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| [Credits: https://www.tumblr.com/aphfrukweek] |
Better late than never, huh?
I heard about [ship]weeks, and they are popular among artists... but I never followed them, because I never cared that much. I enjoyed the artworks and fanfictions even without looking more into prompts they used.
But this time, I think I want to try doing it, and I am doing it my way.
In this post, there will be 7 chapters - each corresponding with one prompt from FrUk Week 2024 prompts post. Some chapters might contain both alternatives, some might not.
I am going to follow NationVerse AU (since that's what random generator chose for me) and I am going to have fun with it!
[The whole fanfiction was written while listening to Lord Huron. I think it's an important information.]
Disclaimer: my English is still not perfect, there will be mistakes, wrong tenses used, but I do believe it will be readable just fine!
╭────────── · 𓆩🌻𓆪 · ─╮
╰─ · 𓆩🌻𓆪 · ──────────╯
Chapter 1
Day 1 : Why can't i hate you | Roses & Flowers
There was a mutual understanding between them. It wasn't anything else. Certainly not feelings.
When France visited England, it was always to tease him. Never because he was lonely or needed someone who understood him without words being said.
When England texted him or called him, it was never because he wanted to, he simply butt-dialed him, or meant to send the text to someone else.
Their fates have been entangled, ever since the day they met. It was fateful in the most wonderful way ever. No one could ever made them feel so loved, no one could ever understand them as much. No one could come close to the relationship they had.
It's said their hearts beat in unison ever since the Channel Tunnel has been built. That's true, but there is more.
What they have is rare, rare to the point no one else has it. They can come close (with the hate, with the closeness, with how long they've know each other), but it's never like them.
France and England are aware of the fact. They both take pride in it - but their own pride, their own ego won't allow them to say it out loud or even brag.
Even though they could.
Other nations laugh at them, roll their eyes, some are trying to calm the situation down when they start to bicker. But France and England have fun. They enjoy it.
They enjoy the never-ending teasing, the insults and bloody tissues. They enjoy the scratches and bruises the other leaves, because it's special to them.
They've been like this for forever, and they are actually trying to come up with new insults, new ways of getting under each other's skin.
What happened between them outside their mutual relationship (BREXIT, for example) is a whole another thing. They don't care. They put up a show for others, but it's not important, it's not them, it's not their way of fighting.
Fighting. Has it ever been truly a fight? They have been at the head of the army, they have killed each other numerous times... but that was politics, nothing personal.
When it was personal, people didn't pay them any attention. It was mild, compared to scars they left on each other. It was not interesting... and it was raw, trying to get the other to kneel and have him stay down.
"Angleterre," he called from the doors because he knew England hated it. (He was England. England. Not Angleterre. He complained many many times.)
England didn't bother opening the doors, because he knew France didn't bother waiting for him. He just walked inside as if it was his own home (and it was in a way).
"I saw a horse on my way here. His teeth-" he began but stopped himself in the hallway. France, frozen in the middle of taking his shoes off, was met with a hall full of flowers. Bouquets, wreaths, cascades... hundreds of flower arrangements were everywhere. The house smelled so bad...
France scrunched his nose and walked towards the kitchen table, where England was sitting, decorating a beautiful vase, pushing flowers inside and trying to make them look good. His taste was... questionable, but France guessed it was exhaustion more than incompetence.
"Well, I guess you don't want this then..." he mumbled, waving a bunch of roses in pink decorative paper in front of England's eyes.
"What is happening here?"
England frowned, and huffed. He answered through his teeth: "Wedding. Royal wedding. They wanted me to help, but forgot to mention it's not a job for one man."
And he didn't ask for help because he was too proud, France understood. He nodded and smirked.
"Alright," he hummed and sat down, unprompted, "who's the lucky couple?"
"Prince Beatrice and some Edoardo," England mumbled. Normally he'd tell France the whole love story, because he loved his royal family too much. Now he only muttered: "She's Lizzie's granddaughter."
"Aha," France hummed. Strange, there wasn't a big fuss about this wedding, he didn't hear about it at all.
"Do we like her?" he added.
England laughed, snorting: "Yes, we do. She's just not such a big persona. Besides, she's having a private ceremony since the pandemic... is a thing."
France smiled. We. How simple and how important the words was. England didn't even fight him, he just agreed. We. After all, that's how it's always been. We.
"So why..." he began, but England was quicker and stole France's little insult.
"Why am I making such god-awful flower arrangements? Because I am tired. I've been at this for two days. They keep delivering me flowers and I am exhausted and can't, for the love of me, figure out why they don't hire someone professional."
France hummed: "Maybe this is for the after wedding celebration. You know, when you want it to look good, but you also don't care because you want to get wasted."
"Is that why you brought your excuse of posy?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, "because you want to get wasted?"
"Obviously," France nodded, acting not offended. Posy... It was a cute little bouquet! What did England expect? An engagement ring?
"Well, too bad. You can go where you came from. I have work to do," England retorted but still stood up, to grab two wine glasses and expensive-looking wine.
"He's Italian," the blond explained simply when he saw France's puzzled look. (England never offered wine, rarely drank it.)
"Ah," he answered again, smiling. He took his glass, they made a toast to the newlyweds and worked on the flowers, while drinking, talking, huffing and eventually laughing.
France doesn't remember how they ended up lying in the garden on a hammock chair. He remembers needing fresh air, away from the gardenias, honeysuckles and lilacs... The only place with fresh air was, apparently, out in the cold.
Their shoulders were touching, he realized, while England was trying to explain something, slurring and stumbling over his own words, rubbing his eyes. He leaned to the side, and his forehead hit France's shoulder.
" 'm thank...ul...fo...u...com...ng," he whispered and France had hard time understanding him. But in a way, he knew what the other was saying. And not in the literal sense. He was thankful France always came, with no exception.
"I know..." France smirked and took England's hand, squeezing it. He turned to the side and pressed his nose against England's forehead. He felt the other squeeze his hand back and he laughed.
"You're adorable when you're drunk," he hummed softly, quietly.
"You're drunk..." came back a weak remark and France rolled his eyes.
How could he hate him?
Chapter 2
Day 2 : Anniversary | Memory lane
Anniversaries are happy moments. Usually anniversaries mean that you walked far with the person you love, that there is time between you, filled with good memories, laughter and intimate moments no one else should know about. Anniversaries are to be celebrated in quiet rooms, with champagne, chocolates, good music and bodies pressed together, wide smiles sitting on two faces and... and the rest is not for kids.
At least that's what France believes, and how he teases his friends and family when those important dates are coming. (He never stops teasing Prussia about celebrating differently with his baby brother. And he makes sure Austria is gentle with Hungary - who swears she doesn't care about their "divorce" but everyone knows she misses it...)
But when his own anniversaries come up, he never fails to lock himself up in his little apartment in Paris and melodramatically sighs with a glass of red wine, looking up and smiling like poets do.
Only few know about it, and they never tease him about it. France has always been... different, when it came to his own love, to his own past.
As supportive and happy as he is for others, his own memories are often stained with deep sadness. Sadness of those times being long gone, sadness of never being able to have real anniversaries like people do, sadness that meant no one was there to celebrate with him because he was fragile then.
Of course, his birthday were always made into a huge celebration, bohemian celebration just like he liked it, with those that are closest to him. Singing old songs, drinking too much alcohol... and just before midnight all of his guests try to fit on his little balcony and sing La Marseillaise, leaving France inside, laughing his ass off with love in his eyes.
And every year, without fail, England is the one to bring him to bed, tuck him in and sit down on the edge of his bed. Before he can leave, France grabs his sleeve and pulls him closer.
The usual scoff and eye-roll follows, but never means that England is annoyed with him, truly annoyed.
The other nation leans in, moving France's hair out of his face and kisses his forehead.
"You're drunk..." he whispers after doing so, his lips still centimeters from France's face.
"It's my birthday," he mumbles, closing his eyes and playing with England's fingers.
"I know," England smirks, his tone indicating he is talking to a child, "happy birthday, France."
That is usually it. France falls asleep, England leaves and in the morning, there is a cold toast and a cup of tea, half-drank, on his kitchen table, and everyone is gone.
France sings La Marseillaise, because it's the last thing he remembers and because it's his song and gets to cleaning, receiving messages of love, congratulations and invitations for lunches, parties, dinner dates.
He only waits for one of them. He only cares for one of them.
"Open up."
England walks in, looking just like always. No sign of hungover, no sign of discomfort, just slight annoyance.
They end up sharing pastries he brought, France makes another cup of tea and they spend the whole day together, reminiscing.
It's different during May. The whole month, France is fidgety. He seems upset with England at all times, even when the other simply walks in the same room, without saying anything.
At first it was a sincere anger. Now it's a routine that helps him cope.
Be angry at England, get over himself, man up and handle May 30th every year without making a scene, without crying.
It's been 594 years, France. He says to himself. But what is 594 year in eyes of immortal? In eyes of a person who lived for too many years? It's a drop in the ocean.
And then again, it's about the principle.
Each year, it goes the same. France wakes up, turns his phone off. He leaves it on the bedside table, makes himself breakfast. Goes out, wearing her colors, walks unnoticed around the places they walked together, looks around for the traces of her, tries to find her in this life, her new life.
Her soul in a new body.
He fails, and he doesn't. He knows she's not here. But he sees her everywhere.
Joan is not the only person he feels this way about, but he takes her the most seriously. It has to do with England, not that he'd admit it.
After that, he usually visits her grave (even if it's not a real place), prays and talks to her, tells her what changed and how things are in France, and in his life. Then he goes out eating, watches a documentary and scoffs at how wrong people are about her and turns in soon, sleeping the pain away.
Usually.
This year though, something is different.
It happens when France walks along the Seine river and finds his usual spot. There is a person sitting there already. He's wearing a gray suit, his head low and flowers in his hand.
France recognizes him too late.
"What are you doing here?" he hisses, as if he could ban someone from being here.
"I will be busy later this day, so I wanted to pay my respect now. I never miss a year. But I know you know that," England says back calmly.
"She doesn't need that," France hisses back again.
"She wouldn't mind. I know she wouldn't," England retorts and looks up at France, "it's you who still hates me."
France's fingertips turn white from squeezing the bouquet too hard. He did know. But he thought England had the decency to try and avoid him.
England had a whole different opinion on the matter. He went when he pleased, because time matter little when you wanted to pray for someone.
"Sit with me? Tell me about her," he whispers. England thinks it might help. It might ease the nerves, help him relax and let the emotions out.
France seems to agree as he does so. He doesn't apologize for how he acted the past month, England doesn't need it. He doesn't care. He understands.
Nations are allowed to be upset and angry at other nations for what they did. Even if it takes millennia to get over them. And this is a rather touchy subject for both of them.
France refuses to make a tradition out of this. He enjoys England's presence, he enjoys their little stories and he even laughs once (scared, as if he wasn't allowed to), and when the sun sets, and England says he has to leave, France doesn't protest.
He doesn't want him at home. He wants to be alone, sleep and dream of Joan.
They shake hands, ridiculously, as if they were old acquaintances. They part and France doesn't look back. But for the first time in 594 years he leaves Seine with a tiny little smile, and a heart that does not bleed.
Chapter 3
Day 3 : Please don't say you love me | Getting vulnerable
It happened every century or so. More often with some than the others, but everyone had their moment of weakness.
Announcement of personal relationship, wearing promise rings, talking about marriage, adopting a kid. Every one of them wanted to have a family, to belong somewhere, have a relationship that would last a lifetime.
Not theirs, just a lifetime of a person. 80 years at most.
And why not? Why could they not have what they desired? They were countries, they weren't bound down by human laws, they could have it all.
Books signed by authors long dead, original artworks that would never make it to the museums, their own secret chambers, their own little carved messages in wood and stone, their own hidden treasures at the bottom of sea, or islands that were to this day unknown. They had historically accurate clothes lying in their closets because they were theirs, hundreds of years old yet in wonderful condition.
The only thing they could not have was love, the specific type of love that not even animals had, just humans, those wonderful... wonderful humans.
Oh how jealous of them were they.
At first France found it funny. When Germany and Italy (North Italy, South Italy would probably bite his balls off) announced they were going to try and date, no one expected it would last as long as it did.
But then others started getting ideas. Everyone suspected China and Rome did it, or that Rome and Greece had something going on even though they never could have children out of that something.
But Germany and Italy gave it a whole another dimension.
France stopped laughing and started wanting, wishing. He was getting desperate.
As a country of love, he could feel how it bloomed in his country. Tourists came to propose to their lovers, families were made every night, through drama and tears and slaps, he could feel it, deep inside him - the warmth, the wonderful warmth of being one with someone.
Yet he never felt it.
When he proposed his marriage idea to England in 1956, it was something of a try-out. Sure, he was in crisis back then and the idea of asking England for his hand was ridiculous and could never get through, and it didn't work out anyway... But when France though about it years, decades after... he thought about redoing the encounter.
Maybe England would laugh, maybe he'd try to hit France with the papers, maybe he would yell and throw him out.
Maybe he would smile (yeah, no) and say yes. They have been frenemies for too long. Did it not mean anything? But at the same time, did it mean they could even think about marriage?
It's not like they could get married anyway.
It was about the exclusivity. I am yours, and you are mine. Only. There would be no one else. No drunk kissing, no sexual relief, no sharing.
Just the two of them, for the first time, officially. Or maybe in secret, if England insisted. But what is the point of being in love when you can't show it to the whole world?
France didn't plan it. Not beyond knowing he wanted to do it. So when the situation presented itself, France was not even aware he did it. That he asked.
"What?!" England screeched, looking at France with wide eyes and crooked smile. "France. This joke was not funny in 1956 and it's not funny in 2024 either!"
France sighed: "And why, pray tell, would it be a joke? We've known each other for a long time! We went through so much together, good, bad, life and death. The things connecting us, the things that should drive us apart... they are both... so special."
England huffed: "Are you even listening to yourself? That's not the problem here!"
"Then what is?" France asked, completely sober (to England's utmost surprise).
"France," he hissed, leaning closer, "France, France, France!" he tried to get his point across in the simplest way possible.
"You. Are a country. I. Am one too. We are both countries!"
Oh, went France, oh. But it wasn't the oh that England hoped for. It wasn't the realization that they could not get married. It was something completely different.
It was the kind of oh that meant 'you didn't say no'.
"You didn't say no," he said out loud.
England, holding him by his collar, with vein on his forehead, looked perplexed for moment. Then he let go, sat back down and pulled on his hair.
"Oh my god, you have to be kidding me," he groaned, rolling his eyes, "No, France, no. I can't marry you. I won't marry you."
"Why..." France spoke quietly, more gently this time, "why not? We are perfect for each other! We're such a disasters together, it has to work. It's been working for millennia. If Germany and Italy could do it-"
"France, that is enough."
England's voice broke. On the last syllable, almost unnoticed, his voice broke. It cracked like a mirror smashed on the floor, that cuts into feet of those that are not careful. It broke like only dreams break inside people when they run into a wall too high to climb over.
"England..." he placed his hand on the other's shoulder, "I didn't meant to upset you."
Not this time, he didn't. This wasn't teasing, this was a genuine question, genuine conversation. His heart ached and England's seemed to too, even if for a different reason France didn't understand yet.
In the old pub, somewhere in Germany, where their world meeting took place this time, England seemed to be so small and so lost. France on the other hand didn't fit the picture at all. With his clothes, his face, his un-touched glass of beer. (His brilliant excuse. Taking England out for a few drinks after work and asking the question out of blue without a ring or an indicator that this was his intention.)
"You wish," he sneered.
Quiet fell over them and they left together, with no words exchanged. France walked him to his hotel room, standing in the doors and waiting for... god knows what. England didn't invite him inside, France didn't push it.
He stood there, looking at England who was looking down at his shoes. Going to bed sober was unlike them. It was weird and uncomfortable. There was nothing they could blame their words and actions on. It wasn't like them.
"I was serious," France decided to break the silence.
"I know. That's the worst thing about it. You've always been rather ridiculous. But this... this is new even for you," England tried to retort, but his spicy comment turned into a tired sigh.
Silence.
"Good night, France."
The doors closed and France stood there for five more minutes. He left, and his steps died out on the other side of the hotel. Only then England left the doors and went to his bed, not being able to sleep a wink.
The uncomfortable, unsure mood carried over to the next day, and the day after and even when they took the same train and sat next to each other it lingered in the air.
None of them spoke, both deep in thoughts, unknowingly sharing the same sadness.
Marry him. As if it was that simple. What if they grew to hate each other for real this time? What if they hurt each other in a way that was not forgivable? It was different to crash at the other's place, to be close during so called birthdays and drink together until they made that mistake over and over again.
But marriage? That was... too much. Too intimate. Too serious. Too bounding...
"I know," France said next to him, as if he could read England's mind.
"I know it's ridiculous. And I am not expecting a ceremony in Notre-Dame or Westminster Abbey-"
"As if that was even possible..." England butted in.
"-I am not expecting to exchange vows or have a family, like humans. I just... want a lifetime with you. I want to live one lifetime with you. I can settle for 60 years. Just us. Together. In one little house, calling America, Canada and all the others for Christmas dinner, making little birthday parties, hold hands and feel normal. Come on. What's 60 years in our lives?" his voice had a faint desperation in it.
France tried to find England's hand. The other was the one to take France's instead.
"I know it's scary. But no one makes us do it. If it won't work, it won't work... I am just asking you to try. Try and be with me. I love you, England..." France wants to say more, but he is unable to find the words.
He doesn't have to. An answer comes, and this time everything feels wonderful.
"Okay... yes..." he turns his head to the side, trying to hide his smile.
Chapter 4
Day 4 : Pirates | Outfits
"Oh goodness me! Remember this one?" France laughs, pulling out a small blue dress (a tunic) with gold hems and black ribbon at the collar.
When they started packing, England kept giving mean remarks and laughed at the ridiculousness of France's keepsakes. Now, he couldn't help but to look at the dress (a tunic!) with softness in his eyes.
"Of course I do. You looked like a girl. Had Spain and Prussia confused. I swear you were their gay awakening," he scoffed, laughing.
That was a new, but they both got used to it perfectly. England laughed now. He laughed a lot, loudly and honestly. France could count on his fingers how many times he's heard the sound before their new arrangement. But... he couldn't do that anymore. It's been happening too often.
It happened when they asked Italy to officiate their unofficial ceremony, it happened when England pushed their wedding cake up France's nose, it happened when they bought their new house and discovered it needed to be renovated completely, it happened when America and Canada decided to come over and call them daddy and papa. It happened during game nights and when France got his own history questions wrong during quiz shows in TV...
Right now they were unpacking the rest of their things. After two months of trying their new arrangements, they decided to move in completely, with all they own, as if this was all a very real human interaction.
Unfortunately for England, this day they unpacked all the clothes. France's and his.
"I was a gay awakening for many," his husband hummed, looking proud.
"You'll sleep on the couch," England warned. But it wasn't a real thread. It was winter, the nights were cold and two created more body heat that one. (That was the official theory, at least.)
"What about this one?" he asked. The dress he pulled out were England's. From revolution. The American.
England frowned: "What about it?!"
France shrugged: "No, nothing. You're right. It would be stupid to ask you if you remember. But then again, it's pretty stupid to keep it as well."
England grabbed on the uniform and tugged at it, pulling it to his lap. He tried to hide it, but France saw how he hugged it and sniffed it.
"It's not stupid. It's... my history. It's important."
"I'm sorry," this was new too. They apologized now. "I have my own too, you know. It's important to me too. Just... in a different way to yours, I suppose. But I understand the sentiment."
England said nothing. Some things were still touchy, he knew first-hand.
"England. England what the hell," he almost died of laughter. Who would have thought that the uniform would be buried in one box with a pink nurse costume. (Why was there a pink nurse costume in the first place?)
"Is this some kind of a... bed scenario I didn't know about? Are you into sexy nurses?" he kept laughing and England's face changed colors like chameleon. White, green and red.
He tugged on those too, but hid them behind himself, shaking his head: "Oh shut up! It was the last time I agreed to randomly pull costumes for one of your stupid parties! Who could have known?! And besides! Weren't you naked back then?!"
France shook his head and put his hands on his hair, sticking them up: "Nope. I had ears. And a tail. I swear there was a costume too... but I got wasted too quickly," he mumbled, "Russia was in yellow dress. He looked cute."
"France," England warned again, "the couch."
"Why do you even have it? And why in that box?" France asked carefully.
"Well. I was saving space. There is the Sherlock Holmes costume somewhere too. From Halloween. I hate throwing out things like that."
France just smirked, rummaging through the boxes and trying to find his own costume from back then. He wasn't naked then, he remembered.
"Oh. Look," France mumbled and pulled out a much bigger, heavier "outfit" instead. Still blue, still golden hems, still fancy cloth around neck. Still looking like dress. "Oh I miss pirate days! We were so free! Trying to drown each other, and then beating the hell out of each other because it took too long for them to dry on the sun."
"Is that what you miss about those days the most?" England raised his eyebrows. Not him. He missed being a superpower, Lord of many, the king of the Earth. He missed being greater.
"Well yes. What else would be there?" France asked, stripping in front of the other with no shame.
"What the hell are you doing?" England groaned, shaking his head, "France... are you... are you trying the clothes on?" he squinted.
"Obviously!" he smirked, "It's not often we get to put these on. And I miss how warm they were!"
England rolled his eyes and ran his eyes over the boxes. He moved to one on his knees and opened it, pulling out his own pirate outfit. He looked at it in awe and then shrugged. Who would it hurt? No one.
He walked out of the room while France had his face covered with his old clothes and got dressed. He had everything. Even the shoes and the hat. The pistol case was empty, cutlass was missing. But he looked good and right.
France looked hot and ridiculous, much like in anything else. It was no surprise to England when they bumped into each other in the hallway. They both laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation and France got in position, pretending to hold a sword.
"ɑ̃ ɡard!" he grinned and England, god knows why, took a stance as well.
They ran around the house, climbed up and down the stairs, pretended the balcony was the edge of the ship and if they fell down they would be hugged by the cold, salty water.
England pretended to hit France and France pretended to die in agony. When England's booth fell on France's chest and he yelled out victoriously, France pulled on his leg and caused the other fall right on him.
"You can't kill me with imaginary sword..." he whispered.
"I couldn't kill you with real one, either," came an answer, whispered as well.
When their lips touched, there was no need to whisper anymore. They knew what the best way to shut the other up was.
Chapter 5
Day 5 : Detectives | Domestic | Music
"Oh look at that. My husband, the apple of my eye, spying on his own kids."
Husband. They decided to do this right. They adopted names, and used them in public. They used pet names nowadays, too. They called America and Canada their sons and Seychelles their daughter.
It worked, it gave them a sense of realness.
"Oh shut up," came back a sharp whisper, "I am not spying on my own kids."
England could say 'of course not, because they are not your real sons', but it was his idea to call them that in the first place. So instead, he opted for: "And what, pray tell, are you doing?"
France huffed. "Spying on one of my sons."
England laughed, and went to sit down, sipping his head. America and Canada were visiting. Seychelles could not make it on such short notice. The diner wasn't quite as perfect as they wished it to be, but the poor girl could not split herself in half, not this time of a year.
"Shut up!" again the sharp whisper. England was smirking, but France felt like something was a bit off. It looked like America and Canada were talking... but the way their lips moved made it almost seem like there was a third person in the conversation. However, no one was standing in the garden with them.
"Are you positive they can't see your magical friends?" he asked.
"God you're being creepy!" England huffed and pulled on France's hand, making him sit down on a chair next to him.
"What do you care? Why does it bother you that they need privacy?"
"Because we are supposed to be having a family day!" France groaned.
"They are grown-ass countries, France! They get busy working. Maybe they don't want to disturb your domestic mood. You should be thankful and not make them feel bad about having secrets," England scolded.
France felt like he was the kid, sometimes.
"You're being soo..." he started but stopped himself when the two entered.
"Do you two have some special dinner plans?" America asked and smirked.
"Oh, not really. We just wanted to invite you three for a family dinner. It just feels so nice, to play a family. We're pretty close to being one, though a bit broken. Unfortunately Seychelles couldn't make it... but with you two here, it's fun enough," France replied, thinking nothing of the question.
America and Canada exchanged glances and nodded at each other. England knew that nod, he raised the twins, he knew all the details. It was a nod of confirmation.
"What are you two planning?" he asked, looking up from his newspaper and frowning.
America smirked: "Nothing, dad. We just figured we might do this the way you two like."
"Pff, please. You enjoy this family arrangement just as much as any of us. You're the one that keeps calling me dad in world meetings. I always stick to your proper name."
"Not now, poppet, daddy is working," France mocked, "wasn't that you just a week ago?"
America laughed, and England threw a coaster at him.
"It slipped! It's because he wouldn't stop bugging me! I thought it would make him embarrassed and he'd leave me alone!" England groaned and pulled the paper closer to his face, to hide his blush.
So he enjoyed it, so what. Marriage was one thing, but all the countries like the sense of having a family, and belonging with someone. Besides, you develop a habit over decades. And then... America being his little brother, or well, son in this scenario was the best thing that could happen. While Canada got his independence without a fight, now he could find the lost time with America.
"I didn't mind. I think it was cute. Though Russia looked at me a bit weird," he mumbled.
"No, dear," France corrected, "Russia looked at England weird. Knowing him, he wanted to know how to became someone's son. He has scary sisters, but no parent figures. You know how he is, jealous of others that have what he desires. He can't help it, it's his nature."
For a moment, the house fell silent. Usually Canada would try to insist that Russia's sisters aren't scary just dependent on him as their only brother. But nothing like that happened, and America hurried with alternative opinion.
"I think Belarus is pretty hot."
"That was not the question, Alfred," England rolled his eyes.
"Aha! You did it again!" he laughed and smirked. Alfred. America chose it himself. England's king, and they shared three letters in their name. Perfect for a family. Just like Canada chose Matthew (he spelled it Mathieu) because it was closest to the name France used to call him.
"Oh shut up!" England said, fed up... but when America moved to his chair and sat in his lap to hug him and rub their cheeks together, he found himself wrapping his hands around America too. Lost time, nothing more, just chasing the time they lost in the past...
"Where is Matthieu?" France asked, jumping on the train of calling his sons by human names. Of course, he'd be the one to notice.
America frowned: "Taking a pi- using the bathroom, I assume. Come on, he's not 2 anymore. Leave him some time."
France couldn't though. His suspicion of something happening was taking on a shape, and he wanted to know what the problem was. He frowned a little and waved at America, walking towards the doors of the kitchen. He slowly opened them and when he didn't see him, he moved closer.
"Ew, papa! Don't spy on Matthew!" America yelled at France, still sitting in England's lap. That of course meant a slap on his head, since England almost lost his hearing.
"Get down you heavy..." he warned and shimmied, trying to get him off.
America's yell worked perfectly though, and France ran to the room, trying to look innocent and busy with his fingernails. England rolled his eyes. Yes, because Canada was dumb and didn't hear America yell.
"Papa, it is not nice to spy on your sons," Canada peeped from the doors and France tried to keep the game up, shaking his head confused.
This happened a few times over the course of the entire day, with Canada always disappearing and France trying to find out what's happening.
He grew a suspicion, that there might be someone Canada was interested in, romantically. He disappeared for half an hour at a time, and he was heard chatting and giggling with someone. France had a great suspicion that something was wrong...
"I want to eat out today," America announced suddenly. They were sitting in the living room, watching old documentaries (this time it was Rome. Who cares about Rome anymore?) and snacking on chips.
"Why?" England asked, raising his eyebrows. He enjoyed this. They were all cuddled up on the couch, England and France in the middle, their fingers intertwined, the kids splayed over their legs.
"Is this boring for you, Mr. I-only-have-fun-playing-video-games?" he smirked.
"Nah. Just feel like it," he said again and stretched. Parents spoil their kids. I want pasta," he yawned.
"Pasta?" France raised his eyebrows. There was only one restaurant that served authentic pasta where they lived now, and that was a place for couples. His eyes shot down to Canada and he smiled widely. Oh???
"Sure! Let's get going!" he grinned, "is something special happening over there?" he hummed, looking at his son.
"Nope, just craving pasta," America answered for Canada and walked to the doors, "dress nicely, both of you. It's a nice place."
England frowned: "Aren't you a bit rude? We always dress nice when we're going out. And why are you getting so excited?" he put his finger on France's forehead and flicked it.
France rubbed the place and groaned: "Because! Mattie has a secret! And I think we'll find out what kind of secret it is today... Come on. I'll help you get dressed."
The drive wasn't silent, it could never be with America in the car. He blasted old, sappy songs that France and England loved and they entertained him by singing along (even England). Canada clapped to the rhythm and laughed.
When Country Roads came up on the playlist, they spent the first minute laughing, and then played it over again, signing all together.
Country roads take me home
to the place I belong
France, driving, put his right hand on England's thigh and squeezed it. The other looked up and smiled, widely with teeth and leaned his head back. There was nothing more beautiful than this. Never did he ever feel this wonderful.
England wanted to save this feeling forever.
He couldn't even dream how this evening would turn out...
"Happy 40th anniversary!" people from all around yelled out, startling England and leaving France gasping in happiness.
He threw himself at Canada and smirked: "Oh is that why you've been acting so suspiciously the whole day? You were planning a surprise party for us! Ah how adorable! Thank you, thank you, thank you," he called and kissed him on both cheeks.
Canada smiled: "Well. You said you have no plans. You cannot not have plans on your own wedding anniversary! And you know Alfred. He'd give the secret away the first second he could."
France laughed and took a glass of champagne, toasting and drinking it, hand in hand with blushing England. Who would have thought, huh? Who would have thought that everyone will be so supportive of their little arrangement.
But everyone was there now, celebrating and congratulating them, kissing their cheeks and chatting as if they were humans and celebrating a real anniversary.
When England pulled him aside, to dance, France thought nothing of it. In those 40 years, a lot has changed. He didn't have problem with affection, even if this small. And France loved it.
He placed his hands on England's hips and swayed with him, to the soft tunes of some indie band (the best Canada could find on such short notice), smiling and leaning closer to England.
"Wow..." France whispered, "40 years. I forgot it's today..."
England nodded: "Me too. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."
When France looked up, his eyes were watery.
"So we both forgot, huh? We forgot 40 years..."
"What?" England asked, but didn't stop moving.
"We only have 20 left, England. 20. If we forgot how quickly the last 10 years passed... this might as well end tomorrow. And we won't even notice. It didn't even start properly!" he whispered, his voice breaking like that time he asked England to marry him.
England pulled him closed, his eyes wide and scared. Oh god. Oh god he was right. They forgot, didn't even notice. They treated it as another day, because there was never, not once in their lifetime, anything that would indicate or mean an end. Today was no different from yesterday or tomorrow because they were countries... They completely forgot that there was a deadline.
"Don't think about that..." he whispered, because he didn't want to think about it, "let's enjoy tonight. It's our anniversary, after all," he smiled and noticed that his shoulder was getting a little wet.
They danced even when the band ended, they danced even when the sun started to rise. The time they had was limited, and they were not going to waste it apart, not even centimeters apart.
Chapter 6
Day 6 : How to cheat death | Reunited
England has been prickly, upset, spitting fire. France was walking on eggshells around him for a month now, and it was not getting better. He wondered what has happened. It wasn't making sense.
A month ago, they celebrated the 60th anniversary. They made love, cuddled until the morning and laughed, at everything that happened the previous weeks, years, decades. They agreed at how amazing everything was and how happy they were, happier than they could ever imagine.
How lucky they were, to be nations in love (England didn't protest against the statement), and how convenient the house has been - they could both work with no problem, and still come back home every night.
When France woke up, England was not in bed. He was sitting at the table, his tea cold, biting his nails. France continued the way they always lived and England seemed to be annoyed with him.
He figured it was a bad day. But those days never ended. Now, months later, England was worse than ever. Slamming the doors, coming home late, gripping on France's shirt during arguments not due to anger, but fear... It all seemed too weird.
"Arthur," he spoke softly during the lunch and reached with his hand out to take his husband's, "Arthur, please. Tell what's wrong."
England stood from the table and slapped the bedroom doors so loudly, the whole house shook. When France went to check, he found them unlocked and England accepted his invitation to cuddle.
"England," he tried again, few days ago. England shot up from the couch, almost knocking the wine glass on the white carpet.
France managed to catch his hand and grab on it, pulling England back down.
"I want to go to the bathroom," England said.
"No, you don't," France shook his head and England deflated.
"Tell me what's wrong with you? God, I worry so much. We're supposed to be telling each other everything, no?" France smiled, moving closer and kissing England's temple.
The other pushed him away, frowning.
"When are we breaking this up?" he asked, and two hearts broke.
There was no arguing. Just silent nod from France and a little broken smile.
"One more week?" France whispered. He begged.
England just nodded. Thought both enjoyed what followed, there was pain no one could explain. They invited America, Canada and Seychelles for lunch only once during that week and spend the rest of it doing things they both loved.
Watching TV, reading, arguing, cooking together and tending the garden. Locking the bathroom doors as if someone else could enter anyway.
When the week passed, two moving cars came by and people walked around them quietly, not meeting their eyes. Divorces were never easy and the job of moving those couples was many times harder than normally.
To everyone's surprise, they only moved some of the possessions. "We bought it together, so it stays here." They only took back what belonged to them, and not the other, not the family they build.
The word spread quickly, but nor England nor France wanted to talk about it. They didn't pick up the phones when their family called, they did not let anyone ask during world meetings. It was their private matter and no one had the right to know anything private.
That didn't mean they never heard others whisper.
"What could have happened?"
"Did they fall out of love?"
"No way! They loved it too much!"
"Man... I thought it would work out for them a bit longer..."
It was extremely hard to get used to the new arrangement, forget about Francis and Arthur, leave the rings back at the old house and pretend that nothing happened.
But that was the arrangement. 60 years - one lifetime of a human, and then that was it. France only asked for 60 years and England gave him two months extra.
They should be grateful, really.
But the hurt was too much. They argued, more and bitterly than ever. Their squabbles were fights now. Not even Canada or America could pull them away from it.
Everyone was aware of what was happening. Not England. He only realized randomly, 120 years later. During a fight with France, when America tried to drag him out of the room and he yelled: "Alfred! Let go!"
England didn't move on. Even century later, he was still stuck to those days when they were a family, France and he. And their kids.
He disappeared for a month and no one knew where he was. France wasn't no one though, he was special.
When he parked his car in front of the old, abandoned house, he smiled. It was sparkly clean, there were flowers blooming and the pond for ducks was full of water.
He walked inside and giggled, his world being dipped into colors once again. When he walked inside, the doors didn't even creek.
He found England in his usual spot - in the rocking chair near the window, looking inside a little box. France knew what was inside.
"I like them too. Always found the inscription fascinating. Your inner poet really came out," he giggled and stepped closer.
England rubbed his eyes and closed the box: "Who cares."
"I do. That's why I came with the idea. I think it's wonderful, what we did. And I could swear I felt the letters against my finger. Reminding me, everyday, of your promise," he smiled, "that's why I never took it off."
"I didn't take mine off either," England retorted and looked up at France, "what the hell are you doing here?"
"It's my home too," France had a simple answer.
"You left. You left the house, the rings, and me. Your word means nothing to me," England frowned and pulled the wooden box closer, pressing it against his chest.
"To be fair," the other kneeled down, allowing himself to kiss England's knees, "you are the one who asked me to break it off."
"No! No I didn't! I asked you when! You could have said never! And I would have stayed!" he said, keeping the accent on the last word, crying it out.
"You asked me for 60 years. And then I waited. I waited for a month, to hear you say something! Either push me away, or ask me for another 60 years. But you pretended nothing happened, you acted fool and made me, me, ask you!" his voice broke now, for real and England bit his lip, rubbing his eyes so hard, they turned red.
France felt stupid. He never considered this point of view. He thought he was making it pretty clear what he wanted, even when England grew fidgety over the time. Even when he slammed the doors and pushed France away, he thought he made his feelings pretty clear.
"I thought... you grew tired of me. That you had some kind of issue with the arrangement... that you wanted it to be over with," he whispered.
"Well, you thought wrong!" England growled.
When France reached for the box, England flinched and tried to grab onto it again. But France pulled out his ring, and smiled.
"Arthur..." he whispered and the other put his shaking hand in the air. France pushed the ring in it's place. I start and end with you.
"I do..." England whispered, putting the other ring on France's steady hand. There's no one else but you.
Chapter 7
Day 7 : Free day
"I doubt there is someone slower than you, dad," Alfred groaned, pulling Arthur forward.
"How else am I supposed to show you that I do not care about this event at all?" Arthur smirked, slowing his pace.
"How can you not care? It's papa's big day!" another groan.
"Papa has enough of those," Arthur yawned and smirked.
It was true, though. Ever since Francis opened up his own boutique (started out as a side job, but became his calling), he was getting more and more popular with each fashion show. It was starting to bother Arthur, how little his husband was home and how popular he was with the ladies. (Though that wasn't anything new either.)
"Daddy!" a girly voice called out from the dark, and Michelle appeared next to him, taking his other hand, "come on, it's almost starting. Matthew saved us all seats in the front row. Come on, papa will start soon."
Arthur smiled, kissing her forehead and going willingly, leaving Alfred pulling his hair out.
"You know what? It is so not nice having a favorite child!" he protested.
"I don't have a favorite child, Alfred. I just have the least favorite," his father hummed and Matthew, overhearing it, almost died in his chair.
The four of them sat down and watched the podium, clapping when Francis walked out.
"Thank you, thank you. I would not be here without the support of my amazing family, who helped me pursue what started as a silly dream. Now, years after, this boutique is a project for everyone who loves fashion. Being the reason why all of you talented people are here is making me very happy. Giving opportunity to faces that are not known while carrying the legacy of those that are in business for decades, all in one place means more to me than I can explain," he smiled.
Francis spoke and spoke, people clapped and yelled and the evening was long. Arthur found Francis in the middle of reporters and with a simple excuse, he pulled his husband aside.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi yourself," Francis hummed, "did you like tonight?"
"Not more than any other show," Arthur grinned and shook his head.
When Francis leaned in, he could swear the kiss came from some other world...
"Arthur," France whispered next to him, "Arthur wake up. We'll be late for picnic. God, why are you smiling like that, it's creepy."
England opened his eyes, blinking a few times. A dream? Well, that was silly...
"What did you dream about?" France asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Just how it might be if we were real humans," the other mumbled.
"Did you like it?" France smiled widely.
"Meh... I like what we have now better..." England whispered and pulled France down in a kiss, their rings shining in the sunlight.
╭────────── · 𓆩🌻𓆪 · ─╮
╰─ · 𓆩🌻𓆪 · ──────────╯
This was done in one day, and I am actually pretty proud of how it turned out! Seriously, I love the two of them!
Ahhh, sweet sweet loving...
