Work Text:
I.
The phone is ringing, stridently and annoying as always, except even more so because it’s 3 and 28 (and counting) in the morning. Arthur, still half asleep and feeling like murder, specially as he’s only gone to sleep two hours ago thanks to all of his paperwork, curses the bloody thing to hell and back, as well as whoever invented it.
It actually takes him a couple minutes to find and grab the thing in his groggy state, and when he finally does, the Brit certainly doesn’t bother looking up to see who’s calling. There’s only two people in the whole world who’d dare to call him at such an ungodly hour anyway, and whoever it was he’s just told them to piss off and gone back to bed.
The fucking thing starts ringing again though, and this time he gives up and answers it.
“ Talk.”
Says the person on the other side in a very tired, very rough voice. Arthur doesn’t need to ask or look at his phone’s screen to know it’s Francis, and that he’s been drinking.
And so, with a deep sight, he sits up more comfortably on his bed, turns on the table lamp beside him, and does just that. Because Francis calls all the time and is always very content in doing all the talking if he musts, but he only demands such a thing of Arthur, and specially at such an hour, when he’s been having nightmares, and England isn’t that cruel.
So he talks, and talks and talks. Shit talks mostly. Bitches about his government and his boss, and the economy and some TV program he’s recently watched. He goes on, and on until he can listen the Frenchmen laughing quietly; the way he only does when there’s nobody around, or at least nobody he wants to impress, which is mostly with a small smile and puffs of breathing. And then Arthur keeps going still, until the other breaths a “Merci” and hangs up. Only then he allows himself to go back to his well deserved sleep.
He doesn’t ask why or what happened or what was the dream about. He never does. They have all gone through and seen terrible, horrible things, Nations that is, one too many times. Things that would have made any human-being go mad.
So he does what he can to help, knowing the other would do the same for him (and has indeed done several times), while part of him wishes he could be there to hold the Frenchman close and whisper sweet nothings on his ear.
II.
Alfred observes them from afar; curious like a child and analytical like a scientist, he tries to make sense of those two old men and their strange dynamic, failing miserably. Unlike Matthew, however, who’s long given up trying to understand their parents figures’ relationship, he stubbornly perseveres. Slouched on a chair in such a way that definitely would make Arthur throw a fit had he been paying attention, he sips his American Espresso, narrows his eyes, and keeps on studying the two.
Matthew looks from his brother to the couple, again to the American, laughs quietly to himself, and goes back to messaging his boyfriend. It’s all very amusing, he tells the other.
The two European nations are vaguely aware of being observed, as well as of the presence of every nation in the room, but don’t give enough of a shit to pay them any mind. Sitting on a couch in the waiting room, shoulders touching, but facing opposite directions, legs crossed, they mentally play chess with each other.
France says the name of a piece and numbers a house between smokes.
England, who’s pretending to read the newspaper, gives it some time and answers a few seconds, sometimes a minute later, his move accompanied by a tiny smile or a huff, depending on his situation. Francis closes his eyes, exhales.
Repeat.
They are both terribly bored.
III.
There are things flying across the room at every direction. A window has been broken and the boiling kettle is screaming, but so are them and they aren’t even hearing each other to begin with. And why would them, really. Every curse, every name has been called a thousand times and again, and again, and again… So they just shout to the wind and don’t really expect a coherent answer.
The Frenchman is sporting a bloody nose that he’s pretty sure has been broken, while the English one has got a quickly blacking eye. Their clothes are hanging off their bodies awkwardly, and their hair is so rumpled one could thing they've been hanging out in a hurricane.
France kicks a wine bottle, which rolls off and shatters against the wall. Arthur tells him to go fuck himself and runs away, slamming the door behind him.
Almost simultaneously, the alarm goes off and it starts raining inside the small flat, as the smell of burning gets stronger. Oh, the irony! Francis cant help but laugh at it: Arthur is the one who runs off and yet he’s the one who can’t scape him.
IV.
Tomorrow, by way of maybe of a miracle, Arthur will wake up first. He will feel the chilliness of the early morning air touching his naked body - barely covered by the sheets - and shiver slightly.
When he look to his side, he’ll see silky hair spilled all over the pillow beside his own, as well as strong arms, a handsome face and closed eyes with long blond eyelashes. And he will smile, in his temporary solitude, a sober smile. He’ll be waking up beside the man he loves and there won't be a single drop of alcohol in his blood. Sure, it’ll not be the first time this happens, but even after so many years, decades really, it’ll still be difficult for the British man to believe it.
But that’s all very sap and cheesy, and Arthur Kirkland, the physical embodiment of England, is not a sap man. Oh no. So he’ll quickly get up, crack his neck (and every other bone of his ancient body), put on some pyjama pants and a Sex Pistols t-shirt, and go on to the kitchen - but not before covering better his husband’s body, least the man freeze to death.
Once in the other room, he will put some water to boil in the kettle, and also some in the coffee machine.
Not too long after, Francis will follow him up, still half asleep, scratching his ass and bumping on the furniture, but smiling at the smell of fresh coffee. In Classic Frog fashion, as Arthur would say, he’ll be naked from the waist down.
They’ll share a good morning kiss, which will taste perfectly bitter sweet, thanks to France’s bitter coffee (dark and strong, no sugar, just the way he likes in the morning, to sober him up) and Arthur’s quite sweet black tea.
“Did the bed kick you out, mon cher?”
“No, the cold did. You keep robbing the blankets”. He’ll answer, not without good humour, rolling his eyes.
Francis will laugh and hug the other man from behind.
Tomorrow, life is good.
V.
“There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown
No where you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be
It’s easy”
The radio is playing and they are cheerfully singing along, off key as it may be, and smiling and laughing and making fun of each other. It’s raining outside and the air is chilly, but inside the car it’s cosy and warm and the street lights shine bright enough upon them for the couple to be able to see each other, but also low enough to make everything feel that little bit edgier and more unreal, as if in a dream or an avant-garde French film.
“All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need”
“I’m sorry”, says the Brit, suddenly, looking down with a now bitter smile, as the song slows down to an end. “You know, about the other day.”
A hand covers his own, slowly, carefully interlining their fingers. Arthur stares at them for a moment longer, a bit in awe, before looking up to face the man beside him.
“It’s okay, lapin”, and then, as an after thought, he adds “Je suis dèsolè aussi.”
And here’s the truth: neither of the two remembers what the fight was about. Something silly, most likely. It had been building up for a while now, several little things and then one day they just exploded on each other.
Nothing out of the ordinary. They quite prefer it that way, you see, it shakes modern life up, don’t let it ever get boring.
The apologising part is new though, and they are quite glad for it, if they ever allow themselves to admit it.
England and France stay like this for a while, looking on each other’s eyes and holding hands until the later leans on and kisses the living shit out of Arthur.
And then they kiss and kiss and keep on just kissing for some time before Arthur decides to move on to the back seat and Francis eagerly follows him. And then they kiss some more, giggling like teenagers as the two try to at least half undress one another.
“Monday, you can fall apart
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Thursday doesn’t even start
It’s Friday I’m in love”
“Ouch! Hey, hey! Wait, There’s something underneath me”, Arthur cries out and, with a lot of struggling and arms and legs bumping, he’s able to rescue a Les Miseràbles paper back copy from under his back.
“Jesus Christ Arthur, how did it take you so long to notice the Brick under you??”
“Oh shut it! Why do you even have it in here, anyway? Haven’t you read this thing about a thousand times already?”
“Certainly less times than you The Lord of the Rings, I’m sure.”
Arthur raises one of his legs to make Francis bump his head on the ceiling as retaliation. They both end up laughing though, and also with Arthur grabbing the other’s face and suddenly pulling him closer to a fierce kiss.
“You know… Sometimes I can’t fucking believe I’m still into you, after all this time.”
“Likewise, Sourcils…”
Nonetheless, as Arthur feels the cold touch of his husbands alliance on the back of his neck - gently supporting him as he lays down - it somehow makes a lot of sense in a really strange, if amazing sort of way.
And so they think about how, right now, they are so happy and alive and young but also more than a thousand years old; and how incredible this all is. How crazy that they Are, and that they are with each other.
And then they stop thinking. And just feel.
fin.