France gave him a half-concerned and half-amused look before returning his attention to the stove.
“You look like you need a drink,” France mused.
“I agree, even if my stomach doesn't.”
France chuckled, but then fell silent.
Why did you do it?
He pondered the answer to the question as France continued to cook and hum. He allowed England to brood in silence. And if he felt England's gaze boring into him, he didn't mention it.
Why did he do it? Why did he want France to surrender so badly? He knew what it would do to him, so why did he feel bad when it actually happened? England watched his red string absently. It lied limply on the table, but then it wiggled. It wiggled at the same time France's twitched.
Oh God.
Oh God.
England stood up so suddenly, his chair fell over. France turned around quickly in concern.
“Angleterre?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
“I... Uh... Yes. Just a moment please.”
England rushed out of the kitchen, into his bedroom, locked the door, and slowly slid down against the wood.
“Oh Gods no,” he mumbled to himself.
The faint beating of wings filled the room and he looked up to find the fairy from a few nights ago. She didn't look nearly as calculating as she had, and honestly, she looked much friendlier.
“Wow you figured that out much sooner than we thought,” she commented with a little giggle.
England looked at her dumbly for a moment.
“I thought Aphroditê wasn't going to interfere!”
The fairy giggled again.
“She hasn't. This has been a long time coming.”
England groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“This can't be happening... And what in the bloody name of Sucellus is wrong with him?”
The fairy patted his shoulder comfortingly, but then what he said registered, and she looked at him quizzically.
“What's wrong with him?”
“Yes him! How can our strings possibly be connected when they're not tied?! What's this great role we are supposed to play in each other's lives?”
The fairy looked at him dumbly, so England continued:
“Well, I suppose mine is obvious. But I'm supposed to be helping him, not the other way around!”
At that moment, there was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Angleterre, are you sure you're okay?”
England lifted his head and then stood up slowly. He glanced at his reflection in his mirror in the process and saw how much of a mess he looked. His hair was untidy, his face looked sticky from his earlier tears, and his eyes were still red around the edges. He supposed France had just reason to be so concerned.
“I'm the United bloody Kingdom,” England mumbled to himself.
“What was that?” France asked from the other side of the door.
“I'm just making myself more presentable,” England said.
“If you say so... Call me if you need anything, I'm going back to the kitchen.”
In Love and War [5c/?]
France gave him a half-concerned and half-amused look before returning his attention to the stove.
“You look like you need a drink,” France mused.
“I agree, even if my stomach doesn't.”
France chuckled, but then fell silent.
Why did you do it?
He pondered the answer to the question as France continued to cook and hum. He allowed England to brood in silence. And if he felt England's gaze boring into him, he didn't mention it.
Why did he do it? Why did he want France to surrender so badly? He knew what it would do to him, so why did he feel bad when it actually happened?
England watched his red string absently. It lied limply on the table, but then it wiggled. It wiggled at the same time France's twitched.
Oh God.
Oh God.
England stood up so suddenly, his chair fell over. France turned around quickly in concern.
“Angleterre?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
“I... Uh... Yes. Just a moment please.”
England rushed out of the kitchen, into his bedroom, locked the door, and slowly slid down against the wood.
“Oh Gods no,” he mumbled to himself.
The faint beating of wings filled the room and he looked up to find the fairy from a few nights ago. She didn't look nearly as calculating as she had, and honestly, she looked much friendlier.
“Wow you figured that out much sooner than we thought,” she commented with a little giggle.
England looked at her dumbly for a moment.
“I thought Aphroditê wasn't going to interfere!”
The fairy giggled again.
“She hasn't. This has been a long time coming.”
England groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“This can't be happening... And what in the bloody name of Sucellus is wrong with him?”
The fairy patted his shoulder comfortingly, but then what he said registered, and she looked at him quizzically.
“What's wrong with him?”
“Yes him! How can our strings possibly be connected when they're not tied?! What's this great role we are supposed to play in each other's lives?”
The fairy looked at him dumbly, so England continued:
“Well, I suppose mine is obvious. But I'm supposed to be helping him, not the other way around!”
At that moment, there was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Angleterre, are you sure you're okay?”
England lifted his head and then stood up slowly. He glanced at his reflection in his mirror in the process and saw how much of a mess he looked. His hair was untidy, his face looked sticky from his earlier tears, and his eyes were still red around the edges. He supposed France had just reason to be so concerned.
“I'm the United bloody Kingdom,” England mumbled to himself.
“What was that?” France asked from the other side of the door.
“I'm just making myself more presentable,” England said.
“If you say so... Call me if you need anything, I'm going back to the kitchen.”