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“Do you promise to love and cherish him, in good times and in bad,
England didn’t believe in fortune tellers.
As strange as it may sound– with his habit of talking to mythical animals like he’s Snow White or casting spells like he’s Harry Potter– he simply drew the line at fortune tellers.
So when his friends invited him to get his palm read, you could say he wasn’t very enthusiastic about it.
“I’m telling you, dude! This lady’s legit!” America promised, slapping the other’s back, making him wince.
Everyone’s fortunes have already been read. Now it was time for the last person: England.
“Sit down, son. It’s your turn.”
The old woman behind the table looked like your stereotypical fortune teller you’d see in straight out of Hollywood movies. Her hair was gray and fragile, her skin wrinkly and saggy, and her chest was adorned with an extraordinary amount of eccentric necklaces, ranging from vivid crystals to beaded strings to statement piece charms. Her eyes gleamed with a knowing spark in them.
“I see that you’re a skeptic,” she commented, shuffling her tarot cards before she places them away on the wooden table.
“Wow. How’d you tell?” he moodily bit back, glaring at America and the others behind him who were giving him an encouraging mocking thumbs up. He couldn’t wait to get this over with so he could go out actually drinking and spending his night the normal way: Not in the tent of a fake oracle who was clearly only doing this scam to con some money off some poor, gullible teenagers. The said poor, gullible teenager in question here was America.
“Sit, Sit! Would you like some tea?” and without even a moment’s glance, she pushes a porcelain china cup towards England, not letting him answer. A bit irked, the blond sits down and takes a sip of the tea. Far too bitter for his taste, but he wasn’t going to poke at it especially if he didn’t want to risk pissing off the fortune teller and walking out of the tent knowing he’s “doomed for all eternity as a single bloke” or “The guy with only 2 years to live!” or some corny crap like that.
So instead, he lets the bead of sweat roll off his neck and smiles with a strain.
The lady snatches his left hand like a viper, surprising England as she smiles a crooked grin.
“Ah, yes… Your money line shows me that you will face slight financial obstacles in the near future, due to an unforeseen event occurring”
“Blimey. That’s terrific.” He responds, sipping his tea.
“Yes, yes. Your health line is very short, so this tells me that you better cut down on all those beer bottles, eh? Shouldn't go to the bar after this”
“Of course, will do, yes. Wait, how did you know I was going to the–”
Suddenly, her contorted finger trails gingerly at his palm slowly, tracing a long snake-like line. She falls silent, and so does the room.
“Interesting… Your love line shows me a continuous zig-zag, signifying an on and off flickering flame” She says, her eyes like a hawk as he hunches over his palm.
England huffs, not buying it. Typical, vague mumbo jumbo.
“Yes.. Yes I see it now… Your love life starts off crooked, but gradually falls into a steady curve…”
Disinterested, England takes another sip of his tea, chuckling at himself as he absent-mindedly thinks about what he’s having for dinner.
“How romantic! Your love life is very promising! It shows me that you’re going to get married soon, to a bloke! Specifically, the cute blond lad behind you with that silly french accent. Yoohoo there!” she waves her hand innocently at France who was standing behind England with America and Italy.
England chokes on his tea.
The room erupts into a cacophonous laughter, with America cackling like a chortling trumpet and Italy giggling with a bright smile on his face. Germany stayed silent, but even he looked slightly amused at the whole ordeal. France, along with America, went into a hysteric fit of laughter as he tried covering his mouth (as if that’d hide the ugly croaking noise from his lips, England bitterly ruminated.)
England himself, had an obvious scarlet on his face as he viciously wiped away the spilt tea off his chin.
“Rubbish! This is outlandish!” England exclaimed, snatching his palm away from the sly oracle like he’d been burned.
“France! Oh, buggering hell, stop laughing will you! Tell this sagging old bat that she’s crazy!”
“Oui, I agree, this is simply dishonest and not truthful!” France said.
England let a breath of relief escape. “Yes, see, Christ thank you! For once you have some common sense–”
“Because we’re already married!”
For the next few seconds, England thought really, really hard. Please believe him on this. He went still, face still crimson, as he turned his back to face his enemy/rival/now-apparently-husband with an air of bleak hope in order to use his words properly so that he doesn't phrase it as “Are you bloody mad?”
“Are you bloody mad?” he snapped.
“Well.. really, aren’t you two already married?” chirped Italy, confused as to why he, and quite literally everyone knew, but England somehow didn't.
“No, we’re not! Shit, America could you back me up her–” he turned to face America desperately, but the country also looked kind of sheepish for a moment.
“I mean.. We all thought that…” he uncharacteristically murmurs.
In an act of final despair, England whizzes around to grab Germany by the shoulders.
Logical, sensible Germany who always commanded utmost respect and is able to decipher right from wrong. Logical, sensible Germany who always was able to untangle England and France from their web of fights and brawls during meetings, and resolve for a compromise. Logical, sensible Germany who knew for certain England wasn’t in a god damn relationship with fucking France.
“Ah, nein.. I also thought you vere.. vith France…”
This had got to be the end of the world, England decided bitterly right before he bit into his hand to stop himself from screaming.
He stomped out of the tent in an extravagant manner, leaving behind a very confused group of countries.
“Wait. So, you two aren’t married?” America furrows his eyebrows, puzzled.
France stilled, hands on his hips as he stared at the tent’s makeshift exit door, his eyes glancing at where the ghost of Englands’ presence was.
“We are! God, the idiot probably had too much to drink or something. He’ll come to his senses” the French man reasons, barking a laugh.
‘The dimwit’s been married to me for centuries, why is he acting like he’s just realising this now?’ absentmindedly, France wonders. But that thought is quickly lost to the wind, as he returns back to the conversation and continues laughing away.
***
In sickness and in health,
Fluorescent lights hummed above the pair’s heads in a subdued manner. The toy store was massive, with mountains of board games stacked row after row, with pink doll sets with frilly dresses and plastic purses. Stacks of vivid toys piled up: the store had an incredulous atmosphere about it.
He didn’t realise how quickly Sealand’s birthday week had crept up, and now, he’s scrambling to get the lad a proper gift.
‘This is probably the slight financial obstacle the old hag was talking about,’ England’s wallet morosely croaked, and he could feel it getting lighter the moment he stepped into the flamboyant shop.
‘No, wait, it can’t be true. Because if that’s true that means the absurd lie she spat about me and France being married, would also be true’ he angrily realised not a second later, shooting daggers at France who stood nearby admiring a doll collection. Yes, France came along to buy gifts. At the time, he argued it's because “You’d probably just give him socks anyway!”, so England grudgingly obliged.
‘Since when did it become so casual for him and me to just go shopping together?’
He bit his tongue, pushed the thought away, and walked up towards France.
“You’ve spent the last 5 minutes eyeing that poor doll’s dress. Please tell me you’re not thinking of giving a pre-teen boy a pink princess doll set dearest .” He remarked, the last word emphasizing a little bit of snide in his voice.
France snorted, “Any better ideas Anglettere?” he said while spinning around to take in the entirety of the room, whistling. The couple started walking together down the aisle, conversing among themselves.
“We could always get him a book”
“Pssh! A book’s too boring. Of course you’d say that” France’s eyes rolled.
England started getting riled up, and huffed out, “Oh what the hell, what's your problem!? I read plenty of books growing up!”
“Oui, and that's why you didn’t have friends!”
“Shut up you git! You’d probably get him a damn wine collection or something!” The Britisher's hands gripped onto the other’s collar, threatening to fling him. France grasped onto the blond’s hair, the temptation to rip it off was almost too sweet to resist. His fingers twitched far too dangerously close to Francis’ eye socket.
“You just never seem to shut–” France started, grinding his teeth when he heard a strangled cough behind him.
“Can I help you two gentlemen?”
A lady who seemed to be in her forties stood quietly, almost looking entertained by the whole ordeal. Her vest had the shop’s logo embroidered onto it, so no doubt she was an assistant patrolling the aisles right now.
The two blonds started to feel their faces heating up. England’s hands jerked away from France, and he very hurriedly explained the situation.
“Ah, yes, sorry– sorry about all that miss. Could you please tell us what a young boy could possibly want for his birthday?” he stumbled, still glaring at France who did the same back. The lady smiled understandably, and stifled a polite laugh behind her palm.
“I have a kid back at home too, don't worry.” She explained, turning her back to retrieve a box from a nearby corridor of toys. When she returned, she had a packaged, green water gun laying innocently in her hands. Winking, “Kids nowadays love this kind of thing. Its reusable, and the only mess created is water”
France looks at England expectantly. England shrugs– he wasn’t the best when it comes to kids. He distantly remembers faltering everytime America’s birthday came around, it felt like walking on eggshells choosing a present for that little bugger. So if a middle aged mom recommends him a water gun, then a water gun for Sealand it shall be then.
“Sounds good to me” he agrees, and the group make their way to the counter. England bickers with France to pass the time, playful nothings. When the lovely assistant hands him the wrapped present inside a paper bag, he smiles at her politely like a gentleman.
“You and your husband’s son will be sure to love it–” England muffled a sudden choke– “thank you and come again!” her cheery voice echoed in the halls.
Husband’s
England smothers a noise that quite sounds like he pressed a bunch of random letters all at once; Whereas France smiles gracefully back at her and grabs England’s hand so he wouldn't take up space in the queue (For the man had frozen in the middle of the line.) Other customers glimpsed at the odd guy, before continuing to move through the queue. France pushed him through so before England knew it, both of them were exiting the shop and stepping onto the bustling cobblestone footpaths.
‘Did people always refer to us as a couple? Or was it simply the first time I noticed?’
That day, red-faced, England rushed back home without even uttering another word to France.
***
For richer for poorer,
Days have passed, and it's Sunday now. He’s out buying groceries for the week.
‘Maybe it was a little bit dramatic to run off like that.’ England recalled to himself, biting the inner of his cheek as he inspected each bread loaf’s colour, weight, and value, mulling over the options simultaneously. He didn’t mean to, surely– well, okay he did mean to, but he didn’t mean to leave France hanging like that.
The quiet buzz of the supermarket fell over him like an envelope, its dulcet background conversations and sounds of scanners beeping rhythmically all fell into place rather nicely.
‘He wouldn't like this brand,’ evaluated the blond while giving the bread a good squeeze to determine its quality.
So instead, he reached out for the packaged loaf he knew Francis was sure to like. Feeling up the crust, no doubt he knew the familiar taste would not betray him. Its’ crust was a bit too rough for his liking, but nonetheless he tenderly placed it into his cart anyways.
‘Because it’s France’s favourite bread,’ is the reasonable explanation– one that England just never realised.
On the next bright, dewy morning, England is vigorously brushing his hair with urgency: He’s late for a meeting.
He stands before the bathroom sink, untangling knots until he finally gets seamless flicks of the comb. Swiping his toothbrush, which stood in the glass next to Francis’, he began to flick it back and forth.
His eyes don't lose eye contact as he bores holes into the mirror, and only once in a while, he’d glance at the watch on his left hand which’d taunt him with every passing minute.
Finally, he spits out the foamy white toothpaste and gargles. Adjusting his tie in a hurry, as he’s about to bolt out of the bathroom he leaves one final glance.
‘The toothpaste is about to finish’ he mentally noted to himself, right before speeding into the kitchen. France was already sitting there, doing the newspaper.
“Mngh” he grunts softly, not sure if it was to himself or to France. The French man’s shrewd eyes squint at whatever page he’s landed on: From where Arthur is standing, slabbering some jam on a piece of bread, he makes out that it’s the crossword.
“Good morning, Angleterre.”
“Yeah, same to you”
The arrangement of France practically moving into his apartments was seamless– and maybe that should have scared England.
It kind of happened naturally, ever since the end of the second world war. Francis would wake up to see Arthur drinking coffee in his living room, or Arthur would walk into the shower to find that’s already been used as noted by the steam in the air. It’s not like they moved in with each other. Just a few days. None of them ever really commented on this transition, and they didn’t need to.
“What's another word for Most Beloved?” France asked, lowering his pencil and the newspaper just enough to meet jade eyes.
England paused from stuffing his face with bread, the bread Francis’ likes, and gave himself a moment to think about it.
“Err, Precious?”
“Non, It’s a 7 letter word”
Another pause. “Darling?”
“It doesn’t fit with the other letters before it: I think the second letter is E?”
“Dearest?”
“Oui?” asks, expectantly.
“Huh–?” a stammer, “No– I mean, as a suggestion. For the word. Dearest.”
Francis' eyes swept the delicately thin paper, before beaming– “Ah, oui, that works!” he said as he swiftly jotted down the word with his chewed-end pencil.
England ignored the pink tint on the others’ face, and ignored the one creeping up its way to his own face quite suddenly as well.
Swallowing, “Buy some toothpaste when you’re going out, alright?” Arthur mentioned, as he remembered the thin tube laying in his bathroom currently. France nodded, not looking up as he went onto the next part of his puzzle. England put on his coat, and stepped outside into the chilly wind.
Closing the door behind him, he sighed. “Blasting hell, maybe we are married” he mutters to himself softly: before his eyebrows shot up at the unbelievable sentence he dared to even utter.
When people asked him why his face was pink at the meeting, he blamed it on the weather.
***
For better for worse,
The Great War has been over for decades now.
When the war left, it left violently.
It left with bedridden men– no, boys– with sights in their mind which they could never erase. No matter how hard they pleaded to their God or how much they wept into their mothers’ arms; what was done couldn’t be undone.
The trench fighters certainly had it bad. Francis Bonnefoy was one of them.
Back then, “Cowardice” was what they called it on the fronts, and they’d shoot any deserters or good for nothing men for it. Now, in museums, lectures, and memorials, “shell shock” was what they called the sporadic shaking, frightened
state of the traumatized men– and pitied them for it.
“Oh, get in already” murmured Arthur mostly to himself, when he saw Francis outside his door in the middle of the night. He was slightly dripping as it’d been raining too, so beads of water dripped from the French man’s flaxen hair onto England’s carpet. No words were exchanged after that.
“Je suis désolé about all this Arthur” France apologized, shaking his coat outside the door before shutting it himself. England bit his tongue, not used to getting apologies from Francis, their relationship never really was like that– but he didn’t comment on it anyways.
“What’s all this then?” he asks instead, looking up and down at France.
Letting out a breath, the other responded, “Can I sleep with you tonight? I mean, not actually with you– just– just here. It doesn't have to be in your room, obviously, I’m used to the couch. Can I?”
England’s brows softened, taking it in. He wasn’t stupid– on any other occasion he’d laugh at the lad and probably complain about being near his presence, or something lighthearted and mocking along the lines. But France’s demeanor, the faint pleading tone hidden in his words, his unexpected midnight arrival: Arthur nodded.
Later, deep into that night, as the storm kept roaring on and violent crashes were sounded every minute, from the distance of his own bedroom he could have sworn he’d heard thrashing coming from the couch. He’s been through the Great War himself. He’s had soldier comrades. And he’s been with Francis long enough to know these episodes.
So he takes his pillow, slides into his fuzzy evening slippers, and makes his way to the living room. Even in sleep, France’s brows were furrowed, and his face was drenched in sweat. Swallowing a large lump at the sight, England slithered onto the other couch across from the one Francis was using. Putting down his battered pillow, he lays there for a while, in France’s presence.
When Francis wakes up in the morning, Arthur is still sleeping on the couch opposite him.
***
And forsaking all others,
Arthur liked to think he was good at hiding his feelings (although between you and me, just because he thought it doesn't mean he actually was.)
After the thing with the fortune teller, and the event with the crossword, after every scenario one after another he could still play it off, unconcernedly, and he wouldn’t have to ever admit something he’s running away from. And he was quite happy with how he was doing, thank you very much.
The fortune teller, his friends, the shop assistant, those were all things he could handle. The Queen? That he couldn’t.
It was just like any other day– The Queen, who he now calls ‘Mum’ after knowing her for so long, had invited him to a game of croquet. It was nothing out of the ordinary, they frequently had exchanges with each other about life, politics, or just simply pleasant company.
The sun shone daringly, lancing through the white clouds on the sunny day. Its rays speckled across the verdant grass, and Arthur had to squint and cover his eyes with his palm every time he looked up.
The Queen steadied herself, holding her orange-coloured mallet as she promptly flicked a likewise orange coloured ball through a wicket. A faint, proud smile illuminated her face as he hit the ball another time in hopes of getting it through the next wicket– but to no luck, it slowed down before it was able to pass into the wicket, marking England’s turn.
“I better be careful, otherwise you’ll overtake me, huh, Mum?” Arthur teases gently, as he grins while positioning himself to hit his blue ball. He succeeded in passing it through the wicket, now he was in the same position as his Majesty. If he made this next shot, he’d get 14 points, and that means he’d win the game.
“Oh, don’t be quick to jump to assumptions now. You’re not so bad yourself,” the Queen responds, eyes glinting in the summer sun glare. “I think it's because we’ve played together so many times, you just keep improving. Maybe it's about time we play as a team against another pair, instead of individually, no, my boy?” she continues, asking Arthur a question.
England bites his lip, as his hands on the mallet tighten. His eyes are fixated at the last wicket. Just one more. So, he half-heartedly lets out an agreeing sound.
“Hm.. With who is the question though… Should I invite Charles? Oh, but he’s not too fond of croquet.” mused Her Highness.
“Maybe one of your friends perhaps? Would Alfred fancy a game of croquet?”
England let himself laugh a breathless chuckle as he considered Alfred ever touching his dastardly hands onto a croquet mallet.
He swayed, preparing to score the ball in.
“I know–” came forth the brilliant lightbulb from the Queen. Arthur swung his mallet to hit the ball and–
“-We should invite your charming husband: Francis, was it?”
–missed.
His indigo ball swept across the field, landing in an extremely difficult position far from the final wicket. Arthur’s eye twitched in exasperation.
“What? No he’s not, Mum” he scrambled indignantly, voice sandpaper against stone, as he twisted to meet the Queen’s clever eyes. She walked to where England had been standing and grasped her mallet rather firmly, now stepping to the side of the ball to hit.
“Not charming or not your husband? I find both difficult to believe” she smiled to herself, raising her mallet.
“He’s not my husband!”
“If you say so, son” she quipped right back at him.
She struck the ball, hitting it through.
“And it seems like I’ve won the game” eyes twinkled, “So what’s next dear, would you like a cup of tea?” She carried on, as if the whole conversation had never happened.
‘I think I’d like a shot’ is what Arthur would have said if he wanted his cheek to get pinched for being witty. But, he obviously did not: instead, he strode along with her in the trimmed pristine gardens, looking identical to a fish out of water. He could hear limpid waters rushing and roaring from stone fountains nearby, a background noise for his internal conflict.
‘This can’t possibly keep occurring’ his brain rationalized– France, his friends, the shop assistant– The Royal Highness is what broke the camel’s back.
‘Alright then– no problem–’ he continued on, sucking in a sharp breath. ‘The only reason this keeps happening is because I’m letting it happen. People see me only hang out with France, and that’s why they assume such things’ . It made sense didn’t it? France probably jokes that they’re married because they spend half their time with each other and not anyone else. The saleswoman assumed they were husbands because they went in buying a toy for a kid together.
‘If I can just ignore France, then all this will stop’ he deduced, his finger drumming against the outside of his cheek in thought. Already feeling a bit accomplished, he smirked to himself– ‘That’s right! No one will think I’m with France, if I’m not with France’ he revolutionizes, as if it's some novel, monumental discovery.
‘Okay. I’ve ignored the prat countless times before; I’ll just do it again!’
***
Keep yourself only unto him,
There are 3 things that happen at each meeting between nations, without a doubt.
Shuffling of papers, heavy mind-numbing lectures, and lastly, fights.
First comes the shuffling of papers. The countries sit down at their respective seats, engaging in polite small talk as they rummage through their briefcase. Pens are drawn out, and chairs grate against marble floors.
Next come the wearisome lectures.
England, 5 minutes into the talk, promises that whoever decided Sweden’s monotonous voice and his black and white powerpoint presentations discussing “The Long-term impact of deep sea resource extraction on Maritime biodiversity” would be the most fit for a 6 hour meeting: he’d strangle them with their own tie.
Lastly, come the fights.
France, bored out of his mind, whips to face England looking for some conflict. Other nations sigh, glancing at the clock. 7 minutes in. Not hardly a record, but nevertheless some smugly swipe money while others scornfully scoff at losing their bets. They tune in at France’s comment, desperate for some amusement.
“Hey England, that ‘Long nosed stargazer’ fish looks an awful lot like peoples faces when they taste your scones, non?”
“Oh, piss off France, I’m not in the mood”
The room goes vaguely, hesitantly silent.
This is the 7th time in the past two weeks that this has happened. What should have been “Oh you frog faced disappointment, why don't I shove your–” has turned into distant “Buzz off” or “Don't bother me”. A lover’s quarrel, some speculated in office break rooms when looking at England’s cranky face.
England knows he’s cranky too. Biting his tongue, he stays true to his promise at the gardens he made 2 weeks ago. But even he has a limit.
To distract himself, he tried watching old serials but he’d just end up zoning off wishing he had someone to remark about how bad it is with them. He tried taking walks and going to cafes but to his annoyance almost seemingly each one he walked into was French, which made him just think about the damn bastard even more.
He even tried talking to girls, but he’d end up declining all of them when they weren't as witty at shooting back at his insults like France is, or when they weren’t speaking back to England with a ridiculous little french accent like France does, when they weren't fashionably arrogant with their clothing style like France was, when they just weren't Fra–
“Dude, are you okay? You’re murmuring things. Are you seeing your fairy gnome magical animal things again?” America whispers, poking him with a pen.
England stills, mouth still agape forming the next half of his word–
“nce–”
Oh.
Wisely, he shuts up.
Every man has his limits when going for so long without talking to their enemy/rival/not-official-husband.
When Arthur slumps onto his couch sofa that evening after the day’s nearly over, he agonizingly glares at his ceiling. The silence of his house should be blissful, I mean it's what he never had before, but it isn't .
He buries his face in his hands, stifling something in between a groan and a disbelieving scoff. This is what you wanted all along, his brain reminds him with a sarcastic laugh. But if this is what he wanted, then why does he feel his heart tug when he searches for France’s aggravating voice in a crowd? If this is what he wanted, then why does he miss the charm of Francis’ quiet smile in slow mornings watching his other half sit on the couch doing the newspaper with him?
Arthur sits there, staring at the couch opposite to him, yearning for the lingering company of Francis.
He’s made a mistake, he slowly realises. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe if they acted like they were married, then so be it, let’s get married.
He stands up a bit too fast, pulse hammering in his head as he scrutinizes his room. His eyes fall upon a bread packet. Using his calloused fingers, he pockets the twisty tie off it and coils the wire until he’s formed a makeshift ring. It’s nothing, really, but it’ll do.
When he stumbles upon France's doorstep that night, he pants and huffs. Gentle snow dwindles down the asphalt streets nearby, and the frosty ruthless wind bites at England’s hesitant fingers, as they push down onto a battered doorbell. A shrill ‘Riiing!’ sounds out, and before he knows it, he’s standing face to face with Francis.
An eyebrow hitches up. France leans against the doorframe lazily, the ghost of a smirk dancing across his face as he takes in the sight of the red faced, heaving Arthur.
“You look like you ran a marathon, huh Angletere?” He muses to himself merrily. “Cat got your tongue? Did you finally realise how horrid your cooking is and came all this way to admit it to me?” he jokes, tilting his head.
Arthur already wants to throttle the man. But he’s running on far too much adrenaline and impulses to go back on his decision now.
“I’m aware I uh– ignored you a bit too long these past couple of days”
“Days?”
“Okay fine! Weeks. I'm sorry.” he almost murmurs the last part.
France smiles, his unrelenting eyes twinkling with amusement. “Go on” he prompts. England gulps, his fingers twitch towards his coat pocket.
He gets down on one knee onto the cold, snowy cobblestone doorstep. Yanking out the messy wired ring out of the safety of his pocket, he reveals it to France’s perceptive eyes.
“We’ve– we’ve acted like husbands long enough. I haven’t really prepared a speech, but I do know I want to keep having whatever we have, France, whether it be silly quarrels or morning crosswords. So please, Marry me, Francis Bonnefoy.”
France blinks, looking at the pitiful excuse for a ring, boldly held by the other’s fingers as if he’s afraid he’d lose the small thing. His brain short-circuits, breath caught in the tightness of his own throat as he feels his ears burning red.
“It’s a hot pink twisty tie from bread packets”, Francis notices.
“It’s the thought that counts” Arthur grumbles, feeling his own ears turning scarlet if they hadn't already.
To England’s horror , France throws his head back and just laughs . England was just about to reprimand him for doing so, but he realises it wasn’t the usual type of unholy, sarcastic kind of giggling he knows him for. But the warm, endearing type so full of something so fond .
“Mon dieu–” France wipes tiny tears from the corner of his eyes. “We’ve been married for as long as I can remember now. But I suppose it is time we made it official” he twirls the flimsy ring around light heartedly.
“Just say yes, you git! My knee is becoming awfully cold! You are aware I've been kneeling on the same patch of snow for the past few minutes right?”
Francis grins again, finally slipping his finger into the makeshift ring.
“I do,” he promises.
Despite the weather akin to a borderline blizzard England faces outside his doorstep still, the soft warmth enveloping his stomach is enough to make him momentarily forget it.
“You wait here, Angleterre!’ France hisses immediately after, spinning a 180 as he runs back inside his house. ‘Am I allowed to stand now?’ Arthur sourly questions.
A second later, he returns back with his own twisty tie wired ring. An emerald green coloured one was shabbily looped, and France beamed when he presented it to his now official Fiance.
“Well mon cher, I’d be a pretty awful husband if I didn't have a ring for you too non?”
England lets out a choking laugh, and finally rises from his knee. He lets France’s burning fingers twist it onto him delicately onto his own frostbitten ones. They sway gently against the doorframe, wisps of hot air escaping from the pair as Francis secures the ring on Arthur. The gusts of wind scurry around their legs, and the street lamps behind Arthur illuminate the back of his head in a way that the only thought France can think of right now is how devilishly handsome he looks at that moment.
“Well? Will you marry me, Arthur Kirkland?” he requests.
The corner of Arthur’s eyes crinkle, His lips pull tight into a uncharacteristic tender smile before opening to say, “Yes,” he exhales, barely a note above a whisper, “I–”
***
For so long as you both shall live?” the wedding officiant asks.
“–I do,” Arthur responds, voice firm and steady.
Dressed in tranquil white, they hold each other’s hands: a hot pink, flimsy wired ring eagerly gripping onto an emerald green one. Their wedding day is clandestine yet gentle.
“By the power vested in me and by the love that surrounds us all, I now pronounce you husband and husband–” two keen palms squeeze each other, “You may now kiss the groom.”
Arthur stiffens for only a fraction of a second, before the two pull towards each other, melting into the chaste, intoxicating kiss that closes the 1000 year gap between the pair. The world around them blurs, and Francis swears he could taste a hint of sweet tea lingering in Arthur’s mouth as their lips crash together.
When they pull away, they both feel quite dizzy.
“Not a bad kisser, huh?” Arthur murmurs smugly, teasing but still tender.
“It was about time.”
And Arthur agrees alongside him, his fingers still vested in Francis’ suit, that yes: It really was about damn time.
Thank god for that fortune teller.