England could feel France's eyes burning through him. He shut the grate, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. Silence pressed in on him as he dragged the only other chair in the front room over to the grate, leaving it between himself and France, and took a cup for himself. Settling into the hard-backed wood chair, he focused on the wall and let the tea sink down into his stomach and chase off the rain chill.

"You're so very, very stubborn," said France at last. He was more anxious about silence; he gave in more quickly. Grew more restless. England knew it of him. He knew all of France's softest places, and he knew how to make him spitting angry. He knew when a stubborn silence would drive him up a wall and say something nasty.

"And you're an idiot," said England, "But that's never stopped you."

"You wouldn't answer my calls," snapped France. "We agreed. The phone works perfectly well for a few days."

England focused on drinking tea, wishing he could just build a wall and sit behind it instead of existing with France like this in his front room.

"Well?" said France. "You made me come all the way out into this horrible island, in the rain. I had a lovely young woman ask me if I needed help crossing the street!"

"I'm sure looking like an old man does not dent your drive to seduce anything that moves. Perfect opening," said England. "You could have asked her to give you a sponge bath."

France's grip tightened on the cup and there was a canny look to his eye, as if he was measuring the exact force required to throw it at his head.

"That is classless," France said. The argument was warming the air between them; they knew all the steps. Suddenly, England was tired of it; of all of it. Of the curse, of how France could never stoop down to being old or dealing with it properly. "I looked old enough to be her father twice over, England, I would think you had some sort of fetish."

England sighed. He put the cup to the side.

"Aright," he said.

"...Alright?" said France, staring at him. "You--you ancient...skirt chaser."

"That's horrible," said England. "Can't you do better?"

"You--you....insinuator of horrible things," said France, but both of them knew that the moment had passed and the argument had deflated. France kicked out his feet, crossing them only a few inches away from the little stove, with the air of great injury.

"I've got a good cheese and bread," said England, studying the movement of tea in his cup. "And a pickled spread."

"Don't tell me you are suggesting you cook us lunch," said France, warily.

"I could," said England.

"You're a disaster," said France. "You can't good anything that a decent living being could eat and survive."

"Then you do it," said England. He couldn't even be needled anymore; France had complained about his cooking for hundreds of years, and he was just tired. He couldn't work up the proper outrage.

"Fine. I will show you want a master can do with even simple ingredients," said France.

Then ended up complaining about Germany as a common topic, and then other members of the EU. France had a good story about Canada getting stuck at an environmental protection conference cornered by an earnest young mortal man from Spain who insisted that Canada (the physical and actual country, the one with rivers and rocks) needed to build a giant mirror to reflect the sun and save the polar bears.

England was chuckling as France complained about his kitchen, the state of his burner, the lack of proper grilling pan, and the astounding emptiness of his spice cabinet. They ate lunch together, fancy melted thing that was basically grilled cheese but France insisted on calling a 'melt'.

During the afternoon the rain lightened up a little bit, but did not stop.

"What a dreadful rainy place," muttered France. "You should just stay on my coastline, it's actually warm there and the sun miraculously appears."

"And battle with all the tourists? I already go there in summers," pointed out England.

"Its not like that all the time when you lot's people aren't all trying to shove into the few decent beaches in Europe," said France, curled back up in the good chair. England had washed the dishes; he stood in the kitchen doorway, just looking at him. France's wavy hair had escaped the ribbon holing it back, brushing over his forehead. He looked a little miserable, the fine silks of his clothes sticking to him a bit in the humidity from the rain.

"I do like French beaches," England said, drawing up on him. He rubbed the hint of dampness off his hands on his pants. "I suppose you have some nice places. Its nice and quiet out here, though. Nothing but my and sheep and sometimes the mail."

"I can't understand why you are all the way out here," said France, throwing a hand wide. "There's nothing here!"

"That's something of the point," said England, sitting on the arm of France's chair. The chair creaked alarmingly, but England didn't move.

"Why?" said France, glaring at him, but about the twist of annoyed mouth, his eyes were asking what the hell was he doing.

England shrugged, and flicked a strange of hanging hair.

"You're hair is......... flat," he tried.

France broke into laughter, pressing a hand to his mouth as he watching England over his knuckles.

"That's the worst I've heard," said France dryly.

"You are inconveniently tall," tried England again.

"Really?" said France.

"You try better," England said. "I can't."

"You..... It rains, constantly, in your country and its miserable," tried France.

"You already complained about that," said England back, lifting his heavy brows.

"Your beaches are artificial and dreary," said France, but his mouth was trembling with a barely suppressed smile.

"Half of them were carved out of mountains and the sand is dragged in from somewhere," England sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Honestly," said France, asking the sky.

"We've said all there is that could be possibly said, you damn frog," said England.

"Come now, you are infinitely creative," said France, a hand laying on England's knee as he leaned up and in to him; England turned his face away, arms crossed, and his skin prickling with heat. "Tell me again how I'm a weak idiot who couldn't even protect my own capital."

"You're a weak idiot who couldn't even protect your own capital," he dutifully repeated. France snorted, then sighed, leaning his head against England's side.

Together they listened to the rain. France was very, very warm and England felt stuffy under his jumper.

"I'm not letting you cook dinner," said France.

"I didn't think you would," said England.