It was the first pleasant thing he had woken up to in awhile. He had a throbbing headache to be sure, and his face felt faintly sticky. Sticky as if tears had been left to dry on his face.
England pulled the covers over his head and silently wished to suffocate himself. Why did he have to break down in the bar, why? And how did he get back to his house and in bed?
France.
England removed the blankets from his face, and that's when the smell hit him.
Eggs. Bacon. Bisquits. Unburned.
He took a deep breath in. He looked around, and then noticed that his red thread was leading out the door.
Oh no...
He warily stood up and followed the trail of string out from his bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
France was standing at the stove once again, humming some song to himself. He swayed to the rhythm and his tied hair swayed with him.
England took the image in. Domestic, he thought once more. And his eyes wandered to France's side, where his own string swayed happily.
France stopped and turned around.
“Bon matin, Angleterre~” he said with a smile.
“What are you doing in my house? Get out,” England demanded.
“I can't,” he lifted the hand with the strings, “They won't let me.”
“... You can actually see them?”
France nodded and picked them up, bringing them closer to his face to examine. “The fairy explained it to me-”
“Y-you talked to the fairy?!”
“Ouais. I know, it was the oddest thing... Mais aller, come see this.”
His mind was brimming with a million questions, but he stepped forward to look at the string.
The two threads were coiled tightly together. They weren't tied, they were wrapped around each other.
“Watch,” France said.
He tugged his end of it, and the string held fast. If anything, the ends clung more tightly together.
“Bloody...” England muttered.
He grabbed the two ends and tried to pull them apart.
“I tried,” France said.
England halted his attempts and looked up at France suspiciously.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“Your bed. I'm so glad you didn't notice.”
“What?!”
“I slept on your couch, Angleterre.”
England continued looking at him suspiciously, but France turned to tend to the bacon.
“Breakfast will be done in a moment, just have a seat.”
England sat down and found himself contemplating while gazing at France's back again.
What happened last night? The last thing he remembered was breaking out in tears and their threads touching. Obviously France brought him home. And he seemed to be completely unscathed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the plate placed in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“De rien,” France replied, sitting down across from him. “Here's a damp cloth for your face.” He leaned across the table to hand it to him.
In Love and War (9b/?)
It was the first pleasant thing he had woken up to in awhile. He had a throbbing headache to be sure, and his face felt faintly sticky. Sticky as if tears had been left to dry on his face.
England pulled the covers over his head and silently wished to suffocate himself. Why did he have to break down in the bar, why? And how did he get back to his house and in bed?
France.
England removed the blankets from his face, and that's when the smell hit him.
Eggs. Bacon. Bisquits. Unburned.
He took a deep breath in. He looked around, and then noticed that his red thread was leading out the door.
Oh no...
He warily stood up and followed the trail of string out from his bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
France was standing at the stove once again, humming some song to himself. He swayed to the rhythm and his tied hair swayed with him.
England took the image in. Domestic, he thought once more. And his eyes wandered to France's side, where his own string swayed happily.
France stopped and turned around.
“Bon matin, Angleterre~” he said with a smile.
“What are you doing in my house? Get out,” England demanded.
“I can't,” he lifted the hand with the strings, “They won't let me.”
“... You can actually see them?”
France nodded and picked them up, bringing them closer to his face to examine. “The fairy explained it to me-”
“Y-you talked to the fairy?!”
“Ouais. I know, it was the oddest thing... Mais aller, come see this.”
His mind was brimming with a million questions, but he stepped forward to look at the string.
The two threads were coiled tightly together. They weren't tied, they were wrapped around each other.
“Watch,” France said.
He tugged his end of it, and the string held fast. If anything, the ends clung more tightly together.
“Bloody...” England muttered.
He grabbed the two ends and tried to pull them apart.
“I tried,” France said.
England halted his attempts and looked up at France suspiciously.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“Your bed. I'm so glad you didn't notice.”
“What?!”
“I slept on your couch, Angleterre.”
England continued looking at him suspiciously, but France turned to tend to the bacon.
“Breakfast will be done in a moment, just have a seat.”
England sat down and found himself contemplating while gazing at France's back again.
What happened last night? The last thing he remembered was breaking out in tears and their threads touching. Obviously France brought him home. And he seemed to be completely unscathed.
His thoughts were interrupted by the plate placed in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“De rien,” France replied, sitting down across from him. “Here's a damp cloth for your face.” He leaned across the table to hand it to him.