Work Text:
France’s tunic was blue like the crystals England got from his faerie friends. The colour was bright, almost translucent, and it went nicely with Francis’s eyes, which were a few shades darker then the fabric. Too bad that that was lost on England, as he had laughed the clothing off as girly and said that it looks so stupid, France, what the hell. But he had been a child back then, so certain immature remarks ought to be forgiven.
…In reality, England wasn’t much older now if one were to measure his age as a nation — but his human facade had grown up to its teenage years. Not quite reaching France’s height, which was a constant cause of irritation for England and a source of amusement for the Frenchman hellbent on driving Arthur mad at any chance he got. And Arthur got mad fairly easily, even though he refused to admit that.
But, anyhow, Arthur was certainly old enough to acknowledge the sight of France in the tunic as somewhat pleasing to the eye as he warily stared up at the approaching menace from the soil of the field of flowers he crouched on. However France always managed to find him was a mystery England sometimes pondered upon, going as far as asking his fairy friends whether they told France or not.
So far, they had claimed to not know how France managed to sneak upon him like the ghost of an ancient legend, and all right, England trusted them enough to believe their words.
“Haa— you lack style as always, I see!” were the words France greeted him with, and England made a low growling sound from the back of his throat as he tilted his head up to peer at France with a frown twitching at his features. The tunic was the first thing England noticed, actually, and the light colour that seemed to rival the bluest of skies. Whereas England was still wearing his green cloak over his simple woven clothes, and while the forest green was pretty as a colour, it did very little favours to England’s pallid complexion.
“Who asked you?” England retorted, fingers tight around the stems of flowers he had been picking. Daisies, violets, a few more whose names England didn’t know but which he had made up in his mind. “Why are you wearing that again? Isn’t that out of style already?”
The word ‘style’ came out with the bitterness of a petulant child, and England turned back to the flowers. One of the elves had requested a flower crown from him, and he didn’t want to keep them waiting. The King might have some business with him too, so he was in a hurry even without France disturbing him. At least it wasn’t raining — that would have put a damper on his plans.
But France was a distraction even when he said nothing, and England’s eyes kept stealing glimpses of the other. France was smiling, the smug idiot, and England bristled at the disgustingly beautiful sight. Not for the first time, his hands itched to tear those luscious locks off France’s head. Maybe the spell England found himself in around France would be broken that way — surely, the jittery feelings at the bottom of his stomach were the result of a spell or a curse.
“You like it, don’t you?” France sad, lips curling in satisfaction when England’s eyes met his. “You’re staring, Angleterre.”
“I am not,” England hissed and nearly crushed the delicate flowers in his hands that had recently been tasked with sword rather than plants. Gentleness didn’t come so easy anymore, not with the slowly budding strength that was to be used for war. “What are you here for, France?”
“To bring some light to your dreary life, of course,” France snickered as he carefully bent down to his knees beside England, gaze flickering to the bouquet of flowers in England’s hands. “Oh? Picking flowers for someone you love, are you? I guess you have reached that special age…”
England shoved an elbow into France’s side, reveling in the yelp the older nation let out. Older or not, France was as much a brat as he made England out to be. England then proceeded to hold the flowers against his chest defensively, which only brought a wider smirk to France’s face, despite the lingering pain. “Don’t get any weird ideas, France! I’m just picking some for my friends!”
“The imaginary ones? I have to admit, it was endearing when you were smaller, but now it’s just—”
“Fuck you,” England hissed, his still smaller frame (in comparison to France’s, but England was sure that would change) shaking from the effort to not leap on the other for a wrestling match that he might lose. “If you’re just going to be a bother, then at least be quiet about it. I have a job to do.”
“Sure,” France’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “What kind of job, hm? I doubt your King would have set you up to go to a meadow, although is it quite a nice day considering how dreary this place usually is.”
England didn’t answer as he plopped down onto his rear, crossing his legs as he set the flowers down, picking a few of the best ones to begin weaving the wreath for his friend, fingers trembling just a little under France’s attentive eyes, which — now that England thought about it — were even more striking than the fabrics Francis adorned himself with.
Also, that fragrance that France emanated…
“Ah!” France’s gasp tickled England’s cheek, sending a new heat wave across his face. As if the blasted sun wasn’t enough. “You’re making a flower crown, aren’t you? I never thought I’d see the day you’d do something… so… cute.”
The amazed, even befuddled, tone of France’s voice made England shift further away from the other, face quite hot from the disarray of emotions that ran through him like water in a mill. “I said I had a job to do, France.”
“Uh-huh,” France hummed agreeably as he followed England’s movements, bright blue tunic already showing some grass stains around France’s knees. Not that England was paying attention to how the tunic fluttered about freely just like in the past, nor how it left France’s collarbones visible above the embroidery at the neck of the piece of clothing. “Let me look, England, sourcils, I love those things—”
“Fine, just be quiet already,” England muttered, ignoring the weight of France’s arm that clung to his. It was a little harder to weave the stems with France hanging on him like a leech, but England would manage just to prove that he could. Even though France’s hair tickled at his face. Because France was uncomfortably close, and failure before those eyes was unacceptable.
France’s silence wasn’t much better than his chatter, England realized this about five minutes into it as he absently bent the stems so he could weave them together one flower at a time. France’s breath, for one, didn’t go away, and unlike England’s, it didn’t smell like too many scorched dinners. England bit at his lips, fingers moving slower as he added another daisy, trying it around the wreath easily with his nimble fingers.
“Such agile fingers,” France murmured, the comment so quiet England wouldn’t have heard it if France’s lips weren’t practically touching his ear. “You’re doing great so far, mon petit chou.”
“Stop calling me a cabbage,” England retorted, turning his head to give France the most unimpressed stare in the history ever (thus far). France returned it with another smile that reached the blue depths of his eyes.
“Only if you make me one of those,” France said, fingers gently joining Arthur’s on the forming wreath, skin brushing against skin. England, who really had reached the age where he knew about romance and didn’t entirely scoff at the idea, pursed his lips as he battled with himself. (Perhaps not enough to realize that meadows like this one were considered secret meeting places for lovers.)
“Why do you want a flower crown?” England stared at him skeptically, fingers tight around the stems as he assumed that France was making fun of him once again. “Oh— wait, it’s in your tastes, isn’t it — like that tunic and such…”
“That’d sound more insulting if it wasn’t so obvious you love flowers as well, Angleterre,” France pointed out and leaned further into England’s personal space, arms coming to England’s waist. “You’re quite dishonest, you naughty boy.”
The tied flowers fell from England’s hands as he spluttered, flustered beyond comprehension as France regarded him with those knowing eyes that reminded Arthur of the ocean that he had so far only seen from the shores of his lands.
England moved his hands to France’s tunic, the soft fabric kind as he dug his nails into it, unsure whether to push France away or—
France’s gaze was enough to quell the indecisiveness in England. Strong, impassioned, like the feeling had been hidden behind the sapphire gaze all along.
Well, that was probably simple wishful thinking…
“France—” England breathed out, eyes wide as he tried to convey what he wanted without unnecessary words to embarrass himself.
“Oui,” France murmured, hands gentle around England as they positioned England down on the field of flowers, on his back and vision full of only France and that obnoxiously silky hair and equally awful deep blue eyes that looked like they belonged to a character in a fairy tale or an old legend that the druids — England’s favourite people when he had been a child — told him of.
England’s hands shook, but they clung to France, fingers curled firmly as if to keep both of them from running away from whatever was to come.
France seemed to notice this, and his gaze turned softer, gentler, and England couldn’t understand how a thing like that could render him into a helpless, if not yet blabbering, fool.
“There’s no need to be afraid, England,” France said, tone as reassuring as the warmth of his hands beneath Arthur’s cloak. But despite that, even France seemed at least a bit hesitant as he didn’t seal the deal. The blue irises of his eyes glimmered, but with what?
“Who’s scared—”
“Ah, yes, yes, not you,” France rolled his eyes but at least the exchange had removed the doubt from him, and so the unthinkable happened. (Although, it wasn’t unthinkable if England had been wondering about the taste of France’s lips for a while now, was it?)
Amid the broken flowers and grass greener than England’s eyes, they shared a kiss. Innocent enough for a pair of blokes like them.
Sapphire eyes and strawberry lips, that was a description that England would later use, if only to himself whenever he recalled it.