War's Edge

Tin Can Telephone

A dark figure carefully peered into the house's window. Precise fingers crept from the window's edge to the door's lock, using spare bobby pins until they heard a satisfying click.

The door creaked open.

Hardly audible footsteps pranced from the front door to the kitchen for a moment, and after grabbing a few items, they proceeded upstairs. Each step groaned under the weight of a single person, threatening to break but never following through. A hint of a smirk could be seen on their face as they pushed a bedroom door open. Had anyone been awake, they would've noticed the shimmering glow of a knife in the dawn's light. The figure approached the bedside, rising with a smirk, knife raised into the air.

"Angleterre!" France shouted as loud as he could from the bedside, "it is time to wake up!"

France banged the knife against the pot in his other hand, creating racket to ensure England would awaken. He only paused when he heard no response from England. Looking down, he shook the mass of blankets, dropping the pot and the knife in the process. All that laid in the bed was a few smushed pillows and...

"Hon hon hon..."

...the body pillow of himself that France had paid Japan to make. Who would've have guessed it still laid in England's bed after all these months.

"Angleterre! Where are you 'iding? Do not be cruel to moi!" France chirped, figuring he hadn't been quiet enough to sneak in unnoticed.

Where would Angleterre be hiding?

A lecherous grin appeared on his face as he mused to himself, "'e must be 'iding in the underwear drawer..."

He was quite pleased with himself to have remembered which drawer had his prize, and was surprised to see that England had kept all of the Christmas gifts he'd gotten from France, which occasionally consisted of... ungentlemanly... undergarments. The rest of the gifts were just boxers with the French flag plastered on them, roses, or little hearts and bunnies decorated across the boxers' fabric. France quickly snapped a picture for blackmail and shut the drawer, returning to his search for his beloved.

"Stop 'iding, Arthur! I am going to your kitchen now! You do not mind if I remove all of your 'orrible cooking disasters?" France called out, slowly peeking into other rooms as he proceeded down to the kitchen. Still, there was no response.

He peeked into the hallway downstairs. The lights had been left on, and a single room—one that France had never explored—had its door wide open. France cackled to himself, feeling a sense of relief that he'd never admit. He cooed England's name as he approached the room, peeking into it to see a dusty basement. France was quite puzzled, but he proceeded on.

Dust enveloped the air around him, clearly having not been filtered out into the rest of the house despite having the door wide open. The only thing illuminating the room was the light from the hallway, and every object was draped under a heavy, aged sheet. Certain items were uncovered and exposed to France, like old paintings, fragile stacks of books from centuries before, toys, and small weapons that had gone unused and lay propped up against the wall. One item shimmered in the hallway light's glow, standing tall and uncovered unlike the other items.

France peered at the mirror in the low light. He could see no reflection since the glass was rather dark, but when he leaned forward, he could hear the faintest whispers emitting from it.

"Angleterre?" France slowly called, feeling a little ridiculous to be talking into a mirror.

The voice grew louder and multiplied, becoming more disorientated and indecipherable. The words seemed panicked, urging France not to leave just yet. He swore he could hear a part of a word, so he leaned closer, pressing the side of his face to the dark glass.

"...f..."

France's eyes widened, and he listened intently for another clear syllable.

"...fran...ancis...Francis?..."

The mirror went silent after that, sending a chill down France's spine and a lingering curiosity. He didn't dare utter a word.

"Bloody frog!"

France screeched and jumped away from the mirror after being screamed at. He spluttered through a few old prayers and French curses, then retreated from the house altogether.

-

Oliver peeked over Arthur's shoulder. The latter was fuming and muttering to himself, trying to scoop up all of the broken glass into one general pile.

"Poppet, it's broken. Putting it together can't fix it," Oliver chirped.

Arthur whipped around and grabbed Oliver's shirt collar, pulling him forward so they were a mere inch apart.

"You wanker! Just being here, I've offset the magical balance! There can only be one of us, you idiot! I have to go home, and now that frog is wandering around in my house! Surely someone will take advantage of my absence!" Arthur shouted.

A few stray tears trailed down Oliver's rather emotionless face.

"Will anyone notice your absence, poppet? You are the black sheep of Europe. Will anyone miss you?" Oliver questioned.

Oliver happily grinned, trembling a little with what appeared to be battling emotions.

"It's nice having you around, you know. You're my one friend, and I was just oh-so lonely..." Oliver added.

Arthur smiled, then scowled.

"Quit it, you! You're making me smile!" Arthur growled.

"So you do like being here?" Oliver hopefully asked.

Arthur shoved Oliver away, lips still fighting to turn into a smile.

"No, I don't. I told you—there can only be one of us, so now your emotions are messing with mine. I'm not happy, but you are, and so we're both smiling, and I don't like it one bit."

Oliver frowned, a few more of his own tears spilling. Arthur began to cry a little, too, though he wiped them away with a ferociousness that displayed just how irritated the tears made him.

"I-I know I'm a screw-up. I've failed as a parent. My Aaron...! He's gone; left without a word!" Oliver wailed.

Arthur gave him a questioning look, asking, "Didn't you say his name was Allen?"

"I can't even remember his name!" Oliver sobbed, "I haven't got a clue as to why he even stayed by me as long as he had!"

Arthur felt overwhelmingly guilty, but he couldn't tell if he was feeling Oliver's guilt or his own guilt. He turned his back to Oliver, kneeling down once more to push the pieces of the mirror into place. It was almost like a puzzle that needed to be solved, except there was no guarantee that it would work. Oliver sniffled, peeking at the small cuts across Arthur's fingers from occasionally grabbing the glass too harshly.

"Will you be joining me for tea and cupcakes? I do enjoy company with my food, and it's rather lonely around here without Allen..." Oliver whispered.

Arthur pursed his lips into a thin line, but after peering at the glass and the small cuts on his finger from it, he stood up.

"Alright, but leave the glass alone," Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, "and do not expect me to meet any other being in this corrupted world of yours."

Oliver beamed, grinning from ear-to-ear. He latched onto Arthur in a hug, gripping his wrist and dragging him to the kitchen with ease.