..."
England glanced at France's lips as well, his head tilting to meet his, their faces a hair's breadth away from each other.
Then, all of a sudden, England pulled back, a sour guilt written on his features. His hands clung tighter to France's, his eyes squeezed shut, and his body shook. He was struggling.
"Arthur, what's wrong?"
France spoke, though this time his words weren't a mocking coo; they were natural, unplanned, and organic in a way that told England he was being seen, loved for what felt like the first time in a long time. It felt surreal and strange.
“I just can't. I-I can't kiss you with a lying mouth. My apology was sarcastic and feeble.”
“Why is that, Angleterre…?”
“Because the truth is much more than that. And I was too much of a coward to admit it.”
England took a deep breath before continuing.
“Which is why, now, with you in front of me and my past pride gone, I can tell you exactly how I feel.”
England squeezed France's hands, grounding himself.
“France, I am never truly honest with my emotions. I get carried away and do some impulsive things. Much like my bloody-minded attitude ensues, I tend to drive people away with my personality. Today, what my behavior exhibited was an example of just how far my foolish and haughty feelings go. Which is why, France, I feel the need to sincerely apologize. We've disputed and disagreed for what feels like our whole life. It feels never-ending, the way we fight, make up, and then tear it all down again. Though it may look like it sometimes, I don't hate you. Quite the opposite, in fact. My captive emotions never quite make it out, and deep down I yearn to share them with you. To tell you that without you, life wouldn't be the same. To wake up in the morning and gaze across the English Channel, knowing you're on the other side; it makes my heart feel so full. It lets me know you're still so close, even when I so mulishly push you away.”
France was stunned at England's words. Despite having incredible charisma, France couldn't hold back the blush that stained his cheeks. England's open and endearing response shot an arrow through his solid gold heart, hitting him in a place no one's ever managed to target.
“Arthur…”
France started before getting cut off.
“A-and…”
England stuttered, the bashfulness catching up and taking away his confidence. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and quelled his shaking. He then continued.
“I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that my devotion is aimed solely at you, France. No one has ever made me feel the way you do. And for the longest time, it felt strange. But I now know what this feeling is. I love you, Francis.”
France couldn't believe what he was hearing. At least, he was appalled to be witnessing such a blatant confession from England. He sparked something within France, and he couldn't help but feel elated that he felt that way about him. France had a common occurrence of falling in and out of love, but with England, France's affections never seemed to leave; almost like they were hopelessly devoted to him in a way he couldn’t–and wouldn't–get rid of.
“Arthur, vous entendre prononcer de si charmants euphémismes, cela réchauffe le cœur,”
(Hearing you say such charming euphemisms, it warms the heart.)
France leaned in again, as close as they were last time, but next to England's ear. France's hands moved, forming a comfortable, intertwined embrace with England's.
France's breath ghosted down England's nape, his body starting to melt from the proximity.
“Pendant des années, j'étais perdue, mais ce que je cherchais, c'était toi, mon amour,”
(For years, I've been lost, but what I was searching for was you, my love.)
“Et aucune fierté mal placée ni aucun comportement impétueux ne pourra éteindre les sentiments que j'éprouve pour toi.”
(and no amount of foolish pride and impetuous behavior will quell my feelings for you.)
“Je t'aime profondément, Angleterre.”
(I love you deeply, England.)
England was still, his body numb. He couldn't comprehend what he was hearing, nor could he understand it. But even so, the words felt enchanting. They wandered into his frozen heart and managed to warm him with the greatest of feelings. He can't recall the last time he's felt so strongly before. It causes him to sweetly smile, his jade green eyes twinkling, almost like happy tears are ready to fall.
“I barely understood any of that.”
England laughed, his tone not carrying any arrogance but care and honesty.
“Hon, hon, hon…Oh, Artie, I really need to teach you some more French.”
England was about to respond before everything suddenly vanished into black, and he felt his body regain consciousness. His hands felt the world around him, finding cotton fabric beneath him. He opened his eyes, noticing the smooth white linen sheet on top of him.
His surroundings resembled a hospital, though not an emergency room. He determined this much by the telltale signs of no wailing patients and no shouting over one another about pulses and doses.
England felt surprisingly calm in his surroundings and quite drowsy as well. He would love to continue his dream, so he closes his eyes in hopes that his consciousness will dissipate and his imagination will coalesce again.
Though just as he was drifting back into dreamland, he felt a ghost-like touch grab his left wrist. His body immediately jolted up, a wet cloth falling from his forehead and onto the blanket. A choked scream left his throat in a croak. He was flushed, but he soon felt it all over his body, in what felt like fever. He took a deep breath from that sharp yelp and found that his nose struggled to get a good whiff. He was sick.
“Oh, Angleterre! I'm so glad you're awake…I was so worried…”
“F-France! What are you doing here, you pillock?!”
England managed to grouch with the loudest voice he could muster, which was reasonably raspy and had the pitch of someone embarrassed. He then let out a series of coughs, his vocal cords straining in response to his attempt at a yell. They were retaliating against him, silently telling him to refrain from raising his voice.
“Oh, mon amie, I was worried when I found you in such an abysmal condition. I had to bring you to the doctor.”
England scoffed in flusteredness, his hands gripping the sheets underneath him. He couldn't keep his emotions in check, especially with France taking care of him like that. Not to mention the vivid dream he just experienced…
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, you twit. Why do you care so much anyway?”
England yanked back his left hand, crossing his arms with a prideful petulance.
France pouted a little at this, his tear-stained face just now coming to England's attention as his jade green eyes scanned France's features. He looked heartbroken for some odd reason.
“I simply can't stand the thought of my precious Arthur decaying in death. I need you alive, ma belle Anglaterre.”
(my beautiful England)
England bit his lip to keep himself from looking at a look of sympathy. No way, there's no chance he'd show emotion towards him. Even so, his dreams held an enormous amount of truth in them; he really is that desperate to steal from someone in matters of his own pride and gain. The way the dream felt was too real, and yet too good to be true. He would never–under any circumstances–show emotion or vulnerability to anyone; that's what couples do. So he wouldn't display anything to his biggest enemy…but what if France is his biggest lover instead? Was his dream a view into the future, a vision of what he could have if he refrained from being a hothead, even just this once?
England eventually shook off the thoughts and instead huffed softly, his arms relaxing at his sides as he practiced calming down. Japan really knew his stuff.
“W-why didn't I notice you sooner?”
“You were awake before this?”
“Well, I opened my eyes for a teeny bit.”
“I'm sorry…I didn't realize. I was too busy–hic–crying.”
“Then you're quite the soft crier-”
France couldn't hear England's comment over the sound of his loud and broken sobs. He planted his face down in the sheets next to England, practically drenching the bedding in tears.
“I take that back…”
Naturally, what comes with England's imaginative nature is the ability to turn a deaf ear quite often. It appears that while he was assessing his surroundings earlier, he was unconscious enough to block out the sound. His earlier assumption was correct about it being urgent care and not the ER, though.
England felt something wet touch his left pinky, and he flinched.
“Hey! Stop your wet weekend all over the bed sheets, you plonker!”
France crossed his arms on the bed, setting his jaw on top of them. He looked up at England, a sorrowful look on his face. England flushed at the expression, especially since this sympathy wasn’t synthetic, unlike his dream. He couldn't escape this reality, though he wished he could. That dream he had was so easy, like all the puzzle pieces fell right in place. Yet real life isn’t as painless as a dream. If he wants to blend both–for his dream to become his reality–England will have to do what he has to do to win France’s heart.
“I-I appreciate you…for caring.”
“Artie…even when sick you're abashed!”
France chuckled light-heartedly, his grin tugging at his lips. His usual behavior seemed to be back in full swing.
“Yeah, well-!”
England inhaled and exhaled, cooling his jets before he could utter another word he didn’t mean. He didn’t want to sound any more peevish than he already does, all the time. England won’t let France tear him down this effortlessly, even if he has to deal with the same infuriating and teasing tricks.
England tried to channel the confidence he wore in his dream, forcing his next sentence with the most courage he could muster.
“I want you to know I am immensely grateful for your attentiveness and consideration.”
England closed his eyes as he said this, but he kept his arms at his side, refraining from putting up his guard so easily.
After a few moments of silence and the sound of ruffling, England’s curiosity took over, and he turned to his left, taking in the sight before him. France, with two hands, was holding England’s hand, affectionately caressing it as if it were a rare treasure. England flushed at the sight, his mouth agape and no words to escape. France leaned in, pressing his lips to England’s dorsum.
“You're welcome, Angleterre-”
Just then, the door to the patient room opened loudly, a boisterous American now present.
“Yo, England! I grabbed some nutritious grub!”
America froze, his expression still loud and expressive.
“I'll just leave this here!”
America set the bag of fast food on the floor, filled with greasy hamburgers, crispy fries, and tangy barbecue sauce.
America gave a thumbs-up, then slowly shut the door with the same unbreakable and energetic smile.
“What was that git doing here?”
“I suspected you'd be hungry after waking up, so I told Alfred to get some food, but…”
France glanced over at the fast food, a repulsed expression painting his features.
“Maybe that wasn't the best idea…”
England was about to make a passive-aggressive comment about the situation, to scold France about the foolish and incompetent decision he made to let America out of all people ‘grab the grub’, when France opened his mouth to speak instead.
“Mon amie, I didn't get food because I couldn't bear to leave you alone; even if just for a moment!”
France held England’s hand, gingerly and lovingly caressing the smooth skin with his docile fingers. France looked like he was on the brink of tears for what seemed to be the third time to Arthur, though it could've been more for all he knew. France decided to direct his gaze up, England's eyes now locked onto his. England felt like his body had turned to stone; he couldn't move at all.
“I promise to be by your side, to aid you.”
France pressed his lips to England's hand again, elongating the kiss by a margin to show more affection.
England once again blushed, but not for too long out of bashfulness, when France's next words caught him off guard.
“So, Arthur, you were moving an ample amount while sleeping. Any dreams visit you?”
France uttered, his words ending in a playful wink.
Just like always, England was in for it.