Memories: Rewritten

Chapter 8: Steeping Guilt

 France slowly raised his seat, all the while watching Germany disappear in his rearview mirror. England began walking back inside and France switched his car on, slowly creeping into the driveway like a predator stalking prey. England made it to his doorstep when he heard a car door slam. Bewildered, he pivoted to see France dashing towards him. England dropped his umbrella and yelped as France grabbed his shoulders.

"What are you doing here, you bloody git?" England exclaimed.

"We need to talk," France declared, pushing England towards the door. They both entered the house, England quickly scooping up the umbrella on the way. Water droplets slunk down France's hair, beading and falling at the tips. England's sweater now sported wet handprints on the shoulders, a product of France's lack of shielding from the rain.

"You know it's bad luck to have an umbrella open indoors," England grumbled, quickly shutting it. The excess water soaked his entry rug, much to his dismay.

"What did you tell him?"

England furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"What did you tell him?"

France's face fell void of all pigmentation, his eyes painting a picture of uncertainty.

"You've gone crackers too," he shook his head in disbelief, "I don't know what you're on about."

France flew into the kitchen, England trotting behind him in confusion. France had not announced he would be visiting, and if he did, England would have told him to bugger off. His relationship with France consisted of constant bickering, their mutual participation in the Allied Forces being their only point of agreement. If France insisted on stopping by, unable to take no for an answer, England would have mentally prepared himself for the onslaught of petty arguments bound to unfold. He watched, dumbfounded, as France refilled the kettle and pulled a clean mug down from the cabinet.

"Right, so you think you can just barge into my house and make yourself something to drink with my things?" England protested, his voice raising an octave in the face of stress.

"I just did, didn't I?" France responded.

England sighed, his chagrin shutting him up. France had a knack for knowing exactly how to irritate him. He watched as France pulled a tea bag of Assam from a tin, tossing it into the clean mug. France spun to face England once more, catching a glimpse of England's flushed cheeks. England immediately turned his head to the side to avoid his gaze.

England huffed. "Why did you come here?"

"I know you told Germany," he spoke quietly, his uncertainty melting into an all-knowing tone.

Indeed, Germany spun the tale of how France let his passion for Italy overtake his senses, slipping enough information into the conversation for Germany to continue his crusade for the truth. Germany had no clue that the more he fished for answers, the murkier the sea of deception became. Truth be told, England fought to bite his tongue while speaking to him; whether Germany knew it or not, England wanted to give him the answers he sought, but the law prohibited it, and to break the law meant to introduce more complexity into the mix. France was well aware of that fact, so the manner in which he bursted into England's house only solidified England's perception of his arrogance.

"I didn't say anything," England finally responded, "You know I can't."

France emptied the kettle into his mug, the steam from the water swirling upwards. "I saw the way you hugged him in the driveway. Why would he reciprocate if he didn't get what he wanted?"

"You've seen the poor bloke, he looks a right mess. I'm gobsmacked he could even drive."

"You're avoiding my question."