hetalia_kink | Hetalia kink meme part 27

Hetalia kink meme part 27

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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.

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.

It is late and I am very very silly, but this part is actually Part 8 and posted wrongly out of order.

Holy shit, Author!Anon, God bless you and your writing. This shit is GREAT, and you're a champion!

A!A here and this comment made my day, not sure if anyone was still trolling through this meme! More to come, hopefully, eventually?

(note - the above is actually part 8, and part 7 is a bit out of order -- but this is the proper part 9 that continues it!)

The fastest course to France was by boat by Dover, then north to the National Forest of Lyons by train and hired car. It was simpler than wrangling plane tickets and England felt a grim sort of satisfaction at the sense of a circle coming back to eat it's own tail. The docks of Dover were grand metal things that jutted out into the sea, embracing huge boats and flat trucks filled with rusted cargo containers. He studied the limestone cliffs, which in and off themselves remained relatively unchanged from the first time he had climbed down them while turned impossibly old, while France handled all the transactions with the aplomb and charm that he leveraged when he wanted things done very quick and neat. That charm could not change the weather, though, and the rain still came down in sheets the entire time they crossed the channel to the distant coastline.

They shared a chartered seat together, trapped with school children talking loudly behind them and France disparaging the choices of sandwiches on the trolley. England grunted his replies as he watched the wind whip up the waves, thrashing them into silver walls that crashed down in heaves of white foam. Fog clung to the edges of France's distant shores, and they loomed ahead in vague threatening shapes.

He didn't notice when France's conversation with himself petered out, and jolted at the sharp kick to his shin.

"What's that for?" England asked, jerking his leg back as he focused back on the food France had purchased. There was a solid muffin sitting next to a paper cup of steaming tea, neither things France would have chosen for himself because he disliked overly dense muffins sold by large companies. Confused, he refocused back on France's face, but the other man just rolled his eyes and shoved the muffin in his direction.

"I refuse to go on this fool's errand with a sullen schoolboy," France announced. "Clearly its your delicate English stomach and the lowered levels of caffeine."

England scowled and snatched his muffin away before France decided to shove it into his face.

"It's not a fool's errand," grumbled England. "This is your idea. Well, maybe that makes it a terrible plan. But if you want to go stomping around in the woods, I'm not going to stop you."

"You're being a git about it," France said, then looked horrified at the borrowed British term. England smirked and France turned his head away, chin lifted, and fingers tight around his coffee.

"What was that, now?" said England, brows lifted.

"You are a terrible influence on language. There's a reason we have a ministry to protect it," France said loftily, and England found his mood thawed despite himself. It didn't feel like the normal kind of argument; it was the habit that was comforting, despite the heavy rock in his stomach.

On shore, they got tickets on a train going north. It took a few hours and two transfers, but they finally rented a car and argued about who would drive about an hour outside of Lyons. In the end France won because he knew the roads better, and England wasn't in the mood for sniping about his placid driving habits.

The moment they had stepped on French soil, France had been irrepressible; but at least they couldn't get lost. The further they went, the more determined the country became, and the more England had to pretend at enthusiasm.

The rain had let up by the time they were walking down the remains of an old dirt path in the old royal forest. Wet moss and dirt left a heavy thickness to the smell of the air. The beech trees soared above their heads, their branches blocking out what little sun managed to filter through the grey sky. It left England and France in twilight darkness, relying on a torch fished out of the rental car's boot to find their way along a half-remembered trail.

"You're the one always going on about fairies. How do we find one?" asked France. He wielded the torch, a hand deep in his pocket and hair curling in the humidity. It irritated France; he kept shoving it back out of his face.

England's steps were slow, the mud sticking to his heels and the bottom hem of his pants. He tilted back his head, searching for the grey sky through the leaves and tried to fit their pattern to a memory centuries old.

"You don't find fairies. They find you," England said. He winced as the torch was turned on him, France stopping dead in his tracks and deciding to blind him. England threw up a hand, squinting past his spread fingers and unable to make out France's face.

"There must be a trick to it, some kind of spell or sign or thing that you do," demanded France.

"Look for a fairy mound or circle?" England ventured. "They just sort of show up. No one else ever tries to see them, that's all. You.... you find a place you think they might be, and offer them food or something shiny, and then if you're lucky they show up."

France dropped the angle of the torch. England blinked hard to chase the spots out of his vision as above them the storm clouds shuddered with a roll of thunder as they contemplated dropping rain again. As England's eyes adjusted back to the darkness, France resolved as a series of grey lines twisted together; his long legs and perfectly tailor trousers, the sharp drop of his suit jacket off his shoulders, and the pale angle of his face studying England with a certain angry twist to his mouth.

England looked away from him and pushed on down the path, making a show of looking through the tree trunks. He wandered to the left, wet ferns slapping at his ankles as he pushed a bush out of his way to study the muted green shadows just beyond.

"You aren't trying at all," said France. His voice was terse.

"I'm trying," England said. "You can't just command the Fey like people."

"No, you are not trying. I know you when you are trying; you are stubborn as a mule. You line up ideas and lay out plans, and in the end it is only sheer thick-headedness that keeps you going," said France, his voice starting to rise to echo off the trees.

"Are you actually trying to get me to cooperate?" England muttered, and instantly regretted it as he heard heavy, splotching footsteps approaching from behind. He sighed and shoved his damp hair off his forehead, straightening up to turn and face the other country.

Maybe they'd have a proper argument after all, and leave behind the idea of trying to fix a curse.

England didn't expect France's lean fingers to grab his collar; England grabbed France's wrist, digging in his heels as the taller man dragged him closer. They were nose to nose, France's eyes narrowed and digging into him, and England scowled and tried to ignore the smell of coffee on his breath.

"What is wrong with you?" France demanded, giving him a shake. "We've had this terrible curse for centuries and I finally tell you that you're right, we need to do this your way, and you give up? I thought you were tired of this farce!"

England put his head down and shoved his body into France, then twisted; France grunted as his shoulders hit the tree behind him, then gasped as the air left his lungs. England tore away, stumbling back among the grasses that whipped at his legs and left behind cold splatters of water.

"I am tired of it," England snarled. "I'm tired of this, I'm tired of yelling and arguing, I'm tired of you!"

The words ripped out of him; France stiffened, and the silence rushed in like an accusation. England refused to try and read the look on France's face in the dark. Instead, he hissed in a sharp breath through his teeth and looked away, straight back, firm shoulders, with his hands in fists.

"We won't find it on the path," he said stiffly, and he stomped off for a few feet until a heavy tree root caught on his toes and made him trip. He cursed as he fell to a knee in a puddle and scraped a hand. He leaned his weight back on his heels, digging in a pocket for a kerchief to rub the moss and blood off his hand with a viciousness that almost tore his pocket.

"You stupid thing," said France, his voice low at England's back. England firmly ignored him, struggled to his feet, and stomped onward.

"England," said France.

England kept walking. He wasn't in the mood for France's hurt; for him to play it out like he was a wounded victim in a story designed to ruin France's life. He wanted nothing of his Lancelot stories of being noble and maligned, pitied and sympathized with, for his life was simply so hard and England was so cruel.

England's chest hurt. The muscles of his chest felt thick and tight as he trudged along with the rustle of France's footsteps following behind him. The sucking sound of walking through wet earth was punctuated by frustrated French curses, and England could find no satisfaction in them, nor in imagining how France struggled in his very nice shoes and slightly shiny shirt that stuck to skin in damp weather.

"England, stop being an ass," said France, and there was a thin note of panic that made England stop. It felt like he'd been walking for hours; his knees and hips hurt dimly, and the forest around him didn't look familiar. As England came back to himself, he forced himself to take in the world around him.

A stream cut across the clearing in front of him, thin and reedy in the storm darkness. The sound of it was buried under the rattling wind and the threatening rumbles above their heads. England's fingertips felt cold and numb, and his head full of cotton. He twisted to look back behind him, and France was only a few steps away.

France stood there, his expression pulled tight around the eyes and his mouth pressed into a thin line. The wind tugged at his clothes and pulled them into odd, slashing shapes. His hair was a mess; mud splattered up to his knees, and his grip on the torch made his knuckles look sharp and pale.

Pained, England finally pinned down with some astonishment. The look in France's eyes were pained and somewhat afraid.

It felt like someone had punched England in the stomach.

"France?" England said, the name thin and worried. Some of the tight look in France's face eased, and France flashed him a thin smile.

"You've been acting strange for hours. For two days," said France, and his own voice was thin. "Why are you so angry with me?"

England's mouth went dry, not sure what to make of the plaintive way France asked him. He looked down at the broken trail they'd made crashing through the woods and swallowed.

"It's fine," England said. "It's fine. I get it. You want to be rid of me, once and for all. That's just fine."

It felt so petty to say aloud; England put a hand over his eyes, teeth gritted tightly together. What an idiot. France was right, he was an idiot thing. He was acting like some teenager from the dramas that were so popular out of America lately.

Cold fingertips touched the back of England's knuckles. They slid along the back of England's hand, and then a damp hand took his wrist and tugged. England resisted, mostly out of reflex, and they battled for a moment over it until England just gave up and let France peel it away.

England lifted his chin and forced a challenge into his stare when he looked up into France's face, only to falter at the soft smile that reached France's eyes. It made the skin crinkle a little there, an echo of the heavy lines that dug in when France grew old. That was right. When France was a white haired old man, he had deep grooves from laughter and smiles etched into his face.

"My dear, dear England," murmured France. He didn't release England's hand. He just simply held on and stepped in close. "I couldn't get rid of you if I tried."

"That's not the point," said England, chest burning.

"I wouldn't want to get rid of you," France said, and England stared at the way France's lashes drew down over his eyes so that they could no longer look at each other.

"I. What?" said England.

"You have no head for these things," France sighed, and he released England's hand only to cup his face in his palms. England didn't dare move as the man bent, like a willow bowing before the wind, to press their clammy foreheads together.

"I'm tired of arguing all the time," said France, slowly as if speaking to a particularly thick child. "I'm tired of watching you flinch and turn so very, very frustratingly stoic. I'm tired of the look on your face when we part on an argument. And I'm especially tired of watching you give up."

"Oh." England tried to put words into his head, but all he could hear was the rushing in his ears as all the blood in his body filled his face.

"Say something. I refuse to be the only one embarrassing myself," France muttered. The pointed edges of his nails dug slightly into England's cheeks.

"So this isn't about you getting tired of being forced to see me over and over," said England slowly.

"No, you idiot," hissed France, jerking back and lifting his hands as if he wanted to throttle him. Instead, France threw them in the air, exasperated. "I love you, you stupid man who has the worst taste in food and nearly as bad sense of fashion!"

"Well, how am I supposed to know that!" said England back, and now they were both breathing hard and flushed as the sound of rain drops started to patter against the leaves above their heads. "Arguing is what we do! It's how we--how we talk to each other, without that, then. Then--!"

"I just spent a week in a tiny cottage in the middle of no where laughing over the style of hats at the races and the inability of our relative parties to agree on anything," said France. "And I liked it!"

"I. Even the part when I burnt breakfast?" said England.

"Especially the part where you burnt breakfast because I kissed you," shot back France.

They stared at each other.

Rain rushed out of the sky to fight through the tree canopy. Only stray drops managed to make it through to strike their shoulders and hair. France's face was all red; the torch light had gone out, leaving them only in shades of silver and green. There was a shiver in the set of France's shoulders, the man tensed as if to run. It reminded England of a deer, long legged and full of fear, not sure if it should charge or flee.

All the knots in England's chest fell to pieces. His shoulders dropped and he suddenly shrugged off his jacket, needing to fight when his elbow stuck in a sleeve.

"What in the world are you doing now?" asked France, gaze darting over him as if he could find instructions on the care and feeding of England written on his forehead. England had to go up on tip-toe, but he managed to sling is around France's shoulders.

Pleasure warmed him at the startled look on France's face.

"You look like a drowned cat. I love you too," said England, as casually as he could muster through the lump in his throat.

"You maddening man," muttered France, but there were no edges to his words anymore. He sighed and ducked down; England push up on his toes, and they kissed briefly as the rain drops flattened their hair and slipped down the back of their necks.

(de-anon over at https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437524/chapters/25630305 with the next bit of chapter up!)

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Hetalia kink meme part 27

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