[ Kind of short update, but I wanted to post something because chances are, I'll be busy this week... Forgive me T_T ]
Canada sat in the big cushy chair by his fire. He had a cup of maple coffee in hand, and a little pile of wood next to his fireplace to keep it going. The snow was starting to melt on the ground, but it was always a little on the chilly side this far up north. Canada didn't mind though, it meant his brother could visit him more easily.
He looked out the window almost expectantly. No sign of America yet, but a nasty blizzard was raging outside.
Canada sighed and stood up reluctantly. He threw a few logs on the fire before going into the kitchen to make something for America when he arrived. He should be there soon, he was only just coming from Alaska. Well, Russia then Alaska. But it still wasn't that far. Unless he was caught in the storm.
He started worrying himself as he shaped meat into patties and put them in a pan. Thank goodness he took after France in the cooking department. America couldn't cook to save his life.
As if on cue, Canada's door opened and slammed shut.
“You won't even believe how windy it is out there!” America said, starting to struggle with his boot laces in the doorway.
“Don't get water everywhere,” Canada warned.
“Jeez have a bit of faith.” Canada could tell that he was rolling his eyes.
“How was Russia's?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Not too bad actually,” America said, shaking his coat out before hanging it up, “I don't even know what he wanted.”
“Oh?”
America shrugged and walked over to the stove to see what was cooking.
“Hamburgers?! Thanks bro!”
“No problem,” Canada said with a smile.
The brothers hugged and Canada sent America to sit by the fire and warm up. A few minutes later he returned to the livingroom with the hamburgers. The plate was set on a table between two cushy chairs and they faced the fire, eating until they were full.
America was strangely quiet.
Even after two cups of coffee he was strangely quiet.
Canada got marshmellows and toasting sticks and got his brother out of his contemplation. They sat by the fire eating marshmellows, and Canada wondered what could possibly be on America's mind. It was probably Russia.
The thought made him a little sad. Sure, America lived right next door to him, and sure they visited each other at least once a week, but that could change. So much could change, everything could change. And it wouldn't be fair of Canada to ask him to stay...
“Al, I-” he stopped as he realized he didn't know what to say. He looked over at his brother and started to fix a smile to his face and repair his blunder, but America was asleep.
Canada looked at him for a moment, but then smiled genuinely and shook his head. Hopefully things like this would never change and Canada would still be able to see it. See the little things like his brother falling asleep in front of the fireplace during a blizzard.
He didn't have the heart to wake him, so he draped a blanket over him instead.
“Please don't you forget about me, Al,” he whispered, before going into his own room and shutting out the light.
England didn't think it was possible for him to love France. It shouldn't be. It couldn't be. And yet it was. It was something that is. From France's smiles and laughter, to his teasing and rolling his eyes. It didn't feel very unnatural to wake up to France cooking in his kitchen every morning, or to have France's paperwork piled on his desk every day. He didn't think anything of him answering his phone with a cheery 'bonjour'. His boss did, but that was another matter.
And France understood without words exactly what England needed. No pressure for now; just someone to stop him from moving to Antarctica.
They went to the grocery store together even though France was the one to pick everything. They had Spain, Romano, Italy, and Germany over for supper one night. That was a little chaotic, but it was worth it. Even if Spain was shooting France meaningful looks the entire time that both England and France chose to ignore. They switched off between watching French and English T.V. Sometimes they would slip into entire conversations in French, as if it was nothing. And for them, it just was.
England could say that his life was returning to normal; no fairies, no ghosts, no drama. But it wasn't normal, it was so much better than normal.
And there was one problem with this. The deeper he fell for France, the harder it was to talk to him. He knew France was waiting for it, and knew he would listen, so he didn't know why it was so difficult.
What if he doesn't accept your apology? The nagging doubt in the back of his mind would ask. What if he is just being nice because he knows what your pain felt like? What if you bugger this completely? He started wishing that France would nag him because that would mean something beyond friends...
France seemed to know whenever he was having those thoughts. England's string would cling more tightly to France's, and France would make him a cup of tea and leave him alone to contemplate. And his contemplating had led him to the conclusion that he needed needed to ask France a few questions.
England stood in front of his cabinet and took a wine glass out. He may have developed the habit of bringing France wine while he was working. Even though it was his bedroom, he knocked on the door before he entered.
“I'm on the phone, but come in,” France called.
England watched as France's hand lowered from the receiver and he continued speaking in rapid French to someone on the other line. It was funny to watch, France made faces and spoke with his hands even when on the phone. And there was just something so utterly normal about it. France was sitting indian-style on his bed with his shoes off and hair in a small braid, probably speaking to his boss using England's home phone. He just sat there, perfectly at home, like it was nothing.
It reminded him of WWII again. His heart skipped a beat with the recollection of how close France had come to failing. He's okay now, he's safe... England told himself.
England then ran a hand through his hair in irritation. These kinds of thoughts seemed to haunt him a lot.
France smiled and hung the phone up.
“That was my boss,” he began, undoing the ribbon in his hair to tie it back up more neatly, “He wants me back in my country after the next meeting.”
“Oh... Well, I suppose it would be nice to spend some time in Paris again. It's been awhile, hasn't it?”
France looked at England for a moment and then asked: “Are you really going? To the meeting, I mean.”
“Why wouldn't I go?”
“Well,” France began hesitantly, “America is hosting.”
“Oh...”
“I can call out so you don't have to go, if that would be easiest.”
“No, no,” England said, shaking his head, “I'll go... I need to pull myself together at some point anyway. And err, speaking of that... I need to ask you something.”
Suddenly much more serious, France neatly put the papers scattered on the bed into a pile and sat up straighter.
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.”
“Angleterre, I know what heartache feels like. That isn't something anyone should have to go through.”
“I know you know what heartache feels like!” England shouted. “It's because of me that you know what it feels like! So why are you being so nice to me?!”
“So this is about Jeanne?”
England chose to remain silent this time, picking the last of the glass from his hands and standing up again. He went over to the sink to rinse his hands.
“Angleterre, I know you don't want to talk, so just listen to me. I am sorry. We probably wouldn't be in this situation right now if I didn't help Amèrique gain independence.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” he demanded at the locked door.
“Everything,” France said. “Just listen. After you killed Jeanne-” England flinched, “-I was heartbroken. I spent a lot of time after that resenting you, I won't lie. I knew how you felt about Amèrique. So when he wanted independence, I was more than willing to help him. I did it just to spite you... That's why I'm sorry.”
England walked back over to the door and leaned his forehead against it. “You are being nice just because you feel responsible?”
“... Open the door, Angleterre.”
England found himself tearing up. So, that's all there was to it. He shook his head, even though France couldn't see him.
“Open the door, please,” France said, a little more gently.
England touched the doorknob, not sure whether he really wanted to or not. He would have to eventually. He fought his tears, grit his teeth, and hesitantly turned the doorknob.
The moment the door was open, he found himself in France's arms. England just stood there, not knowing what to do. That was just about the last thing he expected. It wasn't a particularly tight embrace, nor a particularly comforting embrace, it was a simple hug.
“Angleterre, this isn't about Jeanne or Amèrique,” France said softly.
England hesitantly brought his arms up to return the hug, and France took that as an invitation to hug him tighter.
“I'm here because I want to be, d'accord? I was trying to help you even before I knew about him, I didn't want to see you hurting.”
England buried his face in France's shoulder. The tears were back, but they were tears of relief this time. France was going out of his way to be nice just because he could. He actually wanted to. France didn't hate him after all...
“W-why?” England choked out.
His question went unanswered, but France stroked his hair soothingly.
They stood there like that for a long time. France stroking England's hair, and England crying silently into his shoulder. By the time they separated, they both knew the answer to the question. But England couldn't bring himself to ask if he still loved Jeanne.
“You know,” France said after, helping England get the worst of the stain off the carpet, “I never would've guessed that you owned a pair of tweezers.”
England looked up at him in confusion, but then glowered and retorted: “Shut it, frog.”
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In Love and War (11a/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-19 03:53 am (UTC)(link)Canada sat in the big cushy chair by his fire. He had a cup of maple coffee in hand, and a little pile of wood next to his fireplace to keep it going. The snow was starting to melt on the ground, but it was always a little on the chilly side this far up north. Canada didn't mind though, it meant his brother could visit him more easily.
He looked out the window almost expectantly. No sign of America yet, but a nasty blizzard was raging outside.
Canada sighed and stood up reluctantly. He threw a few logs on the fire before going into the kitchen to make something for America when he arrived. He should be there soon, he was only just coming from Alaska. Well, Russia then Alaska. But it still wasn't that far. Unless he was caught in the storm.
He started worrying himself as he shaped meat into patties and put them in a pan. Thank goodness he took after France in the cooking department. America couldn't cook to save his life.
As if on cue, Canada's door opened and slammed shut.
“You won't even believe how windy it is out there!” America said, starting to struggle with his boot laces in the doorway.
“Don't get water everywhere,” Canada warned.
“Jeez have a bit of faith.” Canada could tell that he was rolling his eyes.
“How was Russia's?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Not too bad actually,” America said, shaking his coat out before hanging it up, “I don't even know what he wanted.”
“Oh?”
America shrugged and walked over to the stove to see what was cooking.
“Hamburgers?! Thanks bro!”
“No problem,” Canada said with a smile.
The brothers hugged and Canada sent America to sit by the fire and warm up. A few minutes later he returned to the livingroom with the hamburgers. The plate was set on a table between two cushy chairs and they faced the fire, eating until they were full.
America was strangely quiet.
Even after two cups of coffee he was strangely quiet.
Canada got marshmellows and toasting sticks and got his brother out of his contemplation. They sat by the fire eating marshmellows, and Canada wondered what could possibly be on America's mind. It was probably Russia.
The thought made him a little sad. Sure, America lived right next door to him, and sure they visited each other at least once a week, but that could change. So much could change, everything could change. And it wouldn't be fair of Canada to ask him to stay...
“Al, I-” he stopped as he realized he didn't know what to say. He looked over at his brother and started to fix a smile to his face and repair his blunder, but America was asleep.
Canada looked at him for a moment, but then smiled genuinely and shook his head. Hopefully things like this would never change and Canada would still be able to see it. See the little things like his brother falling asleep in front of the fireplace during a blizzard.
He didn't have the heart to wake him, so he draped a blanket over him instead.
“Please don't you forget about me, Al,” he whispered, before going into his own room and shutting out the light.
In Love and War (11b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-19 03:56 am (UTC)(link)England didn't think it was possible for him to love France. It shouldn't be. It couldn't be. And yet it was. It was something that is. From France's smiles and laughter, to his teasing and rolling his eyes. It didn't feel very unnatural to wake up to France cooking in his kitchen every morning, or to have France's paperwork piled on his desk every day. He didn't think anything of him answering his phone with a cheery 'bonjour'. His boss did, but that was another matter.
And France understood without words exactly what England needed. No pressure for now; just someone to stop him from moving to Antarctica.
They went to the grocery store together even though France was the one to pick everything. They had Spain, Romano, Italy, and Germany over for supper one night. That was a little chaotic, but it was worth it. Even if Spain was shooting France meaningful looks the entire time that both England and France chose to ignore. They switched off between watching French and English T.V. Sometimes they would slip into entire conversations in French, as if it was nothing. And for them, it just was.
England could say that his life was returning to normal; no fairies, no ghosts, no drama. But it wasn't normal, it was so much better than normal.
And there was one problem with this. The deeper he fell for France, the harder it was to talk to him. He knew France was waiting for it, and knew he would listen, so he didn't know why it was so difficult.
What if he doesn't accept your apology? The nagging doubt in the back of his mind would ask. What if he is just being nice because he knows what your pain felt like? What if you bugger this completely? He started wishing that France would nag him because that would mean something beyond friends...
France seemed to know whenever he was having those thoughts. England's string would cling more tightly to France's, and France would make him a cup of tea and leave him alone to contemplate. And his contemplating had led him to the conclusion that he needed needed to ask France a few questions.
England stood in front of his cabinet and took a wine glass out. He may have developed the habit of bringing France wine while he was working. Even though it was his bedroom, he knocked on the door before he entered.
“I'm on the phone, but come in,” France called.
England watched as France's hand lowered from the receiver and he continued speaking in rapid French to someone on the other line. It was funny to watch, France made faces and spoke with his hands even when on the phone. And there was just something so utterly normal about it. France was sitting indian-style on his bed with his shoes off and hair in a small braid, probably speaking to his boss using England's home phone. He just sat there, perfectly at home, like it was nothing.
It reminded him of WWII again. His heart skipped a beat with the recollection of how close France had come to failing. He's okay now, he's safe... England told himself.
England then ran a hand through his hair in irritation. These kinds of thoughts seemed to haunt him a lot.
France smiled and hung the phone up.
“That was my boss,” he began, undoing the ribbon in his hair to tie it back up more neatly, “He wants me back in my country after the next meeting.”
“Oh... Well, I suppose it would be nice to spend some time in Paris again. It's been awhile, hasn't it?”
France looked at England for a moment and then asked: “Are you really going? To the meeting, I mean.”
“Why wouldn't I go?”
“Well,” France began hesitantly, “America is hosting.”
“Oh...”
“I can call out so you don't have to go, if that would be easiest.”
“No, no,” England said, shaking his head, “I'll go... I need to pull myself together at some point anyway. And err, speaking of that... I need to ask you something.”
Suddenly much more serious, France neatly put the papers scattered on the bed into a pile and sat up straighter.
“Go ahead,” he said.
In Love and War (11c/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-19 03:57 am (UTC)(link)“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 (11d/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-19 03:58 am (UTC)(link)“Angleterre, I know what heartache feels like. That isn't something anyone should have to go through.”
“I know you know what heartache feels like!” England shouted. “It's because of me that you know what it feels like! So why are you being so nice to me?!”
“So this is about Jeanne?”
England chose to remain silent this time, picking the last of the glass from his hands and standing up again. He went over to the sink to rinse his hands.
“Angleterre, I know you don't want to talk, so just listen to me. I am sorry. We probably wouldn't be in this situation right now if I didn't help Amèrique gain independence.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” he demanded at the locked door.
“Everything,” France said. “Just listen. After you killed Jeanne-” England flinched, “-I was heartbroken. I spent a lot of time after that resenting you, I won't lie. I knew how you felt about Amèrique. So when he wanted independence, I was more than willing to help him. I did it just to spite you... That's why I'm sorry.”
England walked back over to the door and leaned his forehead against it. “You are being nice just because you feel responsible?”
“... Open the door, Angleterre.”
England found himself tearing up. So, that's all there was to it. He shook his head, even though France couldn't see him.
“Open the door, please,” France said, a little more gently.
England touched the doorknob, not sure whether he really wanted to or not. He would have to eventually. He fought his tears, grit his teeth, and hesitantly turned the doorknob.
The moment the door was open, he found himself in France's arms. England just stood there, not knowing what to do. That was just about the last thing he expected. It wasn't a particularly tight embrace, nor a particularly comforting embrace, it was a simple hug.
“Angleterre, this isn't about Jeanne or Amèrique,” France said softly.
England hesitantly brought his arms up to return the hug, and France took that as an invitation to hug him tighter.
“I'm here because I want to be, d'accord? I was trying to help you even before I knew about him, I didn't want to see you hurting.”
England buried his face in France's shoulder. The tears were back, but they were tears of relief this time. France was going out of his way to be nice just because he could. He actually wanted to. France didn't hate him after all...
“W-why?” England choked out.
His question went unanswered, but France stroked his hair soothingly.
They stood there like that for a long time. France stroking England's hair, and England crying silently into his shoulder. By the time they separated, they both knew the answer to the question. But England couldn't bring himself to ask if he still loved Jeanne.
“You know,” France said after, helping England get the worst of the stain off the carpet, “I never would've guessed that you owned a pair of tweezers.”
England looked up at him in confusion, but then glowered and retorted: “Shut it, frog.”