What England wanted to ask was 'do you still love Jeanne?' but instead what came out was: “How do you know if you're in love with someone?”
“In love with someone?” France asked, only slightly taken aback.
England just nodded and clutched the glass he had forgotten about.
“Hmm,” France planted his hands behind him on the bed and propped himself up. “It's hard to explain... But I'd say one loves when one cannot be separated from that person anymore. When one wants that person to be happy, yet only wants that person to find happiness in no other. And if that thought wracks you with guilt, but you can't bring yourself to regret it... Then I think one is in love.”
England just stood at the end of the bed, not knowing what to say. France must have said all that on purpose... He must know. But how could he know? What on Earth did he say that night he was drunk?
The glass in his hand broke. He looked down at it; feeling as if it wasn't his hand that wine was dripping down, and not feeling overly concerned about the faint sting of the alcohol against new cuts.
“Angleterre!” France yelled with concern, and reached across the bed to pull the intact glass from England's hands.
That snapped him back to reality and he pulled his injured hands in to his torso. “Bloody hell!” he yelled.
“Angleterre, are you okay?” France asked, grabbing England's wrists to examine his hands.
“Y-yes, I'm fine...” England said automatically, but as he looked at his hands, he realized that some tweezers may be in order. “Excuse me...”
He practically ran out of the room to get to the bathroom. He locked the door and stood with one hand on each side of the sink.
“Angleterre!” France called, knocking on the door.
“Go away!” England called back.
“I don't know what I said, but you will need help getting the glass out.”
What does he mean 'I don't know what I said'?! He bloody well knows what he said.
“I'm fine, go away!”
There was a silence in which England thought that France did actually leave. He exhaled shakily and opened a drawer to rummage around for the tweezers. But England should've known that it wouldn't be so easy.
“Is this about Jeanne?” France asked.
Yes.
“What would give you that bloody idea?” England called back. He went to sit down on the toilet, but then opted to sit with his back to the door.
“I know you, Angleterre. I know you've been trying to ask, and I wanted to give you the time to ask yourself, but it's just been eating away at you,” he stopped, as if picking his next words carefully, “The longer we wait, the harder this is going to be.”
“I know,” England snapped, “But it isn't as bloody easy as you make it out to be!”
“I'm not saying it's easy. We just have to do this at some point. So, what were you really going to ask?”
England took his time pulling shards out. It stung, but it wasn't that bad. He rolled his sleeves up so they wouldn't get stained.
The door dividing the two nations should make this conversation easier, but the string on England's finger made it difficult. And it was tugging at him lightly, as if the person on the other end was toying with it nervously. Not that France would have anything to be nervous about, but the thought that he might be made England feel better.
“I- I...” he cleared his throat and then asked in a rush, “Ijustneedtoknowwhyyouarebeingsonicetome.”
“What?” France asked.
England took a deep steadying breath before repeating: “I just need to know why you are being so nice to me.”
In Love and War (11c/?)
“In love with someone?” France asked, only slightly taken aback.
England just nodded and clutched the glass he had forgotten about.
“Hmm,” France planted his hands behind him on the bed and propped himself up. “It's hard to explain... But I'd say one loves when one cannot be separated from that person anymore. When one wants that person to be happy, yet only wants that person to find happiness in no other. And if that thought wracks you with guilt, but you can't bring yourself to regret it... Then I think one is in love.”
England just stood at the end of the bed, not knowing what to say. France must have said all that on purpose... He must know. But how could he know? What on Earth did he say that night he was drunk?
The glass in his hand broke. He looked down at it; feeling as if it wasn't his hand that wine was dripping down, and not feeling overly concerned about the faint sting of the alcohol against new cuts.
“Angleterre!” France yelled with concern, and reached across the bed to pull the intact glass from England's hands.
That snapped him back to reality and he pulled his injured hands in to his torso. “Bloody hell!” he yelled.
“Angleterre, are you okay?” France asked, grabbing England's wrists to examine his hands.
“Y-yes, I'm fine...” England said automatically, but as he looked at his hands, he realized that some tweezers may be in order. “Excuse me...”
He practically ran out of the room to get to the bathroom. He locked the door and stood with one hand on each side of the sink.
“Angleterre!” France called, knocking on the door.
“Go away!” England called back.
“I don't know what I said, but you will need help getting the glass out.”
What does he mean 'I don't know what I said'?! He bloody well knows what he said.
“I'm fine, go away!”
There was a silence in which England thought that France did actually leave. He exhaled shakily and opened a drawer to rummage around for the tweezers. But England should've known that it wouldn't be so easy.
“Is this about Jeanne?” France asked.
Yes.
“What would give you that bloody idea?” England called back. He went to sit down on the toilet, but then opted to sit with his back to the door.
“I know you, Angleterre. I know you've been trying to ask, and I wanted to give you the time to ask yourself, but it's just been eating away at you,” he stopped, as if picking his next words carefully, “The longer we wait, the harder this is going to be.”
“I know,” England snapped, “But it isn't as bloody easy as you make it out to be!”
“I'm not saying it's easy. We just have to do this at some point. So, what were you really going to ask?”
England took his time pulling shards out. It stung, but it wasn't that bad. He rolled his sleeves up so they wouldn't get stained.
The door dividing the two nations should make this conversation easier, but the string on England's finger made it difficult. And it was tugging at him lightly, as if the person on the other end was toying with it nervously. Not that France would have anything to be nervous about, but the thought that he might be made England feel better.
“I- I...” he cleared his throat and then asked in a rush, “Ijustneedtoknowwhyyouarebeingsonicetome.”
“What?” France asked.
England took a deep steadying breath before repeating: “I just need to know why you are being so nice to me.”