After the war everyone was tired. England was tired, even after everything had been signed, and things were not over; he and America, Russia and France, all of them had new lands to govern and paperwork to make. For the mortals it was a matter of new procedures, of moving armies and building walls.
For them, they had to look each other in the face, as gaolers and prisoners. It wore him out. There were meetings, and meetings, and at the end of them they had to retreat home to lick their wounds. They had won. They had won and they had done it together.
England sat in a chair in the small rooms France had in Berlin. It was a terrible chair, rickety, fit only for a servant's kitchen. His boots were in the corner, his jacket hung up on a peg on the wall. France studied the street outside at his window. They were both there by mutual, unspoken agreement.
It would be weeks, or months, until they'd be able to see each other again, and the meeting had been a poor place for the row they needed to see them through until then.
"Come with me," England said abruptly.
France looked at him over his shoulder, looking thing and malnourished in just his white collared shirt. The edge of his mouth pulled up in a thin line.
"Why, my dear? You know as well as I, there are things we must do," said France, but the vitriol had left his voice. His eyes were hooded.
"You know why," said England. He hated the back and forth; sometimes in each other's beds, sometimes fighting out of them. He pushed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "I don't want to do it this time."
"Why, England, I have never seen you back down for a fight so quickly," said France, goading. "Come now, you are that addicted to my presence? My prowess?"
France pressed a hand to his chest, twisting to show off at advantage his chest and ass in equal measure. England barked a laugh that was too thin.
"No. I just don't want to do this right now. Not now," said England. He looked at the floor, frowning, and missed whatever reaction France had for him.
"England, we have to," said France, his voice sharpening with something not unlike panic. "We must. You must. My countryside is too battered and broken, I will not walk among my people as a stooped old man as if--"
"I know. I know," muttered England. He grabbed the back of his chair, hauling to his feet. "I can't think of anything. You start it, don't make me start it."
"Giving up at the end, England?" asked France archly. "You made such a show of being the little island that would not give up, and this is where you decide it's time to fold it in? Just a spat, England, give me that."
"You...." England tried. He tried, but all he could see was that France was thin and wartorn. His shirt gaped over his stomach and off his shoulders, no longer fitting a thinner frame. War haunted his eyes, but there was a spark there--a spark of determination that had no gone out. Relief had him flushed, high on his cheeks.
England just looked at him, his chest tight. All he wanted was what he'd done two days ago; just held France for a while, his hand over his heart and counting it's beats.
Thoughts bubbled up in the back of his mind; coward, weakling, sycophant. Parasite, who clings to the obvious winner. Pride without substance, your armies are nothing, you've lost so much.
But England could not say them; he refused.
France tore his eyes away from him, reaching around himself for something. France's hand landed on a comb, and he brandished it at England.
"Your hair looks like a birds nest," France started, and for them, that was a poor one. "Your face looks like it was bashed in with the butt of a gun."
"Those are horrible," England pointed out, tired.
"You won't help!" spat France. He loomed over him with the brush in his hand. "You--you--stupid, stubborn, tiny little country. Your food is horrible. You can't spay worth a damn. You... you...!"
It was satisfying to watch him stumble over the words, exhausted.
England stepped in. He wrapped his fingers around the brush and tugged at it; France clung to it stubbornly. England tugged harder, and harder, until he exhaled an angry breath and shoved his shoulder into France's chest. He twisted with his hand, and the brush popped free of France's numb fingers.
"Not today," said England, and he shoved France down onto the bed.
By Magic Bound 4/?
For them, they had to look each other in the face, as gaolers and prisoners. It wore him out. There were meetings, and meetings, and at the end of them they had to retreat home to lick their wounds. They had won. They had won and they had done it together.
England sat in a chair in the small rooms France had in Berlin. It was a terrible chair, rickety, fit only for a servant's kitchen. His boots were in the corner, his jacket hung up on a peg on the wall. France studied the street outside at his window. They were both there by mutual, unspoken agreement.
It would be weeks, or months, until they'd be able to see each other again, and the meeting had been a poor place for the row they needed to see them through until then.
"Come with me," England said abruptly.
France looked at him over his shoulder, looking thing and malnourished in just his white collared shirt. The edge of his mouth pulled up in a thin line.
"Why, my dear? You know as well as I, there are things we must do," said France, but the vitriol had left his voice. His eyes were hooded.
"You know why," said England. He hated the back and forth; sometimes in each other's beds, sometimes fighting out of them. He pushed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "I don't want to do it this time."
"Why, England, I have never seen you back down for a fight so quickly," said France, goading. "Come now, you are that addicted to my presence? My prowess?"
France pressed a hand to his chest, twisting to show off at advantage his chest and ass in equal measure. England barked a laugh that was too thin.
"No. I just don't want to do this right now. Not now," said England. He looked at the floor, frowning, and missed whatever reaction France had for him.
"England, we have to," said France, his voice sharpening with something not unlike panic. "We must. You must. My countryside is too battered and broken, I will not walk among my people as a stooped old man as if--"
"I know. I know," muttered England. He grabbed the back of his chair, hauling to his feet. "I can't think of anything. You start it, don't make me start it."
"Giving up at the end, England?" asked France archly. "You made such a show of being the little island that would not give up, and this is where you decide it's time to fold it in? Just a spat, England, give me that."
"You...." England tried. He tried, but all he could see was that France was thin and wartorn. His shirt gaped over his stomach and off his shoulders, no longer fitting a thinner frame. War haunted his eyes, but there was a spark there--a spark of determination that had no gone out. Relief had him flushed, high on his cheeks.
England just looked at him, his chest tight. All he wanted was what he'd done two days ago; just held France for a while, his hand over his heart and counting it's beats.
Thoughts bubbled up in the back of his mind; coward, weakling, sycophant. Parasite, who clings to the obvious winner. Pride without substance, your armies are nothing, you've lost so much.
But England could not say them; he refused.
France tore his eyes away from him, reaching around himself for something. France's hand landed on a comb, and he brandished it at England.
"Your hair looks like a birds nest," France started, and for them, that was a poor one. "Your face looks like it was bashed in with the butt of a gun."
"Those are horrible," England pointed out, tired.
"You won't help!" spat France. He loomed over him with the brush in his hand. "You--you--stupid, stubborn, tiny little country. Your food is horrible. You can't spay worth a damn. You... you...!"
It was satisfying to watch him stumble over the words, exhausted.
England stepped in. He wrapped his fingers around the brush and tugged at it; France clung to it stubbornly. England tugged harder, and harder, until he exhaled an angry breath and shoved his shoulder into France's chest. He twisted with his hand, and the brush popped free of France's numb fingers.
"Not today," said England, and he shoved France down onto the bed.