Much like the Spanish Inquisition, no one expects an update 2 months after the first! I'm so sorry for the delay on this story, but the thread of it sort of got away from me for a bit there. But now I think I've got it mostly figured out, so here's an update for anyone still reading this! Future updates will probably alternate between past lives and current nationverse. Let me know what you think!
--
England sits straight up in bed, the covers falling away from him as his breath comes in frantic gasps. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rushing to get—where, exactly? He’s halfway across the room when he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going, what he’s doing. He scowls at himself, looking down at his shaking hands.
There are glimpses and impressions running through his mind. He can hear a car honking, and feel rain against his face. But most of all, he’s overcome by a deep longing, as if he just needs to get somewhere in particular. When he does, he’ll see who he needs to, and that person will be smiling at him. And England will tell them—what, exactly? He can’t remember. It’s on the tip of his tongue, present but out of his reach.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, massaging his temples as he steps back over to the bed. His cellphone is charging on the nightstand, and he reaches for it almost subconsciously. He flips through his contacts and selects one, holding the phone to his ear as he sits himself down on the bed.
“You do realize it’s four in the morning,” the person on the other end of the line says, as soon as he picks up.
“I—ah—France?” England’s words are disjointed as he tries to make sense of this. He hadn’t dialed France’s number, had he?
“Yes, Angleterre.” France sounds bored. “You did just call me, no?”
“Of course I didn’t. Why the hell would I call you?” Even though he just had, England can’t bring himself to admit it. To admit to the hazy feelings swirling around him, memories leaking into one another and becoming dreams that he can’t quite remember.
“How should I know? I have long since given up on understanding you.” France huffs, and England can almost see him—standing out on his balcony, elbows balanced against the railing, the Eiffel Tower large and imposing before him.
Maybe he’ll be smiling, England thinks suddenly. The image comes unbidden to his mind, France looking down for a moment at his feet. And when he looks up, the blond hair shifts away from his face, and he’s smiling brightly, as he looks at England, because England’s who he’s been waiting for.
“Are you there?” France asks through the line, irritation coloring his voice. “Angleterre?”
England cannot answer for a moment, because the words have all lodged themselves in his throat and refuse to come out. He sees it, now, with striking clarity. He’s walking across London town, maybe ten years ago. And he’s going to go see France, because he needs to tell him—
Oh, lord.
“I’m hanging up on you now,” France says. “Honestly, I know there are no manners in Britain, but you should think before you—”
“Who are you talking to?” That’s a new voice, and one England doesn’t immediately recognize. “Come back to bed—”
England presses the button to hang up the call before he’s even aware of what he’s heard. He drops the phone onto the bed beside him, the lights of the display glaring at him for a moment before the screen goes dark.
He sits there for a moment, the room quiet and dark around him. His head is still buzzing, trying to process too many different things at once. He lies back and lets his head settle on the pillow, willing his thoughts to slow and dissipate.
This time, when he falls asleep, he does not dream.
--
“You’re very quiet today, England.” India’s takes a light sip of his tea, glancing at England over the rim of the cup. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there something on your mind?”
England barely registers that India’s speaking—he’s looking out over his lawn, his thoughts very far away. It’s only after India clears his throat meaningfully that England snaps back to attention and turns towards him. He’s greeted with deep, dark eyes and raised eyebrows—full and dark, though not nearly as prominent as England’s own.
“I—what?”
India sets down his cup, lips quirking into a smile. “You’re very eloquent today, too.”
“Oh, shut up.” England runs a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp in the hopes of ridding himself of the headache he’s been nursing all day. It’s like a swarm of wasps has taken up residence just behind his eyes, tugging his attention away from the matters before him.
The other nation doesn’t say anything more, merely continues to gaze at England with that too-knowing way of his. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of just how old India is, and just how much he’s seen.
“What do you think of dreams?” England asks the question suddenly, pulling his own cup of tea back towards him. He takes a sip as he waits for India’s answer, wincing a moment later—it’s gone cold.
“Dreams? What about them?”
“Exactly what—what do you think of them? Are they just memories shoving up against each other while we move them into long-term memory, or are they spiritual messages sent to torment us, or…”
“Or?” India prompts. England hates the smile on the other’s face, the way it feels like he’s being teased even though India has hardly said anything.
“Or, I don’t bloody know!” England slams a hand against the table. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
India sighs and sits back in his chair, balancing his elbows against the armrests and steepling his flingers together. The glint in his eye shifts from amused to calculating. “There are many theories,” he says after a moment. “We know the science, of course, but life isn’t just what can be experimented with and explained. My people say that dreams can be prophetic, or retributive. My sister says we dream when our souls leave our bodies, and interact with others’—although of course she is very foolish and we shouldn’t listen to her. I don’t know if you’ll find one answer that satisfies you—perhaps if you described your dreams?”
The idea makes England’s cheeks burn, even though he doesn’t remember every detail of his dream. A feeling of longing, and a smile, and insults and nicknames giving way to proper ones…
“Have you ever dreamed of yourself, but not as a nation?” England doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but they flow out from his lips unbidden. “In my dream, I was just—Arthur. And I was living a normal life, I worked in a library, and the radiator left my coats soggy but on some days I minded that more than others. But I was human, and I think— I think I died.”
India bites down on his lower lip, and England knows him well enough to realize he’s trying not to laugh. Before England can launch into a bitter tirade to cover up his moment of candidness, India lifts a hand to pause him.
“I’m not mocking you, England,” he says reassuringly. “But can you imagine yourself as a human? It’s—it’s not funny, of course not. But we live so long, I cannot imagine we reincarnate the way humans might. We have our lifetimes all strung together, connected for us. We remember everything, and grow slowly.”
“I know that.” England drums his fingers against the table, brow furrowing. “You don’t need to tell me how long I’ve lived. But this was—this wasn’t just a dream. It felt like more than that, and it hasn’t left my mind.”
India hums thoughtfully, and a moment of conscious silence passes between them. Then he looks up and says, “Would you give me a few days to look into the matter for you?”
England tilts his head, suspicious. “And just why would you want to do that?”
His smile is all white teeth. “Because we are friends, England. Of course.”
“And?” England asks dubiously.
“And, you’ll owe me a small favor, of course. I don’t have anything in mind, yet, but if I do something for you, surely you’d be willing to do something for me later on.”
Now England rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t have anything in mind. But fine—if you think you can help.”
The smile never leaves his face as India inclines his head. Before he can say anything more, however, England’s phone vibrates on the table next to the cups of tea, interrupting them.
“It’s France,” India says, picking up the phone and holding it out to England.
He reacts instinctively, without much thought. Snatching the phone out of India’s hand, England swings his arm back and throws the offending object as far as he can. It lands out on the lawn, behind a row of rose bushes. England sinks back into his chair, face flushed.
“That was certainly dramatic,” India comments lightly.
Maybe In Another Life | France/England | 2/?
--
England sits straight up in bed, the covers falling away from him as his breath comes in frantic gasps. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rushing to get—where, exactly? He’s halfway across the room when he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going, what he’s doing. He scowls at himself, looking down at his shaking hands.
There are glimpses and impressions running through his mind. He can hear a car honking, and feel rain against his face. But most of all, he’s overcome by a deep longing, as if he just needs to get somewhere in particular. When he does, he’ll see who he needs to, and that person will be smiling at him. And England will tell them—what, exactly? He can’t remember. It’s on the tip of his tongue, present but out of his reach.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, massaging his temples as he steps back over to the bed. His cellphone is charging on the nightstand, and he reaches for it almost subconsciously. He flips through his contacts and selects one, holding the phone to his ear as he sits himself down on the bed.
“You do realize it’s four in the morning,” the person on the other end of the line says, as soon as he picks up.
“I—ah—France?” England’s words are disjointed as he tries to make sense of this. He hadn’t dialed France’s number, had he?
“Yes, Angleterre.” France sounds bored. “You did just call me, no?”
“Of course I didn’t. Why the hell would I call you?” Even though he just had, England can’t bring himself to admit it. To admit to the hazy feelings swirling around him, memories leaking into one another and becoming dreams that he can’t quite remember.
“How should I know? I have long since given up on understanding you.” France huffs, and England can almost see him—standing out on his balcony, elbows balanced against the railing, the Eiffel Tower large and imposing before him.
Maybe he’ll be smiling, England thinks suddenly. The image comes unbidden to his mind, France looking down for a moment at his feet. And when he looks up, the blond hair shifts away from his face, and he’s smiling brightly, as he looks at England, because England’s who he’s been waiting for.
“Are you there?” France asks through the line, irritation coloring his voice. “Angleterre?”
England cannot answer for a moment, because the words have all lodged themselves in his throat and refuse to come out. He sees it, now, with striking clarity. He’s walking across London town, maybe ten years ago. And he’s going to go see France, because he needs to tell him—
Oh, lord.
“I’m hanging up on you now,” France says. “Honestly, I know there are no manners in Britain, but you should think before you—”
“Who are you talking to?” That’s a new voice, and one England doesn’t immediately recognize. “Come back to bed—”
England presses the button to hang up the call before he’s even aware of what he’s heard. He drops the phone onto the bed beside him, the lights of the display glaring at him for a moment before the screen goes dark.
He sits there for a moment, the room quiet and dark around him. His head is still buzzing, trying to process too many different things at once. He lies back and lets his head settle on the pillow, willing his thoughts to slow and dissipate.
This time, when he falls asleep, he does not dream.
--
“You’re very quiet today, England.” India’s takes a light sip of his tea, glancing at England over the rim of the cup. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there something on your mind?”
England barely registers that India’s speaking—he’s looking out over his lawn, his thoughts very far away. It’s only after India clears his throat meaningfully that England snaps back to attention and turns towards him. He’s greeted with deep, dark eyes and raised eyebrows—full and dark, though not nearly as prominent as England’s own.
“I—what?”
India sets down his cup, lips quirking into a smile. “You’re very eloquent today, too.”
“Oh, shut up.” England runs a hand through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp in the hopes of ridding himself of the headache he’s been nursing all day. It’s like a swarm of wasps has taken up residence just behind his eyes, tugging his attention away from the matters before him.
The other nation doesn’t say anything more, merely continues to gaze at England with that too-knowing way of his. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of just how old India is, and just how much he’s seen.
“What do you think of dreams?” England asks the question suddenly, pulling his own cup of tea back towards him. He takes a sip as he waits for India’s answer, wincing a moment later—it’s gone cold.
“Dreams? What about them?”
“Exactly what—what do you think of them? Are they just memories shoving up against each other while we move them into long-term memory, or are they spiritual messages sent to torment us, or…”
“Or?” India prompts. England hates the smile on the other’s face, the way it feels like he’s being teased even though India has hardly said anything.
“Or, I don’t bloody know!” England slams a hand against the table. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
India sighs and sits back in his chair, balancing his elbows against the armrests and steepling his flingers together. The glint in his eye shifts from amused to calculating. “There are many theories,” he says after a moment. “We know the science, of course, but life isn’t just what can be experimented with and explained. My people say that dreams can be prophetic, or retributive. My sister says we dream when our souls leave our bodies, and interact with others’—although of course she is very foolish and we shouldn’t listen to her. I don’t know if you’ll find one answer that satisfies you—perhaps if you described your dreams?”
The idea makes England’s cheeks burn, even though he doesn’t remember every detail of his dream. A feeling of longing, and a smile, and insults and nicknames giving way to proper ones…
“Have you ever dreamed of yourself, but not as a nation?” England doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but they flow out from his lips unbidden. “In my dream, I was just—Arthur. And I was living a normal life, I worked in a library, and the radiator left my coats soggy but on some days I minded that more than others. But I was human, and I think— I think I died.”
India bites down on his lower lip, and England knows him well enough to realize he’s trying not to laugh. Before England can launch into a bitter tirade to cover up his moment of candidness, India lifts a hand to pause him.
“I’m not mocking you, England,” he says reassuringly. “But can you imagine yourself as a human? It’s—it’s not funny, of course not. But we live so long, I cannot imagine we reincarnate the way humans might. We have our lifetimes all strung together, connected for us. We remember everything, and grow slowly.”
“I know that.” England drums his fingers against the table, brow furrowing. “You don’t need to tell me how long I’ve lived. But this was—this wasn’t just a dream. It felt like more than that, and it hasn’t left my mind.”
India hums thoughtfully, and a moment of conscious silence passes between them. Then he looks up and says, “Would you give me a few days to look into the matter for you?”
England tilts his head, suspicious. “And just why would you want to do that?”
His smile is all white teeth. “Because we are friends, England. Of course.”
“And?” England asks dubiously.
“And, you’ll owe me a small favor, of course. I don’t have anything in mind, yet, but if I do something for you, surely you’d be willing to do something for me later on.”
Now England rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t have anything in mind. But fine—if you think you can help.”
The smile never leaves his face as India inclines his head. Before he can say anything more, however, England’s phone vibrates on the table next to the cups of tea, interrupting them.
“It’s France,” India says, picking up the phone and holding it out to England.
He reacts instinctively, without much thought. Snatching the phone out of India’s hand, England swings his arm back and throws the offending object as far as he can. It lands out on the lawn, behind a row of rose bushes. England sinks back into his chair, face flushed.
“That was certainly dramatic,” India comments lightly.