They ended up in bed together that night, after France had concocted a meal out of the contents of his cabinets. England had offered it to him, polite as a host, and France was off-put by what he called insufferable charity. France had dragged him down with him, saying something about it being cold and England a bed warmer. France had meant it as an insult, but it was somewhat true, and neither of them could work up a proper snit over it.
They tried over the next few days; France would pulled out an old wound and England would find the insult totally dulled, used too many times, and he was unable to be righteously angry at it. He'd try to yell at France for making him go out into the rain over and over, but in the end they'd both ended up laughing at each other.
They'd just.....run out.
Day seven, and England woke up tangled in France's arms. He pushed up on his hands and just looked at him, a disgraceful mess of a man shoved in with him on a double bed against the wall. The morning light made his skin look a warmer color. Sweat made the man's hair stick to him--there was a lot of it, but it was light--and a strand was half in his mouth.
He really could just live like this for the rest of his days, he thought quietly to himself. He rubbed his thumb over France's cheek, pulling the strand of spit hair out of the man's mouth. He didn't even mind.
England knew him, inside and out, and couldn't think of a single mean thing to think or say.
France made a noise, protesting, and slit open one eye.
"You look disgustingly infatuated," murmured France.
"You look disgusting," said England.
"What a gentleman," said France, sighing and stretching. His long pale arms arched out of the light and into shadow and his feet stuck out from the other end. He sighed, flopping, and England felt a strange feeling turn over in his stomach.
"I thought, maybe," said England, and he shut his mouth.
France eyed him, sleepy lassitude leaving him. He pushed up on his elbows and brushed his fingertips over England's stomach. England sucked in his stomach a little bit, a shiver running over his shoulders.
"Don't stop now," said France.
England swallowed.
"I thought I might not mind growing old in the countryside," said England, looking away from him.
"....That's it?" murmured France. France had made all of their meals. He'd insisted England make a run into town and had given him a neatly penned list of essentials that had been two sheets of small note paper long. They'd talked about the other nations, about policy, about the ridiculous things their relative Prime Ministers had done lately. The days had passed in a contented blur.
"Oh shove it," muttered England, starting the fight to crawl over France and out of the bed. "You won't take it seriously."
Long arms wrapped around him and England yelped, suddenly caught. France twisted and England found himself trapped in a tangle of blankets and french legs, staring up at France pursing his lips thoughtfully.
"You thought if we didn't argue anymore and you grew old, you could just stay out here?" pressed France. "You were going to abandon me to white-hair and broken hips while you lived out here tucked away in a cottage? What were you going to do in three weeks at the next UN meeting?"
"Beg off? Show up to the queen and go, Majesty, I think I need a vacation?" tried England. "Look, I didn't really think it through, alright. I just. I just couldn't think of anything anymore. I--I don't want to," he ended, his voice low.
France was silent for a few seconds; he was dangerous when presented with deeper feelings and honesty. He had a tendency to recoil and become pithy; granted, England tended to become surly and closed off. They both rejected it.
England was just out of anything nasty to say.
France's gaze slid away from him.
"............maybe you were right," muttered France.
"What was that?" said England, flatly astonished.
"You were right," repeated France, looking cross about it. "Its a curse. There's a witch. I was a nasty, horrible child and a witch cursed us and we need to make amends and break it and magic is real."
England opened and shut his mouth. He'd kept quiet about the gnomes in his garden and he'd hidden the bowl of milk he put out for the brownies. There were some nails pounded into the doorway to keep out the nastier fairies he'd spotted in the nearby grove of trees, and the woman with the galoshes never lost a single lamb because there was a glow about her.
"Really?" he squeaked, hated it, scowled, and France snorted and flicked the end of his nose.
"I am tired of us needing to argue to spend a week apart," said France broadly. "You were right, all along. So what must we do in order to break the curse?"
England shut his eyes. He felt strangely empty. All the warmth in the bedding had gone and he was just cold. France wanted to break the curse at last, of course he did, he hated the feeling of being trapped with England for longer than a few weeks at a time.
Long ago they had tried just not leaving each other, but it had grown awkward and strained and they'd argued so badly that they'd both decided it wasn't worth trying to do again.
England dragged his hands over his face, not quite sure what he'd been expecting.
"First we have to go to where we met her the first time. I've thought about it; I don't think she was really a woman or a witch."
Before France could open his mouth with an 'I told you so,' England put a hand over his mouth and caught him in a stern gaze.
"I think she was one of the fairy folks our to teach us a lesson. That means a fairy circle or a fairy mound. If we go to that woods and find a fairy circle, I think we can call her out again."
France sat back on his heels on top of England's thigh, the blankets pooling around his waist and arms crossed over his bare chest. He was wearing nothing, for it 'was a shame to hide such a beautiful body, even in front of someone like you, a heathen when it comes to art'. England dutifully tried to ignore that as his heart gave a big, heavy beat in his chest.
"Alright. Tomorrow we're going," said France. "You can leave this house locked up for a while, can't you?"
England sighed, feeling old and empty even without the curse's hold on him.
"I'll have to leave a note on the door, or the mortals will worry," he said, but France took that for the 'yes I am going' that it was, and gave him a brilliant smile of victory.
"Then we have no need to rush the morning," purred France, but England put a hand in his face and shoved. France sputtered as he slunk out from under him, going for his underwear.
By Magic Bound 7/?
They tried over the next few days; France would pulled out an old wound and England would find the insult totally dulled, used too many times, and he was unable to be righteously angry at it. He'd try to yell at France for making him go out into the rain over and over, but in the end they'd both ended up laughing at each other.
They'd just.....run out.
Day seven, and England woke up tangled in France's arms. He pushed up on his hands and just looked at him, a disgraceful mess of a man shoved in with him on a double bed against the wall. The morning light made his skin look a warmer color. Sweat made the man's hair stick to him--there was a lot of it, but it was light--and a strand was half in his mouth.
He really could just live like this for the rest of his days, he thought quietly to himself. He rubbed his thumb over France's cheek, pulling the strand of spit hair out of the man's mouth. He didn't even mind.
England knew him, inside and out, and couldn't think of a single mean thing to think or say.
France made a noise, protesting, and slit open one eye.
"You look disgustingly infatuated," murmured France.
"You look disgusting," said England.
"What a gentleman," said France, sighing and stretching. His long pale arms arched out of the light and into shadow and his feet stuck out from the other end. He sighed, flopping, and England felt a strange feeling turn over in his stomach.
"I thought, maybe," said England, and he shut his mouth.
France eyed him, sleepy lassitude leaving him. He pushed up on his elbows and brushed his fingertips over England's stomach. England sucked in his stomach a little bit, a shiver running over his shoulders.
"Don't stop now," said France.
England swallowed.
"I thought I might not mind growing old in the countryside," said England, looking away from him.
"....That's it?" murmured France. France had made all of their meals. He'd insisted England make a run into town and had given him a neatly penned list of essentials that had been two sheets of small note paper long. They'd talked about the other nations, about policy, about the ridiculous things their relative Prime Ministers had done lately. The days had passed in a contented blur.
"Oh shove it," muttered England, starting the fight to crawl over France and out of the bed. "You won't take it seriously."
Long arms wrapped around him and England yelped, suddenly caught. France twisted and England found himself trapped in a tangle of blankets and french legs, staring up at France pursing his lips thoughtfully.
"You thought if we didn't argue anymore and you grew old, you could just stay out here?" pressed France. "You were going to abandon me to white-hair and broken hips while you lived out here tucked away in a cottage? What were you going to do in three weeks at the next UN meeting?"
"Beg off? Show up to the queen and go, Majesty, I think I need a vacation?" tried England. "Look, I didn't really think it through, alright. I just. I just couldn't think of anything anymore. I--I don't want to," he ended, his voice low.
France was silent for a few seconds; he was dangerous when presented with deeper feelings and honesty. He had a tendency to recoil and become pithy; granted, England tended to become surly and closed off. They both rejected it.
England was just out of anything nasty to say.
France's gaze slid away from him.
"............maybe you were right," muttered France.
"What was that?" said England, flatly astonished.
"You were right," repeated France, looking cross about it. "Its a curse. There's a witch. I was a nasty, horrible child and a witch cursed us and we need to make amends and break it and magic is real."
England opened and shut his mouth. He'd kept quiet about the gnomes in his garden and he'd hidden the bowl of milk he put out for the brownies. There were some nails pounded into the doorway to keep out the nastier fairies he'd spotted in the nearby grove of trees, and the woman with the galoshes never lost a single lamb because there was a glow about her.
"Really?" he squeaked, hated it, scowled, and France snorted and flicked the end of his nose.
"I am tired of us needing to argue to spend a week apart," said France broadly. "You were right, all along. So what must we do in order to break the curse?"
England shut his eyes. He felt strangely empty. All the warmth in the bedding had gone and he was just cold. France wanted to break the curse at last, of course he did, he hated the feeling of being trapped with England for longer than a few weeks at a time.
Long ago they had tried just not leaving each other, but it had grown awkward and strained and they'd argued so badly that they'd both decided it wasn't worth trying to do again.
England dragged his hands over his face, not quite sure what he'd been expecting.
"First we have to go to where we met her the first time. I've thought about it; I don't think she was really a woman or a witch."
Before France could open his mouth with an 'I told you so,' England put a hand over his mouth and caught him in a stern gaze.
"I think she was one of the fairy folks our to teach us a lesson. That means a fairy circle or a fairy mound. If we go to that woods and find a fairy circle, I think we can call her out again."
France sat back on his heels on top of England's thigh, the blankets pooling around his waist and arms crossed over his bare chest. He was wearing nothing, for it 'was a shame to hide such a beautiful body, even in front of someone like you, a heathen when it comes to art'. England dutifully tried to ignore that as his heart gave a big, heavy beat in his chest.
"Alright. Tomorrow we're going," said France. "You can leave this house locked up for a while, can't you?"
England sighed, feeling old and empty even without the curse's hold on him.
"I'll have to leave a note on the door, or the mortals will worry," he said, but France took that for the 'yes I am going' that it was, and gave him a brilliant smile of victory.
"Then we have no need to rush the morning," purred France, but England put a hand in his face and shoved. France sputtered as he slunk out from under him, going for his underwear.