Archive of Our Own

Their fates have been entangled, ever since the day they met. It was fateful in the most wonderful way ever. No one could ever made them feel so loved, no one could ever understand them as much. No one could come close to the relationship they had.

It's said their hearts beat in unison ever since the Channel Tunnel has been built. That's true, but there is more.
What they have is rare, rare to the point no one else has it. They can come close (with the hate, with the closeness, with how long they've know each other), but it's never like them.
France and England are aware of the fact. They both take pride in it - but their own pride, their own ego won't allow them to say it out loud or even brag.
Even though they could.

Other nations laugh at them, roll their eyes, some are trying to calm the situation down when they start to bicker. But France and England have fun. They enjoy it.
They enjoy the never-ending teasing, the insults and bloody tissues. They enjoy the scratches and bruises the other leaves, because it's special to them.
They've been like this for forever, and they are actually trying to come up with new insults, new ways of getting under each other's skin.

What happened between them outside their mutual relationship (BREXIT, for example) is a whole another thing. They don't care. They put up a show for others, but it's not important, it's not them, it's not their way of fighting.

Fighting. Has it ever been truly a fight? They have been at the head of the army, they have killed each other numerous times... but that was politics, nothing personal.
When it was personal, people didn't pay them any attention. It was mild, compared to scars they left on each other. It was not interesting... and it was raw, trying to get the other to kneel and have him stay down.

"Angleterre," he called from the doors because he knew England hated it. (He was England. England. Not Angleterre. He complained many many times.)

England didn't bother opening the doors, because he knew France didn't bother waiting for him. He just walked inside as if it was his own home (and it was in a way).

"I saw a horse on my way here. His teeth-" he began but stopped himself in the hallway. France, frozen in the middle of taking his shoes off, was met with a hall full of flowers. Bouquets, wreaths, cascades... hundreds of flower arrangements were everywhere. The house smelled so bad...

France scrunched his nose and walked towards the kitchen table, where England was sitting, decorating a beautiful vase, pushing flowers inside and trying to make them look good. His taste was... questionable, but France guessed it was exhaustion more than incompetence.

"Well, I guess you don't want this then..." he mumbled, waving a bunch of roses in pink decorative paper in front of England's eyes.

"What is happening here?"

England frowned, and huffed. He answered through his teeth: "Wedding. Royal wedding. They wanted me to help, but forgot to mention it's not a job for one man."

And he didn't ask for help because he was too proud, France understood. He nodded and smirked.

"Alright," he hummed and sat down, unprompted, "who's the lucky couple?"

"Prince Beatrice and some Edoardo," England mumbled. Normally he'd tell France the whole love story, because he loved his royal family too much. Now he only muttered: "She's Lizzie's granddaughter."

"Aha," France hummed. Strange, there wasn't a big fuss about this wedding, he didn't hear about it at all.

"Do we like her?" he added.

England laughed, snorting: "Yes, we do. She's just not such a big persona. Besides, she's having a private ceremony since the pandemic... is a thing."

France smiled. We. How simple and how important the words was. England didn't even fight him, he just agreed. We. After all, that's how it's always been. We.

"So why..." he began, but England was quicker and stole France's little insult.

"Why am I making such god-awful flower arrangements? Because I am tired. I've been at this for two days. They keep delivering me flowers and I am exhausted and can't, for the love of me, figure out why they don't hire someone professional."

France hummed: "Maybe this is for the after wedding celebration. You know, when you want it to look good, but you also don't care because you want to get wasted."

"Is that why you brought your excuse of posy?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, "because you just want to get wasted?"

"Obviously," France nodded, acting not offended. Posy... It was a cute little bouquet! What did England expect? An engagement ring?

"Well, too bad. You can go where you came from. I have work to do," England retorted but still stood up, to grab two wine glasses and expensive-looking wine.

"He's Italian," the blond explained simply when he saw France's puzzled look. (England never offered wine, rarely drank it.)

"Ah," he answered again, smiling. He took his glass, they made a toast to the newlyweds and worked on the flowers, while drinking, talking, huffing and eventually laughing.

France doesn't remember how they ended up lying in the garden on a hammock chair. He remembers needing fresh air, away from the gardenias, honeysuckles and lilacs... The only place with fresh air was, apparently, out in the cold.
Their shoulders were touching, he realized, while England was trying to explain something, slurring and stumbling over his own words, rubbing his eyes. He leaned to the side, and his forehead hit France's shoulder.

" 'm thank...ul...fo...u...com...ng," he whispered and France had hard time understanding him. But in a way, he knew what the other was saying. And not in the literal sense. He was thankful France always came, with no exception.

"I know..." France smirked and took England's hand, squeezing it. He turned to the side and pressed his nose against England's forehead. He felt the other squeeze his hand back and he laughed.

"You're adorable when you're drunk," he hummed softly, quietly.

"You're drunk..." came back a weak remark and France rolled his eyes.

How could he hate him?