"Why do you guys always fight, anyway?" asked America once, during the World War. England had not heard him at first, his palms pressed tight to the desk in front of him. He was staring at the lines on the map as if by force of will he could change the location of the fronts and the little markers that indicated where they'd lost ground. He and France had been yelling at each other, and France had left abruptly.
"Well, England? Man, everyone says 'the continent this' and 'the continent that' and 'Its just Europe, Al,' but really? You guys can't stop for two damn minutes to discuss important stuff?" said America, getting into it, his face reddening and his arms flying up.
"We do not always fight," muttered England.
"You could have fooled me! Even the War of Independence, France helped me but it was always about you," said America, and he seemed to realize the low blow and the sharp edge of his bitterness just a moment too late-- as he always did, clumsy and brash. They both breathed harshly in the silence, and England squared his shoulders.
"We don't always. I suppose it's as much a habit as anything else. At least one thing has not changed," he suggested, with a vague gesture at the door.
"Its weird. We're allies. You grew up together," said America, brow furrowing, his mouth pulled to the side. The boy hated puzzles he couldn't solve, problems he couldn't grasp.
England couldn't help the low tug of affection in his chest.
"It's just how it is," England said, and that was that.
America proceeded to ask everyone about it; everyone shrugged and said that was just how England and France always had been. England knew because he was in the room half the time, and once Russia cornered him very benignly in an underground bunker while the earth shook with falling shells.
"Why do you always fight?" asked Russia, always too large and smiling too softly and with his fingers pulling thoughtfully through his scarf. "We should always try to get along together. Everyone should get along together," he repeated, earnestly, and England pulled back from him a bit and wondered if he could press his way through the wall behind him.
"It's how we get along," England tried. The two of them, through mutual and unspoken agreement, had decided a long time ago to leave it all a secret. It opened them up to the others with a vulnerability. Like now--it had been weeks since they'd last seen each other, and their words had been tired and the barbs blunted. England felt old. He felt the winter in his bones, and that did not help with Russia looming over him.
"I do not understand. Friends do not argue," said Russia wisely, studying his face closely.
"We've known each other a long time," England tried, offering Russia the parental smile he'd learned with America and Canada. "It might seem like arguing to you, but it's like a game for us. We know each other so well, only we can yell like that at each other."
Russia tilted his head to the side. England blinked at his own words, wondering quietly: was it true?
Only France knew how to drag out that one time at Versailles with the ducks. Only he knew how sensitive France could be about wrinkles on his face. Only France knew that England would never get over Arthur's death. Only England knew how deeply Joan had dug into his heart--and oh, they had not needed to see each other for years after she'd been murdered.
"You know each other very well. So the arguing is like a special conversation?" asked Russia.
"Yes! Yes, just like that," England babbled, hesitating a moment, and then patting one of Russia's large arms. "A special conversation we have between us. Some friends are like that, but not all of them."
Russia had nodded, accepting this new idea and going idle as he thought about it. England had carefully fled and made sure not to be stuck alone in a room with him for some time unless Russia brought it up again.
By Magic Bound 3/?
"Well, England? Man, everyone says 'the continent this' and 'the continent that' and 'Its just Europe, Al,' but really? You guys can't stop for two damn minutes to discuss important stuff?" said America, getting into it, his face reddening and his arms flying up.
"We do not always fight," muttered England.
"You could have fooled me! Even the War of Independence, France helped me but it was always about you," said America, and he seemed to realize the low blow and the sharp edge of his bitterness just a moment too late-- as he always did, clumsy and brash. They both breathed harshly in the silence, and England squared his shoulders.
"We don't always. I suppose it's as much a habit as anything else. At least one thing has not changed," he suggested, with a vague gesture at the door.
"Its weird. We're allies. You grew up together," said America, brow furrowing, his mouth pulled to the side. The boy hated puzzles he couldn't solve, problems he couldn't grasp.
England couldn't help the low tug of affection in his chest.
"It's just how it is," England said, and that was that.
America proceeded to ask everyone about it; everyone shrugged and said that was just how England and France always had been. England knew because he was in the room half the time, and once Russia cornered him very benignly in an underground bunker while the earth shook with falling shells.
"Why do you always fight?" asked Russia, always too large and smiling too softly and with his fingers pulling thoughtfully through his scarf. "We should always try to get along together. Everyone should get along together," he repeated, earnestly, and England pulled back from him a bit and wondered if he could press his way through the wall behind him.
"It's how we get along," England tried. The two of them, through mutual and unspoken agreement, had decided a long time ago to leave it all a secret. It opened them up to the others with a vulnerability. Like now--it had been weeks since they'd last seen each other, and their words had been tired and the barbs blunted. England felt old. He felt the winter in his bones, and that did not help with Russia looming over him.
"I do not understand. Friends do not argue," said Russia wisely, studying his face closely.
"We've known each other a long time," England tried, offering Russia the parental smile he'd learned with America and Canada. "It might seem like arguing to you, but it's like a game for us. We know each other so well, only we can yell like that at each other."
Russia tilted his head to the side. England blinked at his own words, wondering quietly: was it true?
Only France knew how to drag out that one time at Versailles with the ducks. Only he knew how sensitive France could be about wrinkles on his face. Only France knew that England would never get over Arthur's death. Only England knew how deeply Joan had dug into his heart--and oh, they had not needed to see each other for years after she'd been murdered.
"You know each other very well. So the arguing is like a special conversation?" asked Russia.
"Yes! Yes, just like that," England babbled, hesitating a moment, and then patting one of Russia's large arms. "A special conversation we have between us. Some friends are like that, but not all of them."
Russia had nodded, accepting this new idea and going idle as he thought about it. England had carefully fled and made sure not to be stuck alone in a room with him for some time unless Russia brought it up again.