Chapter Text
France sat down at her lunch table with Belarus, giving a bored look towards the other teenage girl, who was fixing her bow. She gives a pointed look towards Belarus, making her scoot in her seat slightly.
She picked up a compact mirror from her coat pocket, looking fabulous even in a school uniform. She stared at her own eyes before applying lip gloss.
“Du coup.” She dragged out the syllables like she was about to drop the best gossip of the century. “My birthday is in three days, Belle. You know what that means?”
“Francesca, please don’t play with me, what does it mean?”
“Well, it means…” She paused, adjusting her headband.
“That my birthday is in three days, are you stupid?”
“Right.” Belarus bit her sandwich, staring at the Queen Bee of the school.
France has always been popular. Straight A’s, never tardy, perfect attendance… Everybody wanted her, wanted to be friends with her, wanted her gone, or wanted to be her.
France was perfect.
She flipped her curly hair, giving Belarus a half-lidded look before sighing, a sound profound and theatrical. She adjusted her tie, looking perfect even with it crooked.
“Tsk,” France took a bite of her apple, the school was her stage and she could do whatever she wanted and could get whatever she wanted with just a wink and a flying kiss.
She finds herself staring at Britain, covered in black leather and red from head-to-toe, wearing boots with practically tangible audacity, his neck having a collar with spikes.
Only thing he did? Get on France’s nerves. Maybe she liked that, it wasn’t anybody’s business in her eyes anyway.
Maybe she…
…wanted him to.
She pushed those thoughts to the side as she bit her apple again, but she couldn’t help but stare at him as he sat down, his fingers twitching like he wanted to put his legs up on the table, or like he wanted to light a cigarette.
Great Britain, rebellious, rude, punk, and British. Painfully British.
He treated tea like a religion and had no eyes for anybody—or at least she thought.
***
After lunch, she approached him, smirking smugly.
“D’acc, you are… captivating, Britannique!” She placed her gloved hands on his shoulders, staring at his crooked tie with something like fondness or disgust at his fashion choices.
“So what, you got a problem? Sod’s law, shake it off, you eat snails. You have no room to bloody judge me.”
She gasps at his dismissal of the most popular girl in class. Award-winning, perfect, desirable, sweet, kind, girl… How could he reject her like that?
“Well, just so you know…” Her hands lingered around his collar before withdrawing like she was just burnt. “I get what I want. And what I want… is…"
“Oh, you want another puppet to control, eh? Never try to be friends with me ever again. Bloody hell, I’ll need five cups of tea to recover from being touched by Francesca.”
France looked offended—or at least that’s what was on the inside. Her heart was pounding in her chest so hard, she was sure he could hear it. “Mon Dieu!” she dramatically hissed, crossing her arms and turning away from Great Britain.
“I don’t need you anyways!”
“Good, I’ll do much better without you, French daft chick.”
When Britain left, she twirled her curly hair, biting her lip in the slightest, barely noticeable.
Honestly? She was kind of… thrilled, to say the least. Britain was the only guy who actually challenged her instead of agreeing to whatever she said like a simp.
Britain actually said no. Britain actually rejected her. Most of the boys (and maybe girls) would kiss France in a heartbeat if given half the chance. To date her was basically a prize of its own.
She could pretend Britain had a huge crush on her and that he was just not her type, but she was an honest woman, and that would be a lie of the highest order. Britain was just her type.
Shorter than her, could be feminine or masculine whenever he liked, and whatever Francesca even liked!
She bit her lip harder, almost tasting iron.
France had a glamorous life, the glamorous life: clubbing, parties, popularity, she had it all… But what she didn’t have was a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, France doesn’t judge). And that’s what she needed—but she still swore she needed nobody and that she was independent, because what kind of loser admits they need someone? That would be social suicide!
France hung on to her purse before stepping back into the school building and looking in her locker for paper and a pen.
***
France slipped a note to Britain during last period science, the note read “Hey, biggest-fattest-loser-Brita, wanna go vandalize brick walls with me?” She gave him a wink as he stared at the note, his eyes dropping to her number at the bottom of the page, his face turning an undeniable shade of red before he nodded at France.
And just like that, she had a date! Maybe not a date, but at least a hang out with her rival, Britain, whom she hated. Or not. It’s just the way I am, she thought to herself before the bell rang, school was over!
She had been giving Britain looks these days, and Britain noticed.
Looks that implied…
…thoughtfulness, maybe a deep, passionate love for him… France picked her bag up, gesturing for Britain to get up as he was lost in his own thoughts.
Why’d I even agree to this?! he thought, scowling at his own actions.
France gave a smirk, taking Britain’s hand boldly as soon as he grabbed his bag, dragging him outside.
“C’mon, Brita!”
“Bloody hell, you daft French bird—”
“Not a bird.”
“Fine then, snail.”
France found it endearing, how hard he tried to insult her, and her cheeks flushed a small pink as she chuckled.
“Not a snail either! Not into cannibalism, loser-boy. Or should I say…” France stopped walking to lean close, close enough to see Britain’s panicked eyes in full detail—those golden eyes and that monocle and his blush doing things to her.
“…loverboy?”
Britain pushed her way, hiding his blush with his shirt collar, “God, you just don’t bloody stop, do you now, mate?!”
France laughed brightly, not letting go of Britain’s hand.
When they got to the broken-down brick walls, France reached in her bag and grabbed spray-paint cans that she somehow smuggled through into school grounds. Though they weren’t on campus right now, she had it in her bag.
Britain looked surprised, but grinned and grabbed three cans of bleu-blanc-rouge, immediately writing “FRANCE IS A DORK (and a bird, apparently.)” on the wall.
France gasped, pushing him away playfully, the rose behind her ear bobbing precariously as she laughed.
“Am not!”
“Bet you are. Straight A’s, Cupid.”
France looked away, a little surprised and also excited at the nickname that wasn’t insulting or derogatory.
“That was new.” From Britain, at least. She liked that. She could get used to that.
“Oi, idiot, don’t get used to it.”
France’s fantasies were immediately shattered as she scowled, crushing a piece of paper in her fist. “I won’t!”
Even with both their unhappy expressions, they were both having a great time. No admitting it, though. That would ruin the sparks flying between the two.