The England Experiment

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"..." Britain put his head in his hands, fingers tangling in his dirty-blond hair as he leant on the table. "What the fuck is this?" he whispered at the pages in front of him.

"I told you already," Roderich scolded, frowning at him over the rims of his glasses. "They're modern algebraic equations. And they are essential for financing your modern country."

Britain stared at the scribbled letters of the complex equations as if they were in a foreign language, feeling like he wanted to cry. Why couldn't he get it?

"I remember them... I just don't understand!" Francis snorted from his sofa across the room.

"Maybe you're just too stupid," he mumbled, but shut his mouth when Britain glared daggers at him. Roderich sighed sympathetically.

"You'll get it eventually. Let's go over the method again..."

This  sort of ordeal had been going on for weeks. England was regaining his memory in leaps and bounds, but at times he felt as if he knew nothing at all. Afraid of having to be taught the new etiquette and failing miserably, he had insisted that he be refreshed on every unfamiliar concept and thing. Unfortunately, it was a lot of information, and there was only so much he could change in a short amount of time.

Francis had almost hoped that Arthur would get better faster, but he knew that it was just wistful thinking. Things took time, he told himself, as he took a drag from a cigarette, leaning over the balcony railing and looking out at the stars. Soft music was playing in the background and Francis sighed, grey smoke clouding the warm air.

The music got gradually louder, and after a while Francis realised that he had never put on any music, and he turned around in surprise to see Britain leaning against the door-frame to his room. He raised his brows as Britain smirked, humming that same song and crossing the room, and stepping out onto the balcony. Francis looked at him as his thin fingers took the cigarette from him, placing it between his own lips. It was odd, Arthur would have told him that smoking was bad and crushed it under his heel. But Britain breathed it all in as he hummed softly.

"You know that song?" Francis asked quietly after a moment, and Britain paused.

"Hm? Oh, not really. I can't it's name, let alone the damn words, but I know the tune." Britain stared at him for a moment. "I remember that it's your favourite, though."

Francis chuckled softly.

"It is, how kind of you for remembering, mon cher." He took the cigarette back from Britain and he scowled, ending up just reaching over and taking a new one from Francis's jacket pocket. He slowly put it between his lips as Francis grumbled with annoyance. "I'm not giving you a light for that," he muttered. 

"Fine."

Francis's eyes widened a little as Britain's fingers found his jaw, turning him to face him. Silently, Britain held his cigarette to the end of Francis's until it lit; their faces inches apart. His pale face looked warm in the soft glow of light, and Francis could only pray that Britain didn't feel the heat rising from his skin.

It lasted only a brief moment and Britain let go of him, stepping back and leaning on the railing, looking out at the dark sky. They were both quiet for a moment, a warm breeze carrying away the swirling smoke.   

"We are close, aren't we?" Britain asked suddenly, and Francis looked over with surprise.

"What do you mean?" he breathed.

"We aren't enemies any more. When I look at you sometimes, you look back at Arthur as if he is a friend." Francis wished he would turn his face so that he could see any emotion in those green eyes; a black eye-patch that he refused to take off covered the only eye he could get a sneaking glimpse of. So he just bit his tongue.

"Arthur is a friend," he said softly, and Britain finally turned to glance at him. 

"Is he something more?" Britain asked, and raised his brows when Francis quickly looked away. He had no idea what had gone on between them, so he decided to leave it. "Arthur seems like a good guy," he commented to the dark sky, and Francis chuckled.

"Good? That's debatable." Britain laughed.

"Slightly comforting, if you ask me. I'd go mad if I had to turn good all of a sudden. But... everyone trusts him. If I ask, they talk of him highly, as if he is someone to respect. They look at me with nothing but resentment and a lost sense of longing." Britain took a slow drag of the cigarette. "I can't wait to be him."

Francis sighed.

"Arthur... is not so different from you. You just don't feel the same things that he does. You have not yet remembered, or experienced his sorrows. And his joys." Britain simply chuckled and pushed himself from the railing, letting the cigarette fall to the floor and crushing it under his foot.

"Sounds delightful." A sly grin played on his lips and he reached out, taking Francis's hand. "How about we make one of those joys you were talking about?"

"W-what?"

Francis held his breath as Britian happily held his hand and took him by the waist, pulling him from the railing into the centre of the balcony. He smiled as he hummed, green eyes glowing in the dim light.

"Come on, this is your favourite song, isn't it? Dance with me!"

Francis laughed as he took Britain's shoulder, helping him hum the song louder. They turned in slow circles on the balcony to the soft music, rocking back and forth in the night.

"All right then, Angleterre."

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Hello there.
This chapter was short and sweet, but I felt that it was needed. Hope you enjoy it.

This story recently got 3k reads, and I want to say thank you to every single person who reads this. It started out as a little project that I never imagined would get over 30, let alone over 3000. It truly means a lot to me.

Again, thanks for reading this train wreck, stay safe, and remember to drink water.