England had a cottage in the countryside. The Queen kept it for him, indulgent about it. On paper it was officially one of many small pieces of land that belonged to the royal household and it was technically loaned for some charity, but it was for him. When he walked out in the morning, there was only grass and sheep. Sometimes the farmer who owned the sheep came by, a lovely woman always wearing galoshes, and she would lean on the fence they shared and chat about the weather. England thought she figured he was a retired military man who fled to the countryside. It wasn't very wrong, really.
Mail came on Friday. Last time he'd talked to his neighbor, she'd told him the sheep knew a storm was coming, so he'd checked to make sure all his windows were shut. He sat outside, watching the pile of angry storm clouds fill the horizon, and drank tea out of a thermos.
He could feel the weather pressure shifting in his bones. He frowned. He and France had not had that great of a row last time the UN had gotten together. The insults were practiced, the argument involving something from the 1600's.
Rain came down in buckets all night while he laid in bed and distinctly ignored the emails sitting in his phone. France had been trying to contact him, needling, insulting, and then creating more and more elaborate threats. They'd found that arguing via email worked only a little; arguing over the phone worked better. It meant they often spoke but saw each other much less frequently, the arguments smaller, but spread out over fewer days.
Sometimes people noticed. Once China and he had shared a wall between their hotel rooms at a dignitary function in Hong Kong. There was a little balcony and England had ducked out on it to call France, lining up arguments in his head; that market idea is ridiculous, did you honestly think that would work at Eurovision, your taste in wine at the dinner after that meeting last month was horrible.
He'd come back inside, tossing his phone aside with a sigh and bees buzzing in his guts, all sorts of twisted out of shape. A knock had come from his door; startled, he'd patted himself down, as if he'd stolen something and forgotten about it and needed to find the evidence in order to hide it.
England stopped; he was being ridiculous. Angry and on edge--the argument had turned into one of their more serious rows--he'd open the door to find China there.
Oh.
It was rather late, wasn't it. Time zones and everything.
"Er, good evening," stumbled England, trying to look away from China's irritable gaze. The man had the ability to just look at a person and make them squirm. England refused to squirm.
"Yes, good evening. Deep evening. You could even say, it is very much night," said China in clipped tones, extra annoyed to filter himself into English. "Why are you always on the phone at the worst hours?"
"Time zones, you know," England said, flushing. He refused to look guiltily at his phone. "I had to make a call, it was important."
"It was France," said China, waving a hand sharply through the air. "You hate France. He hates you. But you are always calling. This is not the first time. Hong Kong always complained about it; he's always calling! Worst hours!"
England blanched at the thought of being so accidentally obvious; the weight of the curse and it's secret pressed against him.
"It was important business, as I said. We have tightly involved movement of peoples and economies," said England primly. "I'm not complaining about how you are always texting during meetings!"
"I do not," said China archly. "I only text during breaks, which is polite."
"You use those picture things, I saw you," England said.
"They are called emojis, you ignorant fool. I am older than you by several dozen hundreds of years, and even I know what they are."
Couldn't hold that over me if you saw me tomorrow if I hadn't called, England thought bitterly. He sighed, smoothing down the front of his shirt.
"I apologize, China. I will attempt to be more circumspect in the future," he said, because he was a polite gentleman and China wasn't France. He wasn't obligated to argue.
China seemed put off whatever he was about to say; he closed his mouth, and nodded sharply.
"I hope so. Good night," he offered, and didn't stay for England to repeat it back to him.
England shut his eyes against the rain against his roof. His phone buzzed again; he reached over and turned it off. He just wasn't in the mood, no matter the threat that lingered in his bones.
The next morning he looked in the mirror and could see the shadow of age on himself. Lines by his eyes, his hair nearly all white. He ran his hand through it; by the end of the day, all the brown and blonde mix would be gone. Eaten.
He jumped at the knock on his door. It was Thursday; the mail was not due. Freezing in place his thoughts scattered. The nearest town was a tiny thing of maybe forty houses. What would any of them think to see an old man suddenly at the home of the eccentric young man who'd been living there for the past two months?
England drew up a plan mentally as he tucked his shirt into his waistband of his pants and opened the door.
"Good morning," he said, then stopped.
France stood there, looking cross. His shoulders were bent and the rain was beating down on his umbrella. A car sat at odd corners behind him in England's drive, next to the porche. Mud spattered France's legs, and his hands were wrinkled and bony. White, near transparent, hair hung in his face and age weighed down his eyes.
It had been a while; England was struck, just looking and remembering. France's cheekbones became more prominent when he was old, but he was still strong somehow. The same dusty elegance of the backrooms in Versailles.
"I refuse to continue your silliness," said France, stepping closer; England could feel the age fall off himself, could see it in France's face. France loomed over him in the doorway, looking down into his eyes, and England looked back feeling strangely floaty in his head.
"England," said France. He bent down and touched England's face just barely. "England, you must move."
"Right," said England, ducking out of the way to go into his kitchen. He could France shaking the raindrops off his umbrella with a flat rattling sound, grumbling with the stomps of his feet against the mat inside the door. On auto-pilot, England put water on for tea and found package biscuits in a cupboard.
France had already made himself home in the front room, sitting in the very comfiest chair next to the iron stove. It was the chair England preferred, which was why it was next to the stove. France scooted forward in his seat, hands extended to it, and frowned when he found it wasn't as hot as he expected.
"It's only embers right now. I need to get some wood from out back," said England, setting down the tea service on the side table at France's right hand. France huffed and threw himself back into an elegant sprawl, long hands dripping off the arms of his chair.
"Tea, always tea," said France, looking over at the clatter of porcelain as England settled the sugar bowl. "Don't you have something stronger, like wine?"
"I have cooking wine," England ventured, mostly to needle him. France huffed and flapped his hand, unimpressed.
"Cooking wine! I will not stoop to that, as if we are on rations at war. And even then, I never drank it. Are you getting the wood or not?"
"You should be feeling better now," England said, eyeing France's youthful hands.
"It's raining. Its cold. I drove along bumpy roads that god has forgotten and damned while my entire body was convinced it was about to die," said France. "I think you owe me some warmth and proper hosting."
"Does that mean you're staying a while?" asked England.
"Get the wood," said France, sinking in to himself.
England shook his head and muttered under his breath. Outside the rain showed no sign of letting up, and he stole France's umbrella to dart out through the sheets of water to the lean-to for the wood. He was running low, he mused, grabbing an armful and holding the umbrella in his armpit as he trundled back. By the time he'd gotten inside, France already had helped himself to tea, and had it sitting in his lap to warm it. A biscuit was in his hand, and he was wrinkling his nose at it.
"If I'm a good host, then be a good guest and not saying anything," England grumbled, kneeling down in front of the stove and feeding sticks to the low glow of embers inside.
By Magic Bound 6/?
Mail came on Friday. Last time he'd talked to his neighbor, she'd told him the sheep knew a storm was coming, so he'd checked to make sure all his windows were shut. He sat outside, watching the pile of angry storm clouds fill the horizon, and drank tea out of a thermos.
He could feel the weather pressure shifting in his bones. He frowned. He and France had not had that great of a row last time the UN had gotten together. The insults were practiced, the argument involving something from the 1600's.
Rain came down in buckets all night while he laid in bed and distinctly ignored the emails sitting in his phone. France had been trying to contact him, needling, insulting, and then creating more and more elaborate threats. They'd found that arguing via email worked only a little; arguing over the phone worked better. It meant they often spoke but saw each other much less frequently, the arguments smaller, but spread out over fewer days.
Sometimes people noticed. Once China and he had shared a wall between their hotel rooms at a dignitary function in Hong Kong. There was a little balcony and England had ducked out on it to call France, lining up arguments in his head; that market idea is ridiculous, did you honestly think that would work at Eurovision, your taste in wine at the dinner after that meeting last month was horrible.
He'd come back inside, tossing his phone aside with a sigh and bees buzzing in his guts, all sorts of twisted out of shape. A knock had come from his door; startled, he'd patted himself down, as if he'd stolen something and forgotten about it and needed to find the evidence in order to hide it.
England stopped; he was being ridiculous. Angry and on edge--the argument had turned into one of their more serious rows--he'd open the door to find China there.
Oh.
It was rather late, wasn't it. Time zones and everything.
"Er, good evening," stumbled England, trying to look away from China's irritable gaze. The man had the ability to just look at a person and make them squirm. England refused to squirm.
"Yes, good evening. Deep evening. You could even say, it is very much night," said China in clipped tones, extra annoyed to filter himself into English. "Why are you always on the phone at the worst hours?"
"Time zones, you know," England said, flushing. He refused to look guiltily at his phone. "I had to make a call, it was important."
"It was France," said China, waving a hand sharply through the air. "You hate France. He hates you. But you are always calling. This is not the first time. Hong Kong always complained about it; he's always calling! Worst hours!"
England blanched at the thought of being so accidentally obvious; the weight of the curse and it's secret pressed against him.
"It was important business, as I said. We have tightly involved movement of peoples and economies," said England primly. "I'm not complaining about how you are always texting during meetings!"
"I do not," said China archly. "I only text during breaks, which is polite."
"You use those picture things, I saw you," England said.
"They are called emojis, you ignorant fool. I am older than you by several dozen hundreds of years, and even I know what they are."
Couldn't hold that over me if you saw me tomorrow if I hadn't called, England thought bitterly. He sighed, smoothing down the front of his shirt.
"I apologize, China. I will attempt to be more circumspect in the future," he said, because he was a polite gentleman and China wasn't France. He wasn't obligated to argue.
China seemed put off whatever he was about to say; he closed his mouth, and nodded sharply.
"I hope so. Good night," he offered, and didn't stay for England to repeat it back to him.
England shut his eyes against the rain against his roof. His phone buzzed again; he reached over and turned it off. He just wasn't in the mood, no matter the threat that lingered in his bones.
The next morning he looked in the mirror and could see the shadow of age on himself. Lines by his eyes, his hair nearly all white. He ran his hand through it; by the end of the day, all the brown and blonde mix would be gone. Eaten.
He jumped at the knock on his door. It was Thursday; the mail was not due. Freezing in place his thoughts scattered. The nearest town was a tiny thing of maybe forty houses. What would any of them think to see an old man suddenly at the home of the eccentric young man who'd been living there for the past two months?
England drew up a plan mentally as he tucked his shirt into his waistband of his pants and opened the door.
"Good morning," he said, then stopped.
France stood there, looking cross. His shoulders were bent and the rain was beating down on his umbrella. A car sat at odd corners behind him in England's drive, next to the porche. Mud spattered France's legs, and his hands were wrinkled and bony. White, near transparent, hair hung in his face and age weighed down his eyes.
It had been a while; England was struck, just looking and remembering. France's cheekbones became more prominent when he was old, but he was still strong somehow. The same dusty elegance of the backrooms in Versailles.
"I refuse to continue your silliness," said France, stepping closer; England could feel the age fall off himself, could see it in France's face. France loomed over him in the doorway, looking down into his eyes, and England looked back feeling strangely floaty in his head.
"England," said France. He bent down and touched England's face just barely. "England, you must move."
"Right," said England, ducking out of the way to go into his kitchen. He could France shaking the raindrops off his umbrella with a flat rattling sound, grumbling with the stomps of his feet against the mat inside the door. On auto-pilot, England put water on for tea and found package biscuits in a cupboard.
France had already made himself home in the front room, sitting in the very comfiest chair next to the iron stove. It was the chair England preferred, which was why it was next to the stove. France scooted forward in his seat, hands extended to it, and frowned when he found it wasn't as hot as he expected.
"It's only embers right now. I need to get some wood from out back," said England, setting down the tea service on the side table at France's right hand. France huffed and threw himself back into an elegant sprawl, long hands dripping off the arms of his chair.
"Tea, always tea," said France, looking over at the clatter of porcelain as England settled the sugar bowl. "Don't you have something stronger, like wine?"
"I have cooking wine," England ventured, mostly to needle him. France huffed and flapped his hand, unimpressed.
"Cooking wine! I will not stoop to that, as if we are on rations at war. And even then, I never drank it. Are you getting the wood or not?"
"You should be feeling better now," England said, eyeing France's youthful hands.
"It's raining. Its cold. I drove along bumpy roads that god has forgotten and damned while my entire body was convinced it was about to die," said France. "I think you owe me some warmth and proper hosting."
"Does that mean you're staying a while?" asked England.
"Get the wood," said France, sinking in to himself.
England shook his head and muttered under his breath. Outside the rain showed no sign of letting up, and he stole France's umbrella to dart out through the sheets of water to the lean-to for the wood. He was running low, he mused, grabbing an armful and holding the umbrella in his armpit as he trundled back. By the time he'd gotten inside, France already had helped himself to tea, and had it sitting in his lap to warm it. A biscuit was in his hand, and he was wrinkling his nose at it.
"If I'm a good host, then be a good guest and not saying anything," England grumbled, kneeling down in front of the stove and feeding sticks to the low glow of embers inside.