In this one:

Characters: England, France
Universe: Canon
Genre: Humour/fluff


Honestly.

Honestly.

Stupid France and his stupid idea of romance.

They were nations, by Jove.

They had no need for romance.

Honestly.

The past few centuries had been…well, alright, they'd been bloody and bruising and fairly dark actually, but England had enjoyed himself nonetheless. After all, he was violent once (still was, really). A few wars here and there weren't going to do anything to his feelings. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, the shock and the pain of having hellfire rained on his head had pushed him to finally tell the idiot he rather fancied him, actually, even if he was French. It hadn't required very much effort. After that stiff-lipped confession, he and France had sort of drifted together and stayed that way. About time, too, after almost a thousand years of being practically attached at the hip. It felt right.

He'd made the mistake of actually saying that out loud, once. He hadn't meant it to be sweet. It was a statement of fact. They were France and England; born together, raised together, perpetually at war with each other until it really mattered. They belonged with each other. Nobody else deserved them, anyway.

Well.

France had melted into the table and called him a dear and the sex after that had been fantastic, but now the idiot wouldn't shut up about how much he wanted poems and love songs and roses and wine and romantic cruises under moonlit skies.

He was England, damn it all. He didn't do romance.

Honestly.

"Didn't you used to have that Shakespeare guy? Heard he was like the ultimate songwriter or whatever," America had asked at one point before running off to force another burger on Japan. That had made England stop and sigh. Yes, he'd had the Bard. Yes, the man's sonnets had been immortalised the world over. What America didn't know was that if anyone had actually bothered to read the damned things properly, they'd notice that out of thirty-nine plays in total, about thirty-two of them consisted of dick jokes and fighting.

He didn't think France would be quite naive enough to fall for that anyway.

Honestly. They were nations, not silly humans. There was absolutely no reason to go about spouting nonsense at each other about romance or seduction or any of that. They were far too old to still be driven giddy by the waves of love. They'd seen enough hardship to have their rough edges worn out, yes, but they'd had all their softness rubbed raw too, and most of them were dense and patient and stoic. Yes, he loved France, but there was no need to be unreasonable about it. They would live far too long to feel the need to hold on to each other with their last dying breath. In all likelihood they'd be stuck with each other for the rest of eternity, so there was really no point, England felt, in making such a fuss.

He hadn't tried to seriously injure France in almost eighty years. What more romance could a man possibly need?

Honestly.

He'd been wilting at him. Wilting. With those obnoxiously blue eyes and that silky hair and that bloody goatee. Having every other minute punctuated with a forlorn sigh whenever they saw each other was really starting to grate on England's nerves.

"Stop wheezing at me, you bloody pillock."

France had only sighed harder.

This ridiculous sentimentalism didn't much impact their sex life, thank the gods. England wasn't sure he'd have been able to survive all these years if he'd been deprived of a good shag now and again.

But still.

Honestly.

He was particularly good at roses, England was. English roses, pretty and pink in full bloom. Normally he guarded them with the tenacity of a particularly testy dragon but this time, he thought he might be able to make an exception. If it would make France man the hell up. Greater good, and all that.

So he cut them. A precious few, heart breaking just a bit with every felled stalk even though he made sure to choose some of the ones getting on in age. He briefly thought about leaving all the thorns on, but then he'd probably never hear the end of it, so off they went. Chocolate was customary too, or so he'd heard. If he was going to make a fool of himself he might as well go the full monty.

If France wanted a stupid, farcical romance, then England would jolly well give it to him.

The last few quid in his pocket went to buying a ticket. Roses in fist and heart shaped box of chocolates in the crook of his arm, he got on the Eurostar. He must have looked a right sight with a scowl on his face and a handful of slightly elderly flowers, but if this is what it took, then so be it.

France opened the door in an apron. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Here's your bloody romance, ponce."

"What-"

In hindsight, England had seen enough couples to know that a man didn't typically deliver affections by smacking his lover in the face with a box of melting chocolate and dozen wilting plants that may or may not have been properly de-thorned. Still, he supposed it was better than nothing.

France drew back to see the bouquet properly. "What brought this on?"

"You said you wanted romance, you great sodding git. There it is. Twelve innocent flowers murdered so you can put them in your living room for a week and sigh at them while you draw hearts in your diary."

France considered this. "I'm not a girl."

"Men eat chocolate too."

"...I don't know if I want to eat these if they've been in contact with you for any longer than five minutes."

England gave up.

They had, in the end, gone to bed after staring at each other for about ten minutes because England hadn't actually planned much beyond showing up at France's door with gifts. Really, what else were they supposed to do? He'd been right, after all. About the romance. It was silly. Privately, England vowed never to lower himself to this level again. Altogether too troublesome, and his heart still stung from culling his poor roses. The only thing stopping him from getting royally miffed was that the gesture was not altogether unappreciated by France, who only punched him in the stomach a little bit when he decided to grope his arse in the middle of making dinner.

England chalked this up to a win. They were nations after all. Their dysfunctional brand of love didn't need the extra frivolity.

Romance.

Honestly.


Hello my kawaii gangstas

I just wanted to say that we're reaching 150 reviews and thank you all so much for reading and commenting! As was the case in ADAZ, the 150th review wins a prompt! Suggest something and I'll dedicate it to you in the next chapter of Shorts!

My holidays have started and two years of pre-uni are now over. Next step is real uni!

I hope my senpais will notice me this year.