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“Well, this is just rubbish.”
England scoffed, throwing a magazine onto the coffee table. It has been preposterous, really—saying that the three world superpowers were Russia, China, and America! England had made America, he’d invented America, how the hell had he been surpassed..! God, where had the time gone? He wondered, as he leaned back into his favourite leather recliner. Just yesterday he’d been a pirate, sailing for god, gold, and glory, he’d been a king looming over the rest of the world, he’d been a bloody Empire! Now he spent most days drinking, touching himself absently, looking out at the shore through the window like he was doing now.
He slowly slunk deeper and deeper into these thoughts; he’d really let himself go. He’d lost so much. All the other countries were irritated that of all the islands, England was the only one staying above sea level. While still being a very powerful country, he’d shrunk so vastly in terms of just about everything that nobody respected him very much, and nobody was scared enough of being colonized to even pretend to like him these days. Even if they were, he’d been forced to come to terms with morality, and it wasn’t very nice to go around and claiming places where people already belonged. He wished more people would pick up that mindset when it came to France. In the last few decades, as England sank into what felt like obscurity after centuries of glory, people like Russia had began to make little passes, right in front of him! Then again, if France decided to go with Russia, England wouldn’t blame him. France had fallen in love with a superpower, not a runner up.
Arthur was so deep in his head, contemplating the poetic divorce speech about how Francis deserved happiness no matter what, even if it was no longer with himself, that he did not hear the front door, or the grocery bags being laid on the counter, or the cheeky tiptoes to the pastry jar. He heard nothing until he felt it, a kiss to his cheek, slightly sticky with strawberry jam and a few crumbs.
”You’re not very stealthy about taking dessert before dinner, frog. Or about pretending you have no clue why you’re so flabby these days.” He grunted, pretending he cared what Francis looked like at all.
”You wound me, cheri! And perhaps if you would remember to renew our gym membership more often, there would be no problem!”
”Oi! You never did anything with that bloody gym membership other than use it as an excuse to buy all your ridiculous exercise clothes! Which you didn’t even exercise in, you just waited until I walked in the room to do downward dog while in yoga pants!” He scowled, swatting Francis away, who had leaned over the back of the recliner to kiss Arthur’s neck. Arthur grumbled, but felt empty again when Francis went away, back to the kitchen.
”Oh mon petite lapin, you will be very pleased with dinner tonight, I think! I am making those disgusting potatoes and peas and steaks you like so much!” Francis sang cheerily, and Arthur perked up as he heard the metal clanging of pots and pans. He padded over softly, lured in like a puppy to the promise of a treat, deciding it was foolish to bite the hand that fed. So he watched, occasionally letting Francis know that the only seasoning was meant to be a pinch of salt. At this, Francis stifled a gag and added an array of herbs and… well, whatever else. Arthur wasn’t familiar with most of what was in their kitchen, considering he’d been basically banned from making anything besides oatmeal and tea.
When dinner was ready, Arthur drank it with a whole lot of Gin. Francis had only a modest glass of red wine, his smile at Arthur’s enjoyment of dinner turning to a frown as it turned more to the enjoyment of drink. Francis was aware Arthur couldn’t go sober unless his people toned down their drinking, and the English putting down a drink would happen as soon as Mexico put down tequila. But Arthur himself drank when he was down. Or really happy. Or bored. Or angry. Alright, well, it wasn’t much indication of anything, but Francis was still worried. It wasn’t until Arthur was quite drunk that he’d tell Francis anything, so Francis let his husband continue to knock back crystal glasses of gold. Once Arthur began slurring about whether he was Catholic or Protestant, Francis knew he was vulnerable. Well that sounded perverted, but still. He scooped Arthur up bridal style, giggling as his husband muttered old cuss words nobody had used since the 1700s, in dialects which had also been forgotten. Francis laid Arthur down in bed gently, laying his head on the soft chest.
“Oh, Arthur… my love, what’s wrong?” Francis cooed, pushing back a dirty blond fringe, which seemed to be a little further back than he remembered.
Francis hadn’t expected Arthur to burst into tears, sobbing. “Francis..! We—I—we’re out of biscuits..!”
Oh. Of course… Francis had forgotten Arthur’s priorities got quite mixed up when he was drunk.
”Non, cheri… you have seemed sad lately. Are you still upset because of how terribly Brexit has failed?”
There was a wet sniff as Arthur held Francis tight. “…Maybe. Oh, love, I’m becoming as relevant as China before we made the mistake of letting them on the bloody security council! Russia and America too, they’re all world superpowers and I’m… god, I feel like you after losing Europe because of that awful Napoleon bloke! Except instead of losing Europe I’ve lost a quarter of the whole world! Rule on every continent I had and now all I’ve got are a few tiny little islands! And I have to call them territories instead of colonies so it doesn’t sound as bad but— I miss when it was bad! People—well maybe not always respected me, but they feared me!”
Jésus, Arthur… you make it very hard to root for you. Francis sighed and rolled his eyes, stroking Arthur’s hair. Considering he wasn’t any better, he knew that it would be best to cheer his husband up.
“Cher… listen to me, you’re a very strong country! Very… very strong,” his voice dropped low, and so did his hand. Arthur squeaked as his hip was pinched. There wasn’t much muscle there these days, so he found it hard to believe. Then again, he’d believe anything as long as the words were sandwiched between kisses, like they were now.
“Arthur — you’re so pretty — Russia might be big, but he is not as stylish as you were — and China is so far away, you have nothing to worry about, non? And America — he owes you everything. You built America! He is an extension of you — he can credit all his glory and struggles to you. Really, mon amour, you have been a steady empire for centuries, built from nothing!”
Well, Arthur wants to believe it. But he lays there, silent, as France takes off his pants. France fucks him through it, cooing his lovely reassurances.
”Oh… Arthur, you take it so well… such a strong country…” by now the words are patronizing and empty, it makes Arthur want to vomit; of course, that might’ve been the gin.
They finish together, but while France makes a show about it, for Arthur, it is just another forgettable part of the night. He tunes out most of France’s pillow talk, and then—
“You know—even if you’re not a big, strong empire… or at least don’t feel like one… it does not matter to me. I do not want an empire. I want Arthur. Empires make me think of too many people, or that quitting bastard Napoleon. But you do not quit, my love. You change, like me. We change together, for better or for worse, and I do not mind. It is together. Constant like the sun, my soleil. Even if you’re not as warm and happy as the sun,” he added, giggling.
It was endlessly cheesy, but it was undeniably Francis. Francis, doting upon Arthur, the same way he had a few hundred years ago.
“You’re s-sure?” Arthur sniffled, laying on his stomach with his cheek pressed to the pillow, looking up at Francis. Francis looks down at him as well, adoring how cute his husband looked right now. “You don’t want Spain, or… or… Russia?”
”Non, chéri. I do not want Spain, and I certainly do not want Russia. I want you—I need you.”
Oh dear… that felt good to hear. Someone needed Arthur.
”I… I need you too, you froggy bastard! Bollocks, I need you…” Arthur sobbed, pressing his nose to his husband’s sternum. Francis smiled slightly and rolled his eyes, petting Arthur’s messy hair.
“Oh… I know, I know, mon amour. Je t’aime…”
Arthur nodded. “Je t’aime, je t’aime et je te veux.”
Francis rubbed Arthur’s back now, smiling at how rare it was for Arthur to say anything in French. He spoke it fluently, yes, but he liked to annoy Francis and pretend he did not. After all the upset, of course, Arthur was fast asleep. Francis kissed the top of his head, settling them in amongst the blankets. Tomorrow morning, they’d walk down the beach together as they always did, eat breakfast together as always, go through the motions together as always. Marriage suited them rather well, especially when they were not fighting constantly. They were too tired for it, the young countries could fight all they wanted. It felt nice to relax a bit.