England's France (Hetalia)

Part 1

The fairies liked France, and that fact alone was enough to irritate England. He wasn't even sure if France could see the fairies! He knew that France could use a small amount of magic to a certain degree, but he only seemed to use it for stupid things, like summoning roses out of nowhere or going on strike. He wasn't even particularly inclined to nature, unless it was related to the natural state of man, then France was very interested. So it was beyond England why the fairies got so excited when they saw France. Yet here they were, their tiny faces lighting up, zipping back and forth between the door and England, chiming their excitement with their tiny voices.

"What?" England asked, exasperated, jerking open the door for France, before letting out a wordless scream when he saw France was mostly drunk and only half clothed, only it wasn't his lower half that was clothed. Did he come all the way here looking like that? What if someone saw, or worse, if someone figured out England knew him? "Angleterre," France purred, interrupted by a hiccup, "I 'ave come to-" England grabbed a fistful of France's open shirt and jerked him inside, slamming the door shut behind him, and locking it just in case he brought any of his friends too.

France swayed his way to the couch, were he proceeded to collapse, much to England's horror. "Get your bare arse off my chesterfield!" France waved lazily, but didn't move. England was off rustling through his drawers, pulling out a clean pair of boxers. He did not want to lend France his underwear, but he liked the idea of France going around all exposed less. He stalked into the room, throwing the underwear at France's head. "Put that on right now and don't say a word or I swear I'll kick you out!" The fairies giggled, patting France on the head, and England frowned at them.

France studied the boxers and smirked at the union jack design, but one warning glance from England caused him to snap his mouth shut, though get kept smirking as he pulled on the underwear. Once France was less naked, England relaxed enough to scold him. And scold he did, for almost 20 minutes, waking France up everytime he started to doze off. "And why did you have to come here, of all places?" England complained, drawing to a close of his tirade. There was a sharp chime near his ear and the fairy there scowled at him, hands on her hips. "What? ​​​​" He demanded. She didn't answer and joined the others by France, pulling as his blond locks, and England saw a few golden strands come free.

France, pouted, pitifully raising his eyes to meet England's with a puppy-dog look. "I only wanted to see you!" He whined, sitting up rather sluggishly. "Its been so long since we last spoke." England was not affected the puppy eyes. "We spoke yesterday on the phone." "Non, not like that!" France got to his feet unsteadily, and against his own will, England rushed to his side to catch him. "Don't misunderstand." England scolded, forcing the drunk back onto the couch. "I'm just helping because if you fell and hit your head and damaged your brain any further, I don't think I could take it." France laughed a little at this, and with a quick tug, forced England to join him on the sofa.

"You -" England sputtered, but stopped as all of the fairies surrounding France glared at him. France pulled England over, so his head rested on his lap, and England, not too happy to have his face so close to a danger zone, twisted around angrily, swatting at France's hands. His angry words died on the way out of his mouth when he saw the look on France's face. Not his usual teasing or flirty looks but a nostalgic smile, marred slightly by the drawn together eyebrows. "France, you..." England began again, but this time with a softer, more wondering tone. "Shhh." France begged, lowering his head a bit as though to sheild his face behind his hair. "Just for a moment."

There was a genuine, serious note in France's desperate plea that froze England in his tracks. He tried to study France's face, but the man placed a hand over England's eyes, the other brushing back his hair. The fairies murmured in sympathy. There was a whisper of a bell in his ear, a plea from a fairy for just this time, England to lie still. So England did, confused and little frightened by France's unusual actions. He comforted himself by the fact France was so drunk he would not remember any of this in the morning. The hand stroking his hair trembled just slightly, and something warm and wet hit England's for head, but was quickly wiped away.

England realized that France was crying. Not the silly fake sobs he did to be dramatic, but really crying. This scared England more than anything else France had done that night, if only for the reason that he had never, their whole life, seen France cry for real. He reached for the hand covering his eyes, but hesitated before pushing it off, still resting his fingers on the back of France's palm. There was a reason England had never seen France cry, and he knew why that was. It was because France had never wanted him to, hiding himself away when he needed to cry, but always there for England when he needed to cry.

What right did England have to take that away from France? When England had always relied on France, but never been their for him? So he settled on awkwardly placing his hand on the hand on his eyes, a wordless offer of support. The fairies chimed their approval of the action, a step beyond what England had ever done before, but still within boundaries. Maybe it was cowardice, because England didn't want to see France's crying face, because it scared him. Maybe it was respect for France, who also didn't want England to see his crying face, because it scared him too.

France's other hand froze in England's hair at the touch, and England heard the sharp inhale. "You damn frog." England muttered, with no heart in his words. "You're so bloody drunk I guarantee you won't remember a thing tomorrow. I won't remember it either." He said the words with a practiced petulancy, offering France a way out. A way for them to continue as before, with no awkwardness between them. Tomorrow, both of them could pretend that nothing ever happened. There was a pinch on his arm of a displeased fary, but England paid it no mind. "This, only this, is as much as I can do." He breathed the words as less than a sigh, meant only for the faires as a defense.

England wasn't good at accepting feeling, or dealing with his own. Just lying there and doing nothing was pressing his limits. Even if the fairies thought he was wrong, this was as much as he could do. He wasn't sure if France heard these words, or if he was responding to his earlier statement, but he felt the brush of France's hair against his face as France whispered "Desolé." There was something soft against his forehead, and England told himself it wasn't a kiss, that he didn't recognize it from when he was a child and France would soothe him to sleep. "Je t'aime, mon petit frère."

England pretended not to hear the whispered words, the same way he pretended he didn't know why France showed up to his house dead drunk, or why France always took special pleasure in harassing him. England knew he could never be the little brother France needed. He couldn't comfort France or let France protect him. He could only fight with France and squabble, and turn a blind eye to France's obvious favoritism and doting attitude. All he could do was be England, and he wondered if that was enough.

England wasn't sure who drifted off to sleep first, him or France, France with his fingers still curled in England's hair, England with his head still in France's lap. Sometime during the night someone had draped a blanket over France's bare legs and England's torso, leaving his face uncovered, the tiny wings leaving a shimmer of glitter behind. England thought he heard the fairies Whispering something that sounded like "England's France." as he drifted off, and if he wasn't so damn tired, he would have told them off. France wasn't England's anyway. If anything it was the other way around. But the words never made it from his mind to his lips.