twelve centimetres west ; PG - gen/drama - France + England/America

France can remember the time when it only seemed like the world was just between him and England. There they were, young countries, short lanky awkward boys decked in steel and leather as they fought, sword by sword- till the sunset. Covered in sweat, bruises, gritting their teeth and grounding out whatever insult that could be possible behind their exhaustion. Determined to do the other in and prove who was better. Those days seemed to be what life was supposed to be, but as they got older they become more aware of others, they became aware they weren't so young any more.

They became aware that from the hilt to the tip of their swords, that life did not carry the exact same meaning or value to them as it once had.

France saw this bluntly one day, when they are much much older, both bickering while visiting America, the boy trailing behind them boredly, half used to it and half still anticipating being dragged in. France knew America was all the most likely to side with England on most topics in an argument (America was just so taken in by England to the point that when England had intentionally brought up if he or France was better at the touchy topic of cooking, America had embarrassingly stuttered out that England was better; this resulted in France doubling over in laughter, damn. He hadn't laughed that hard in centuries!)

They had been doing just that, the greatest of all competitors, arguing. When France had turned to ask America a question, he noticed that young America in the bustling crowd had been jostled into the road, an oncoming carriage moving his way, moving too quickly to be stopped. Moving not as swiftly, France had tried to push his way through to prevent what was surely to come if he did just nothing, but England, much faster, much more aggressive in making his way first, moving in a manner quicker and more desperate than France had ever seen- broke through into the road and with more panic in his eyes than France could ever remember him having (even during their conflict of Saint Sadros)- flung himself against America to get him out of danger's way.

Clanking wheels and hooves passing by as England gripped America against him, the boy scrawled atop him, England's back lay against cold hard cobblestones. France had rushed when the road laid cleared, the crowd dissipating, relief flooding through him that they looked like all they could have are a few scratches or bruises (not even sparing to ridicule his sudden worry over England, that bastard, thanks goodness he didn't break his neck and America was fine...)

Alarm still rung out in England's eyes, panting breath as shock still flowed through his veins, his lungs as France approached, scratching at his neck, as if he had just witnessed something terribly embarrassing (and he did tons of things to cause even Hungary to blush, mind you) he had said, "Are you two... all right?"

England had instantly snapped out of it then, and said some choice insults at France about being useless and not careful, quieting down when he guiltily mulled how he too could have prevented this as well, America apologising and telling England it wasn't any one's fault, and that he would have to just get stronger and not be pushed around (though in France's opinion it wasn't so much as strength that America needed but better coordination, balance was key) England had rose to his feet, head nodding in all reassuring agreement, helping America to his feet.

And after they had returned to the sidewalk, England had started to reach for America's hand and said, "From now on shall we do this then?"

America had smiled and nodded, a little chirp of glee escaping his lips when England had taken his hand.

France feeling completely locked out of the world between these two, and wanting to get away from the awkwardness (as if he could feel that, ha!) that was seeing England's face caring and tender. Had asked America if he would hold France's hand as well, England had dutifully snapped at him for this and told America kindly and warningly that he must not, France put his hands in very bad and dirty places. France had countered to tell America that England was just jealous and that because France did not include him in these touching bad and dirty places that he didn't want anyone else to either, but America was all the more welcome-

Of course he had not gotten any where farther on the subject than that because England had punched him, punched him hard in the face then, mouth twisted, brow twisted in a contortion of utter rage.

Which France thought was much much better.