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hetalia2011-12-31 12:35 am
starrdust411.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2011-12-31 12:35 am
Entry tags:
[Fic] Wonderful Complications (3/7)
Title: Wonderful Complications
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starrdust411
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/England
Warning: AU, Slash, Mpreg, Human & Country Names
Summary: England's relationship with France takes a major shift after the events of one long summer. (De-anon from thehetalia_kink meme)
Prologue|Chapter 1|Chapter 2
Chapter 3
That morning England had awoke to find that France had broken their unspoken sleeping agreement. There was only one small bed in the cabin and the two usually slept back to back, with England teetering precariously near the edge of the mattress in order to give France the space he would need to accommodate his massive stomach. However, England was able to tell from the even puffs of hot breath on his neck and the arm slung around his waist that France had either shifted in his sleep or had waited until England had dozed off to curl up behind him.
England did not like the position and it wasn't simply due to the fact that France's hands were now dangerously close to his vital regions or the fact that the other man's stomach was pressed uncomfortably against his back. It was because he feared that France was starting to get far too familiar with him.
It had been two weeks since he had invited himself to stay in France's cabin and in that time the two had fallen into a comfortable little routine. In the morning England would wake up and make France breakfast. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then take a nap. England would use the time to tend to a few things around the cabin before setting to work making them lunch. France would then wake up, eat, walk around a bit more, and then nap again. England would then occupy himself in some small way before finally getting to work on dinner. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then go to bed. It had become the norm for them: England would cook and clean and France would eat and sleep. Yet the moments that they spent awake together were filled with less awkward silences and England found himself both relieved and hesitant at this shift. He now often caught France smiling at him in a too warm manner when he thought England wasn't looking and had become more forceful in his offers to have England touch the baby. (He strongly suspected that it was not the baby that France wanted him to touch.)
His troubled thoughts were soon interrupted when France gave out a soft sigh and shifted against his back. He hummed, the sound sending pleasant vibrations to England's ear, before stretching out his arms and wrapping them around England's waist. "Good morning, Arthur," he purred, rubbing his smooth cheek against England's shoulder.
"Wh... France!" he sputtered. "Don't call me that."
"Oh, why not?" he pouted playfully. "Arthur is such a cute name."
England frowned at that, because he wasn't used to hearing his human name spoken in that manner. Only his brothers called him "Arthur" and they never used it as a term of endearment. "Well, I don't like it," he lied. "So please refrain from using it, Francis."
He had said the name with a sneer, but France warmed to it like a sunbathing cat on a warm patch of floor and England could practically feel the smile on his face. He realized then another reason he disliked France sleeping like this and it had everything to do with the warm feeling pooling into the pit of his stomach.
Fortunately for England things didn't get a chance to proceed much further as they were soon interrupted by someone rapping briskly on the cabin door. Pierre tweeted vigorously at the sound, hopping up and down in his cage and fluttering his wings frantically to gain their attention. Relief washed over England as France gave out an annoyed groan.
"Merde," France muttered as he rolled onto his back and away from England. "Someone is ruining our beautiful morning. Arthur, mon cher, could you go see who it is?"
"It's your bloody house, France," England reminded him. "Get the door yourself."
"I cannot answer the door like this!" he lamented. England sat up and turned to glare over at France who began to fret over his sleep tussled hair and the rumpled night shirt that was clinging to his massive stomach in odd lumps. "Look at me! I look terrible! Please do not make me show my face looking this way."
England sighed, rolling his eyes at the other man's melodramatic complaints. "Fine," he huffed, pushing himself out of bed just as another knock greeted their ears. "Fine, fine, fine! I'll go get the door while you just sit back and pout."
He let out a series of irritated huffs and grumbles as he grabbed the dressing gown slung over the chest at the foot of their (he couldn't believe he was actually calling it "their") bed. It was France's dressing gown. Nearly everything he had been wearing for the pasted few weeks belonged to France back when he had been slim enough to fit in them and England didn't know how to feel about it. To England it seemed so frightfully intimate to not only be living with the man he had spent centuries hating, but to also parade around in his clothing day in and out. It was as if France was swallowing up every aspect of his life.
Those troubling thoughts bubbled and churned in the back of his mind as he headed towards the front of the house in a fog. When he reached the door he found a surly looking French man carrying a parcel in his hand waiting on the front steps. "Can I help you?" England asked and his words had the instant effect of causing the man's face to crumble.
The man muttered something to himself, before saying "I am looking for Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy" in heavily accented English.
"Ah, you speak the King's, how wonderful," England noted, speaking more to himself than to the man in front of him. "I'm afraid he's engaged at the moment. Can I relay a message?"
The man's frown deepened as he shifted on his feet. "I have papers for him."
"Oh, I can take them then."
The messenger shook his head. "They are for Monsieur Bonnefoy," he told him tersely. "I will wait for him."
Now it was England's turn to glower and he did so with the full force of his heavy brows. "Well I'm afraid that you'll be waiting for quite some time, because he cannot come to the door. So why not be a good chap and just hand over the papers?"
He watched as the man shifted once more and England saw the gesture as nothing short of a challenge.
"Listen you thick headed twit, he's not coming to the door, so just save yourself the trouble and give me the damn thing."
His only response was another defiant stare and while England was incredibly tempted to just throttle the man and take the papers himself, he quickly thought better of it.
"Hold on a moment," England grumbled as he marched back inside the cabin to retrieve France. He found the man exactly where he had left him, lying in bed and looking intent on drifting back to sleep. Unfortunately for him, those plans were about to be ruined. "There's a man at the door who says he has some papers for you," England announced, pulling France's attention towards him and away from whatever fantasy world he had been drifting into.
France cracked a blurry eye open, giving England a dreary stare, before sighing and settling further into the mattress. "Well then go get them," he said flippantly, eyes slipping shut once more.
"I tried, but he's being a stubborn prat and won't give them to anyone except you." He didn't bother with waiting for France to process this information and instead walked up to him and forced the man into a sitting position. "You'll have to go out and get them yourself."
"What? No!" France cried, eyes widening and face growing pale at the very idea. "I do not want to go out there looking like this! You cannot make me."
"Don't blame me, blame that stubborn git," he grumbled as he began digging through the chest for a coat and a pair of trousers that France could throw on. "Besides, it's just one man. It's not as if I were forcing you out in front of a mass of people."
"You may as well," France whined and England could tell by the pathetic tone in his voice that he was going to start crying any second now. "You do not know how humiliating it is to look this way! People always point and stare at me now that I have become so fat and ugly."
"You're not fat, you're pregnant," England pointed out, although he couldn't speak much on the man's claim about being stared at. He had noticed that during the few times that France would venture into the settlement that his awkward figure would be met with a few stares and gossipy whispers. He couldn't begin to imagine how France must feel to be forced into such a position, especially considering how proud he had always been of his looks, but that didn't mean England enjoyed being subjected to the man's constant self pity. "Look at your arms and legs, France," he began, grabbing at France's limp wrists and giving them a quick shake to emphasize his point. "You've barely gained a bit of weight in them. It's only your stomach that's gotten bigger." It was only a half truth as France's thighs had grown a bit larger over the past few months and his chest had gotten a slight bit puffier, but that wasn't something he wanted to say when France was already in such an emotional state.
"I know that I am pregnant and that the baby needs me to be big, but..." France's words died off as he instead focused his attention on pouting quietly towards the ground as tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. It was absurd for France to cry over such things, but it was probably even more absurd for England to care.
"Look France you... you..." England sighed, as he scrambled to find just the right thing to say. He still wasn't quite good at being comforting. "You aren't ugly," he said at last. "And you, um, you have a very nice face."
France gave a quiet sniff as he looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "Do you think so?"
Despite his best efforts a blush managed to creep onto his cheeks and he had to struggle to say more. "I do," he went on. "I think you're quite pretty and, well, anyone who doesn't think so is stupid. And that includes you."
A gentle smile settled onto France's face and for some reason England felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. "So you can be nice sometimes," France noted softly.
France stood then and allowed England to help him into the pair of trousers he had gotten for him and slipped a coat on over his nightshirt before finally going towards the door. England hung back and listened in on the conversation, out of his own curiosity and not because he wanted to make sure the messenger frog didn't say or do anything to upset France.
The two frogs instantly started croaking in French, but England was able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation. He was standing behind France and thus unable to see the messenger, but he heard the shock in the man's voice as he asked several times if France was alright, a clear indication that he was referring to the obvious change in appearance. France answered each question with a firm yes, but England could tell that his patience was fading quickly.
After what seemed like an eternity the messenger finally handed France his parcel and went on his way. France closed the door with a heavy sigh and England instantly caught the way his shoulders slumped and face fell.
"Didn't I tell you he was a prat?" England joked awkwardly only to find that France's disposition didn't change. "And anyway, you got your papers so you can finally see what was so bloody urgent that they had to send that git out for you."
"Yes, I suppose," France grumbled half heartedly. He gave another heavy sigh before coming to stand at England's side. "Arthur, I want you to tell me something and you must be completely honest with me," he began, his tone and gaze quite serious. "Am I truly beautiful to you?"
"I-I never said you were beautiful!" England stammered, his insides feeling warm and gooey under France's gaze. "I just said you were pretty with a nice face." He watched as France's expression slowly began to crumble in disappointment and for some reason that made his throat go dry. "But, well, if you wanted to stretch it, I suppose you could say that I think you're beautiful."
A tight hug was his immediate reward and England wished with every fiber of his being that he could say he hated every second of it. "I am so glad to hear it, mon cher," France crooned as if gaining England's approval meant more to him than anything in the world.
The very idea was enough to make him shudder and England was quick to detangle himself from France's hug. "Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Frog," he braked, as he pulled France's arms away from him and pinned them at his side. "Bad enough that I have to share a bed with you..." For some odd reason that thought made him blush and England was sure to clear his throat and shake his head until he was certain the pink in his cheeks was gone. "I'm, uh, I'm going to head down to the river to do a bit of laundry," he informed him. "You'll be alright on your own for a while, won't you?"
Disappointment flashed in France's wide blue eyes at the announcement. It was strange how even after all this time France still seemed to panic a bit whenever England left his side. "Yes, I suppose so," he said slowly, "but I could just come with you. It is such a nice day and I could use the exercise."
England shook his head, because he needed to get away from France. Even if they were getting along better than they ever had in centuries it was still tiring to be around the man day in and day out. Particularly now that France had become more desperate in his needs for affection and reassurance about his ever changing appearance. It was hard enough being around the man when he had been fit and constantly preening over his good lucks, but now that he had gained some weight he had become sullen and resentful over the loss of his beauty.
"No, you stay here and read over your papers. I'm sure there's something vital in there for your eyes only."
"Alright," France sighed reluctantly. "Will you at least make me some breakfast before you leave?"
England relented to that request, because he did enjoy cooking and watching France eat his food was still quite amusing. He boiled some oats to make France porridge and then put water in a kettle to make them both some tea. France ate his meal with such contentment that he barely made a fuss as England gathered up their things and made his way to the river.
It was a sweltering morning, the kind that found you drenched with sweat the moment you set foot out your door and England was quite glad he hadn't allowed France to join him. This sort of heat would not be good for his condition.
He frowned at that notion, wondering when consideration for France's well being had become such a constant presence in his mind. England decided then that spending so much time alone with someone was a dangerous thing. It made you do strange things like pick out their favorite food when you went to the market, sacrifice your comforts in favor of theirs, and even changing the way you spoke and acted so as not to upset them. He briefly wondered if this was what it was like to be married, but that thought was so disturbing that it literally made his stomach roll in displeasure.
England hurried down to the river, because even though he needed a break from France he still didn't like leaving him alone for too long. It was anyone's guess what could be going through that mind of his during their brief moments apart.
As he gently washed their clothes and linen in the cool running water of the stream, England couldn't help but note bitterly that even though he was calling it 'theirs' most of the things he was washing belonged to France. It annoyed him how much he did for that man -- washed his clothes, cleaned his cabin, cooked his meals, and even once, when France had whined most pathetically and England had felt particularly guilty, rubbed his shoulders -- and never once did he receive a word of thanks.
France should be grateful to him, because it would be so easy for England to just walk away from all this. Even now, if he wanted to he could simply throw all of France's things into the river and make his way back to his own territory where he belonged. Yet he couldn't bring himself to do it and England reasoned it was because of the baby and nothing else.
When everything was thoroughly cleaned and his own clothes were completely soaked with sweat, England gathered up his belongings into the wicker basket he had carried them in and made his way back to town.
England half expected to find France sulking away in bed waiting for him, but instead discovered the man sitting at the table with a stack of papers spread out in front of him. He supposed he should have been pleased to see that France had his attention centered on something other than his own misery, but the only thing that England was able to focus on was the fact that Pierre was out of his cage and hopping around the table.
"Dammit France," England huffed as he dropped his basket in order to swat at the bird as if he were an ordinary gnat. "Keep that horrible thing off of the table! We eat there, remember?"
Pierre twittered and chirped indignantly as he hopped and fluttered about to keep from being struck by England's hand. Fortunately for him, France was quick to act on his behalf and the very moment England made to swat at Pierre again he found the back of his hand being stabbed by the tip of France's quill. "Leave Pierre alone!" he ordered sternly, glowering up at England for all he was worth. "He is helping me with my writing."
"Helping you how? He's a bird."
France answered his question by giving England's hand another quick jab with his pen.
"Stop doing that!" England yelped, cradling the back of his ink stained hand to his chest.
"I will when you stop acting like such a brute, although I know it will be difficult for you," France shot back. His gaze then turned gentle as he shifted his attention to Pierre who he proceeded to coo over by tickling his plumage with the feathered edge of his quill in what England thought was a sickening display. "Do not worry ma douce," he crooned to the bird. "I will not let the horrible man bully you anymore."
Pierre puffed his feathers before singing sweetly in reply and England suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to gag at the sight. "Yes, well I'm going out back to hang your things to dry," he huffed bitterly.
"Would you like some help?" France asked, making to stand even before England could respond.
He hadn't been expecting that sort of response and instantly felt guilty as France struggled to push himself away from the table. "No, it's alright," he said quickly. "It'll only take me a moment... and, well, your hands are all covered with ink anyway."
France frowned as he looked down at his palms only to discover that they had indeed been smudged black due to his own carelessness during his task. "So they are," he sighed, disappointment clear in his tone. "Alright then. You go finish your laundry and then you can make me something for lunch."
England rolled his eyes at the comment as he hoisted his basket into his arms and proceeded to head outside. He quickly strung the sheets and articles of clothing on the line that hung from one tree branch to another. When he was finished, England glared up at the sky in a silent order for it to keep from raining. It was so hard to predict the weather in this country.
When he came back inside England found France scribbling away at a sheet of paper while Pierre chirped in his ear.
"It's strange to see you working so diligently," England noted as he retrieved two plates, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese from the cupboard. "What are you working on that's so important?" He frowned at his own question when he realized that he may have stepped out of line. "Err, that is... if it's something you can't discuss with me..."
"Do not worry, mon cher," France told him, putting an end to England's awkward stammering. "I finished looking over all of my important paperwork while you were away and I know that I can trust you not to snoop."
"How can you be so sure?" England asked as he placed the admittedly merger lunch in front of France. "We are still enemies after all."
"Only in name," France said confidently. He glanced down at the bread and cheese decorating his plate and frowned in disappointment. "This is all we get to eat?" he pouted, placing a hand on the top of his stomach in order to emphasize the "we."
"I'm bloody exhausted," he snapped as he sat down to eat his own lunch. (They had finally bought another chair once France felt confident that England wouldn't be going anywhere.) "And I've been cooking all your meals for two weeks straight. You may be pregnant, but you've still got two perfectly good hands. If you're so hungry, you can always make yourself something else."
France remained silent as he seemingly resigned himself to the small bit of food he was given. He picked off the crust, crumbling them up in his hands, and then piling the bits of bread on the wooden table. Pierre chirped happily before going to eagerly attack the offered food. France smiled at the little bird, reaching out to give his feathered head a quick pat before going back to his own meal.
England felt something inside of him pinch at the scene and for one horrible moment he realized he was jealous of a bird. He shoved that feeling away by taking a large bite out of his bread and chewing until his jaw was sore. "So," he began once he was done hiding away his feelings underneath his food. "What were you doing? You know... while I was hanging the linen."
"I was writing letters," France told him. "I had so many to respond to, from Prussia, Monaco, Spain... Oh, perhaps I should not say anymore."
England frowned at that comment. "What do you mean?"
France tittered mockingly as he ripped away little pieces of cheese and popped them into his mouth. "Well, I do not want to make you jealous."
"Jealous!?"
"Oui. After all there is no one for poor Arthur to write to. Even Pierre has a little pen pal, isn't that right Pierre?"
Pierre halted his pecking just long enough to give a short tweet in response and England didn't know if it were even possible for him to hate the bird anymore than he already did.
England wanted very much to point out that there were plenty of people back home for him to write to, but he knew it was an obvious lie. Other than his boss, who he had been neglecting to report to in order to keep France company, the only other connections he had in Europe were his brothers and he knew that they would respond to any letter from him by laughing themselves sick.
"Ah, Pierre, poor Arthur is jealous after all," France noted with a mock pout. "This simply will not do. We must find someone for Arthur to write to."
"Keep me out of your silly hobbies, Frog," England huffed indignantly. "And I already told you to stop calling me Arthur."
"I have a wonderful idea!" France interjected gleefully, clearly having ignored everything England had just said. "You can write a letter to the baby!"
England merely sat in stunned silence watching France carefully as he shifted through his things. When the man gave England a clean sheet of paper and passed him his quill he began to suspect that France was completely sincere in his suggestion. "You... you can't be serious," he said weakly, although the cheerful expression on France's face was more than enough of an answer. "You want me to write a letter to the baby?"
"Oui."
"France, the baby can't read. He hasn't even been born yet!"
"Well obviously," France scoffed and the man actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at him. "But she will be able to read someday and when that day comes she will know exactly what you were thinking before she was born. Is that not a fabulous idea?"
It did seem like a decent idea, but England couldn't shake the feeling that this was all some sort of elaborate trick. "You're not going to read it, are you?" he asked, because France had always been quite fond of blackmail.
"Of course I will not. I would never do such a thing. After all, I wrote my own letter and..." France frowned, his face growing thoughtful as he considered his own words. "Perhaps I should rewrite my letter."
"Why?"
"Well, I wrote some horrible things about you in it," he explained. "I might have even asked the baby to kill you when she grew up."
England said nothing to that. He merely gave France a sideways glance before turning his attention to his paper. He stared at it for quite some time, tapping his fingers against the worn wood of the table and trying with all his might not to start with "Dear France's stomach."
"I don't know what to write," he groaned.
"Oh Arthur, mon cher, is it really so difficult for you to get in touch with your own feelings?" France asked pityingly. "Truly you are a living model of repression. Here, I will help you."
England watched in mild horror as France stood and marched over to his side. He loomed over him, his massive belly a mere breath away from England's nose, and England had to fight against the urge to squirm away. "What are you doing?"
"Giving you inspiration," he explained. "Now touch the baby."
His face turned several shades of red at the instruction and England defiantly placed his hands firmly behind his back in turn. "I'm not touching anything!" he announced. "Now go back and sit down you twit! You're going to make yourself sick."
"Oh Arthur, do not think so lowly of me," France said dismissively. "Your concern may be charming, but I assure you I can manage to stand for more than a minute without being overcome with fatigue. Now touch our child."
Our.
That was the first time France had referred to the baby that way and England would be lying if he said he didn't feel his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to touch, but he fought it back down. "That's not our baby, that's your stomach and I know just what you're trying to get at you letch!"
France let out an exasperated groan as he allowed frustration to over take him. Reaching a hand towards the back of England's head France pressed his cheek flat against his stomach and pinned him there. "Do not struggle," France instructed when England began to squirm and pull away, but France's grip stayed strong and fighting against it was difficult given his current position.
After a few moments England stilled, cringing at the heat radiating against his flesh despite the fact that there was a thin layer of clothing separating him from France's skin. Every breath France took pressed his stomach closer to England's cheek and when he shifted the wrong way he found his nose brushing against his taught flesh. England closed his eyes and held his breath and told himself very clearly that he didn't feel any heat pooling into the pit of his stomach at the intimate contact.
"Can you hear her?" France asked, loosening his grip when it became clear that England wasn't going to pull away. "She hears you, I think. Every time you talk she kicks like mad."
"I doubt that," England grumbled only to find his cheek greeted by a firm little push seconds later. His heart twisted in a way that he didn't quite know how to explain, but he did find himself smiling.
"There, you see how she kicks?" France teased. Even though England wasn't looking at him he could tell there was a smug smirk on his lips as he hesitantly raised his hands and placed them on either side of France's stomach. It had been some time since he had touched him like this, and the first time that he had done so openly, but England could already tell that the baby had gotten bigger. "Now say something."
England turned his head in order to glare up at France only to find that he was currently giving him a smile that was far too warm and open. "I am not talking to your stomach," he said stubbornly.
"Why not? You did it before."
England felt his eyes widen and the color drain from his face at France's comment. "Y-you were supposed to be asleep!" he sputtered.
"I was asleep," France said innocently. "Until the baby kicked me. I told you she is quite lively."
He frowned, fighting against the blush that longed to creep back onto his face. "I don't know what to say," he huffed. "Just like I don't know what to write. It's a stomach France!"
"You are so dense," France sighed as he took a few steps back and pulled himself away from England's cheek. England looked up just in time to see the disappointed gleam in France's gaze as he began to caress his own belly forlornly. "Perhaps this really was just a mistake."
A cool emptiness filled the pit of his stomach at that comment and suddenly England couldn't stand it or France's gaze. "It's, it's not a mistake," he said softly. "I can do this."
He didn't wait for France to move towards him and instead got up from his chair to kneel in front of him. He placed his hand against either side of France's stomach and stared at the round flesh with as much intensity as he could muster. England ordered himself to relax, but that didn't help any. He merely knelt there awkwardly, fingers caressing the thin fabric thoughtfully as he struggled in silence. Taking in a slow deep breath, he proceeded to lick his lips and push out the first thing that came to his mind.
"He-hello baby," he began awkwardly. The babe responded with its own greeting: a kick to either palm (how did it manage that?) and England felt encouraged to go on. "I'm your... Well, I don't know who I am yet (we haven't quite decided that one), but I'm someone who... who..." He stopped then, glancing up at France to see the man smiling down encouragingly at him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm someone who lo... loves you." The one word felt like a weight lifted off of his chest and England felt almost drunk by the pleasure of its release. "I love you," he said again, enjoying the way the word slipped from his lips. "I love you and I can't wait to see you. I... I know you're going to be wonderful."
Caught up in the moment England made the first of many mistakes (although he would not realize it until much later) when he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the swell of France's stomach. Under normal circumstances he would have caught the way France shuddered as he fought back against the moan welling in his throat, but at that moment the only thing England felt were the baby's excited kicks.
"Alright," he said after the silence had stretched on for too long. "I think I know what to write now."
"Ah, c'est bien," France whispered, his voice quivering from the strain of speaking. "I... I am glad."
---
Once England had finished writing his letter he was quick to seal it with the wax France gave him and hide it away, because he did not trust France to keep to his promise not to read it. Soon after he went outside to retrieve the laundry and went about putting it away (with some help from France who England suspected had become quite bored with simply reading and writing all day).
Night came quickly and France decided to head off to bed early. England wasn't surprised since he seemed to be losing more energy with every passing day. England chose to join him because he did not want to run the risk of waking France after he had already fallen asleep and be blamed for his carelessness.
England crawled into bed first, shifting onto his side and lying on the very edge of the mattress just as he always did. France flopped down on the bed beside him and surprised England by lying down on his back instead of his side as he usually did.
"No, I cannot sleep like this," he said after a few moments of lying perfectly still on the other side of the bed.
"Well I'm not moving over any further," England told him stubbornly. "If I shift over anymore I'll be sleeping on the floor!"
France offered him a thoughtful hum at his comment. "You are right," he said slowly, before pushing himself into a sitting position. "Why don't you lie on your back?"
England turned towards France, frowning at the unexpected suggestion. "Why?"
"Because I want to see something. Now lie on your back."
Hesitantly, England did as he was instructed and slowly adjusting himself so that his back was pressed flat against the straw mattress. He watched as France smiled in approval at the sight before lowering himself down onto the bed next to England. France shifted, pressing their bodies as close to each other as possible, which was only achieved by having his massive stomach lie on top of England's hip while one arm draped across England's chest.
"Ah, this is much better," France sighed, pillowing his head against England's shoulder. "Yes, I think I will sleep perfectly like this."
England could not see how France could be comfortable like this, because he certainly wasn't. He felt as if he were being smothered by the weight of France's belly and the arm wrapped around his chest coupled with the blond head on his shoulder only served to add to his discomfort. It was bad enough having to share a bed with France, England didn't see why they had to pile on top of each other like a couple of pups huddling together for warmth.
"Well I'm absolutely not enjoying this," England announced as he attempted to free his left arm from where it lay trapped underneath France's body. "Move back to your side of the bed this instant!"
It was then that France did something quite odd; he kissed him. Kissing France was nothing new as they had done so many times over the centuries, but they had never done so like this. Usually when the two kissed it was a harsh press of two sets of lips, their mouths clashing together with such intensity that it seemed as if the two were trying to suffocate each other using only their lips. Tonight France's kiss was soft and gentle and didn't even meet his lips, landing instead firmly on his cheek. It was the sort of kiss that said "I care about you far more than I should and it doesn't scare me at all" and it made England's stomach twist in what he told himself was displeasure.
"Let us try it just for tonight," France whispered. He let out a content sigh as he adjusted himself once more hands clinging to the fabric of England's nightshirt and head tucked firmly under his chin. "Good night Arthur."
England didn't respond. He merely laid there until his heart stopped beating so painfully in his chest. He would only realize later how dangerous it had been for him to allow them to continue to sleep like this.
Author:
starrdust411Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/England
Warning: AU, Slash, Mpreg, Human & Country Names
Summary: England's relationship with France takes a major shift after the events of one long summer. (De-anon from the
hetalia_kink meme)Prologue|Chapter 1|Chapter 2
Chapter 3
That morning England had awoke to find that France had broken their unspoken sleeping agreement. There was only one small bed in the cabin and the two usually slept back to back, with England teetering precariously near the edge of the mattress in order to give France the space he would need to accommodate his massive stomach. However, England was able to tell from the even puffs of hot breath on his neck and the arm slung around his waist that France had either shifted in his sleep or had waited until England had dozed off to curl up behind him.
England did not like the position and it wasn't simply due to the fact that France's hands were now dangerously close to his vital regions or the fact that the other man's stomach was pressed uncomfortably against his back. It was because he feared that France was starting to get far too familiar with him.
It had been two weeks since he had invited himself to stay in France's cabin and in that time the two had fallen into a comfortable little routine. In the morning England would wake up and make France breakfast. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then take a nap. England would use the time to tend to a few things around the cabin before setting to work making them lunch. France would then wake up, eat, walk around a bit more, and then nap again. England would then occupy himself in some small way before finally getting to work on dinner. France would then wake up, eat, walk around for a little while, and then go to bed. It had become the norm for them: England would cook and clean and France would eat and sleep. Yet the moments that they spent awake together were filled with less awkward silences and England found himself both relieved and hesitant at this shift. He now often caught France smiling at him in a too warm manner when he thought England wasn't looking and had become more forceful in his offers to have England touch the baby. (He strongly suspected that it was not the baby that France wanted him to touch.)
His troubled thoughts were soon interrupted when France gave out a soft sigh and shifted against his back. He hummed, the sound sending pleasant vibrations to England's ear, before stretching out his arms and wrapping them around England's waist. "Good morning, Arthur," he purred, rubbing his smooth cheek against England's shoulder.
"Wh... France!" he sputtered. "Don't call me that."
"Oh, why not?" he pouted playfully. "Arthur is such a cute name."
England frowned at that, because he wasn't used to hearing his human name spoken in that manner. Only his brothers called him "Arthur" and they never used it as a term of endearment. "Well, I don't like it," he lied. "So please refrain from using it, Francis."
He had said the name with a sneer, but France warmed to it like a sunbathing cat on a warm patch of floor and England could practically feel the smile on his face. He realized then another reason he disliked France sleeping like this and it had everything to do with the warm feeling pooling into the pit of his stomach.
Fortunately for England things didn't get a chance to proceed much further as they were soon interrupted by someone rapping briskly on the cabin door. Pierre tweeted vigorously at the sound, hopping up and down in his cage and fluttering his wings frantically to gain their attention. Relief washed over England as France gave out an annoyed groan.
"Merde," France muttered as he rolled onto his back and away from England. "Someone is ruining our beautiful morning. Arthur, mon cher, could you go see who it is?"
"It's your bloody house, France," England reminded him. "Get the door yourself."
"I cannot answer the door like this!" he lamented. England sat up and turned to glare over at France who began to fret over his sleep tussled hair and the rumpled night shirt that was clinging to his massive stomach in odd lumps. "Look at me! I look terrible! Please do not make me show my face looking this way."
England sighed, rolling his eyes at the other man's melodramatic complaints. "Fine," he huffed, pushing himself out of bed just as another knock greeted their ears. "Fine, fine, fine! I'll go get the door while you just sit back and pout."
He let out a series of irritated huffs and grumbles as he grabbed the dressing gown slung over the chest at the foot of their (he couldn't believe he was actually calling it "their") bed. It was France's dressing gown. Nearly everything he had been wearing for the pasted few weeks belonged to France back when he had been slim enough to fit in them and England didn't know how to feel about it. To England it seemed so frightfully intimate to not only be living with the man he had spent centuries hating, but to also parade around in his clothing day in and out. It was as if France was swallowing up every aspect of his life.
Those troubling thoughts bubbled and churned in the back of his mind as he headed towards the front of the house in a fog. When he reached the door he found a surly looking French man carrying a parcel in his hand waiting on the front steps. "Can I help you?" England asked and his words had the instant effect of causing the man's face to crumble.
The man muttered something to himself, before saying "I am looking for Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy" in heavily accented English.
"Ah, you speak the King's, how wonderful," England noted, speaking more to himself than to the man in front of him. "I'm afraid he's engaged at the moment. Can I relay a message?"
The man's frown deepened as he shifted on his feet. "I have papers for him."
"Oh, I can take them then."
The messenger shook his head. "They are for Monsieur Bonnefoy," he told him tersely. "I will wait for him."
Now it was England's turn to glower and he did so with the full force of his heavy brows. "Well I'm afraid that you'll be waiting for quite some time, because he cannot come to the door. So why not be a good chap and just hand over the papers?"
He watched as the man shifted once more and England saw the gesture as nothing short of a challenge.
"Listen you thick headed twit, he's not coming to the door, so just save yourself the trouble and give me the damn thing."
His only response was another defiant stare and while England was incredibly tempted to just throttle the man and take the papers himself, he quickly thought better of it.
"Hold on a moment," England grumbled as he marched back inside the cabin to retrieve France. He found the man exactly where he had left him, lying in bed and looking intent on drifting back to sleep. Unfortunately for him, those plans were about to be ruined. "There's a man at the door who says he has some papers for you," England announced, pulling France's attention towards him and away from whatever fantasy world he had been drifting into.
France cracked a blurry eye open, giving England a dreary stare, before sighing and settling further into the mattress. "Well then go get them," he said flippantly, eyes slipping shut once more.
"I tried, but he's being a stubborn prat and won't give them to anyone except you." He didn't bother with waiting for France to process this information and instead walked up to him and forced the man into a sitting position. "You'll have to go out and get them yourself."
"What? No!" France cried, eyes widening and face growing pale at the very idea. "I do not want to go out there looking like this! You cannot make me."
"Don't blame me, blame that stubborn git," he grumbled as he began digging through the chest for a coat and a pair of trousers that France could throw on. "Besides, it's just one man. It's not as if I were forcing you out in front of a mass of people."
"You may as well," France whined and England could tell by the pathetic tone in his voice that he was going to start crying any second now. "You do not know how humiliating it is to look this way! People always point and stare at me now that I have become so fat and ugly."
"You're not fat, you're pregnant," England pointed out, although he couldn't speak much on the man's claim about being stared at. He had noticed that during the few times that France would venture into the settlement that his awkward figure would be met with a few stares and gossipy whispers. He couldn't begin to imagine how France must feel to be forced into such a position, especially considering how proud he had always been of his looks, but that didn't mean England enjoyed being subjected to the man's constant self pity. "Look at your arms and legs, France," he began, grabbing at France's limp wrists and giving them a quick shake to emphasize his point. "You've barely gained a bit of weight in them. It's only your stomach that's gotten bigger." It was only a half truth as France's thighs had grown a bit larger over the past few months and his chest had gotten a slight bit puffier, but that wasn't something he wanted to say when France was already in such an emotional state.
"I know that I am pregnant and that the baby needs me to be big, but..." France's words died off as he instead focused his attention on pouting quietly towards the ground as tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. It was absurd for France to cry over such things, but it was probably even more absurd for England to care.
"Look France you... you..." England sighed, as he scrambled to find just the right thing to say. He still wasn't quite good at being comforting. "You aren't ugly," he said at last. "And you, um, you have a very nice face."
France gave a quiet sniff as he looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "Do you think so?"
Despite his best efforts a blush managed to creep onto his cheeks and he had to struggle to say more. "I do," he went on. "I think you're quite pretty and, well, anyone who doesn't think so is stupid. And that includes you."
A gentle smile settled onto France's face and for some reason England felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight of it. "So you can be nice sometimes," France noted softly.
France stood then and allowed England to help him into the pair of trousers he had gotten for him and slipped a coat on over his nightshirt before finally going towards the door. England hung back and listened in on the conversation, out of his own curiosity and not because he wanted to make sure the messenger frog didn't say or do anything to upset France.
The two frogs instantly started croaking in French, but England was able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation. He was standing behind France and thus unable to see the messenger, but he heard the shock in the man's voice as he asked several times if France was alright, a clear indication that he was referring to the obvious change in appearance. France answered each question with a firm yes, but England could tell that his patience was fading quickly.
After what seemed like an eternity the messenger finally handed France his parcel and went on his way. France closed the door with a heavy sigh and England instantly caught the way his shoulders slumped and face fell.
"Didn't I tell you he was a prat?" England joked awkwardly only to find that France's disposition didn't change. "And anyway, you got your papers so you can finally see what was so bloody urgent that they had to send that git out for you."
"Yes, I suppose," France grumbled half heartedly. He gave another heavy sigh before coming to stand at England's side. "Arthur, I want you to tell me something and you must be completely honest with me," he began, his tone and gaze quite serious. "Am I truly beautiful to you?"
"I-I never said you were beautiful!" England stammered, his insides feeling warm and gooey under France's gaze. "I just said you were pretty with a nice face." He watched as France's expression slowly began to crumble in disappointment and for some reason that made his throat go dry. "But, well, if you wanted to stretch it, I suppose you could say that I think you're beautiful."
A tight hug was his immediate reward and England wished with every fiber of his being that he could say he hated every second of it. "I am so glad to hear it, mon cher," France crooned as if gaining England's approval meant more to him than anything in the world.
The very idea was enough to make him shudder and England was quick to detangle himself from France's hug. "Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Frog," he braked, as he pulled France's arms away from him and pinned them at his side. "Bad enough that I have to share a bed with you..." For some odd reason that thought made him blush and England was sure to clear his throat and shake his head until he was certain the pink in his cheeks was gone. "I'm, uh, I'm going to head down to the river to do a bit of laundry," he informed him. "You'll be alright on your own for a while, won't you?"
Disappointment flashed in France's wide blue eyes at the announcement. It was strange how even after all this time France still seemed to panic a bit whenever England left his side. "Yes, I suppose so," he said slowly, "but I could just come with you. It is such a nice day and I could use the exercise."
England shook his head, because he needed to get away from France. Even if they were getting along better than they ever had in centuries it was still tiring to be around the man day in and day out. Particularly now that France had become more desperate in his needs for affection and reassurance about his ever changing appearance. It was hard enough being around the man when he had been fit and constantly preening over his good lucks, but now that he had gained some weight he had become sullen and resentful over the loss of his beauty.
"No, you stay here and read over your papers. I'm sure there's something vital in there for your eyes only."
"Alright," France sighed reluctantly. "Will you at least make me some breakfast before you leave?"
England relented to that request, because he did enjoy cooking and watching France eat his food was still quite amusing. He boiled some oats to make France porridge and then put water in a kettle to make them both some tea. France ate his meal with such contentment that he barely made a fuss as England gathered up their things and made his way to the river.
It was a sweltering morning, the kind that found you drenched with sweat the moment you set foot out your door and England was quite glad he hadn't allowed France to join him. This sort of heat would not be good for his condition.
He frowned at that notion, wondering when consideration for France's well being had become such a constant presence in his mind. England decided then that spending so much time alone with someone was a dangerous thing. It made you do strange things like pick out their favorite food when you went to the market, sacrifice your comforts in favor of theirs, and even changing the way you spoke and acted so as not to upset them. He briefly wondered if this was what it was like to be married, but that thought was so disturbing that it literally made his stomach roll in displeasure.
England hurried down to the river, because even though he needed a break from France he still didn't like leaving him alone for too long. It was anyone's guess what could be going through that mind of his during their brief moments apart.
As he gently washed their clothes and linen in the cool running water of the stream, England couldn't help but note bitterly that even though he was calling it 'theirs' most of the things he was washing belonged to France. It annoyed him how much he did for that man -- washed his clothes, cleaned his cabin, cooked his meals, and even once, when France had whined most pathetically and England had felt particularly guilty, rubbed his shoulders -- and never once did he receive a word of thanks.
France should be grateful to him, because it would be so easy for England to just walk away from all this. Even now, if he wanted to he could simply throw all of France's things into the river and make his way back to his own territory where he belonged. Yet he couldn't bring himself to do it and England reasoned it was because of the baby and nothing else.
When everything was thoroughly cleaned and his own clothes were completely soaked with sweat, England gathered up his belongings into the wicker basket he had carried them in and made his way back to town.
England half expected to find France sulking away in bed waiting for him, but instead discovered the man sitting at the table with a stack of papers spread out in front of him. He supposed he should have been pleased to see that France had his attention centered on something other than his own misery, but the only thing that England was able to focus on was the fact that Pierre was out of his cage and hopping around the table.
"Dammit France," England huffed as he dropped his basket in order to swat at the bird as if he were an ordinary gnat. "Keep that horrible thing off of the table! We eat there, remember?"
Pierre twittered and chirped indignantly as he hopped and fluttered about to keep from being struck by England's hand. Fortunately for him, France was quick to act on his behalf and the very moment England made to swat at Pierre again he found the back of his hand being stabbed by the tip of France's quill. "Leave Pierre alone!" he ordered sternly, glowering up at England for all he was worth. "He is helping me with my writing."
"Helping you how? He's a bird."
France answered his question by giving England's hand another quick jab with his pen.
"Stop doing that!" England yelped, cradling the back of his ink stained hand to his chest.
"I will when you stop acting like such a brute, although I know it will be difficult for you," France shot back. His gaze then turned gentle as he shifted his attention to Pierre who he proceeded to coo over by tickling his plumage with the feathered edge of his quill in what England thought was a sickening display. "Do not worry ma douce," he crooned to the bird. "I will not let the horrible man bully you anymore."
Pierre puffed his feathers before singing sweetly in reply and England suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to gag at the sight. "Yes, well I'm going out back to hang your things to dry," he huffed bitterly.
"Would you like some help?" France asked, making to stand even before England could respond.
He hadn't been expecting that sort of response and instantly felt guilty as France struggled to push himself away from the table. "No, it's alright," he said quickly. "It'll only take me a moment... and, well, your hands are all covered with ink anyway."
France frowned as he looked down at his palms only to discover that they had indeed been smudged black due to his own carelessness during his task. "So they are," he sighed, disappointment clear in his tone. "Alright then. You go finish your laundry and then you can make me something for lunch."
England rolled his eyes at the comment as he hoisted his basket into his arms and proceeded to head outside. He quickly strung the sheets and articles of clothing on the line that hung from one tree branch to another. When he was finished, England glared up at the sky in a silent order for it to keep from raining. It was so hard to predict the weather in this country.
When he came back inside England found France scribbling away at a sheet of paper while Pierre chirped in his ear.
"It's strange to see you working so diligently," England noted as he retrieved two plates, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese from the cupboard. "What are you working on that's so important?" He frowned at his own question when he realized that he may have stepped out of line. "Err, that is... if it's something you can't discuss with me..."
"Do not worry, mon cher," France told him, putting an end to England's awkward stammering. "I finished looking over all of my important paperwork while you were away and I know that I can trust you not to snoop."
"How can you be so sure?" England asked as he placed the admittedly merger lunch in front of France. "We are still enemies after all."
"Only in name," France said confidently. He glanced down at the bread and cheese decorating his plate and frowned in disappointment. "This is all we get to eat?" he pouted, placing a hand on the top of his stomach in order to emphasize the "we."
"I'm bloody exhausted," he snapped as he sat down to eat his own lunch. (They had finally bought another chair once France felt confident that England wouldn't be going anywhere.) "And I've been cooking all your meals for two weeks straight. You may be pregnant, but you've still got two perfectly good hands. If you're so hungry, you can always make yourself something else."
France remained silent as he seemingly resigned himself to the small bit of food he was given. He picked off the crust, crumbling them up in his hands, and then piling the bits of bread on the wooden table. Pierre chirped happily before going to eagerly attack the offered food. France smiled at the little bird, reaching out to give his feathered head a quick pat before going back to his own meal.
England felt something inside of him pinch at the scene and for one horrible moment he realized he was jealous of a bird. He shoved that feeling away by taking a large bite out of his bread and chewing until his jaw was sore. "So," he began once he was done hiding away his feelings underneath his food. "What were you doing? You know... while I was hanging the linen."
"I was writing letters," France told him. "I had so many to respond to, from Prussia, Monaco, Spain... Oh, perhaps I should not say anymore."
England frowned at that comment. "What do you mean?"
France tittered mockingly as he ripped away little pieces of cheese and popped them into his mouth. "Well, I do not want to make you jealous."
"Jealous!?"
"Oui. After all there is no one for poor Arthur to write to. Even Pierre has a little pen pal, isn't that right Pierre?"
Pierre halted his pecking just long enough to give a short tweet in response and England didn't know if it were even possible for him to hate the bird anymore than he already did.
England wanted very much to point out that there were plenty of people back home for him to write to, but he knew it was an obvious lie. Other than his boss, who he had been neglecting to report to in order to keep France company, the only other connections he had in Europe were his brothers and he knew that they would respond to any letter from him by laughing themselves sick.
"Ah, Pierre, poor Arthur is jealous after all," France noted with a mock pout. "This simply will not do. We must find someone for Arthur to write to."
"Keep me out of your silly hobbies, Frog," England huffed indignantly. "And I already told you to stop calling me Arthur."
"I have a wonderful idea!" France interjected gleefully, clearly having ignored everything England had just said. "You can write a letter to the baby!"
England merely sat in stunned silence watching France carefully as he shifted through his things. When the man gave England a clean sheet of paper and passed him his quill he began to suspect that France was completely sincere in his suggestion. "You... you can't be serious," he said weakly, although the cheerful expression on France's face was more than enough of an answer. "You want me to write a letter to the baby?"
"Oui."
"France, the baby can't read. He hasn't even been born yet!"
"Well obviously," France scoffed and the man actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at him. "But she will be able to read someday and when that day comes she will know exactly what you were thinking before she was born. Is that not a fabulous idea?"
It did seem like a decent idea, but England couldn't shake the feeling that this was all some sort of elaborate trick. "You're not going to read it, are you?" he asked, because France had always been quite fond of blackmail.
"Of course I will not. I would never do such a thing. After all, I wrote my own letter and..." France frowned, his face growing thoughtful as he considered his own words. "Perhaps I should rewrite my letter."
"Why?"
"Well, I wrote some horrible things about you in it," he explained. "I might have even asked the baby to kill you when she grew up."
England said nothing to that. He merely gave France a sideways glance before turning his attention to his paper. He stared at it for quite some time, tapping his fingers against the worn wood of the table and trying with all his might not to start with "Dear France's stomach."
"I don't know what to write," he groaned.
"Oh Arthur, mon cher, is it really so difficult for you to get in touch with your own feelings?" France asked pityingly. "Truly you are a living model of repression. Here, I will help you."
England watched in mild horror as France stood and marched over to his side. He loomed over him, his massive belly a mere breath away from England's nose, and England had to fight against the urge to squirm away. "What are you doing?"
"Giving you inspiration," he explained. "Now touch the baby."
His face turned several shades of red at the instruction and England defiantly placed his hands firmly behind his back in turn. "I'm not touching anything!" he announced. "Now go back and sit down you twit! You're going to make yourself sick."
"Oh Arthur, do not think so lowly of me," France said dismissively. "Your concern may be charming, but I assure you I can manage to stand for more than a minute without being overcome with fatigue. Now touch our child."
Our.
That was the first time France had referred to the baby that way and England would be lying if he said he didn't feel his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to touch, but he fought it back down. "That's not our baby, that's your stomach and I know just what you're trying to get at you letch!"
France let out an exasperated groan as he allowed frustration to over take him. Reaching a hand towards the back of England's head France pressed his cheek flat against his stomach and pinned him there. "Do not struggle," France instructed when England began to squirm and pull away, but France's grip stayed strong and fighting against it was difficult given his current position.
After a few moments England stilled, cringing at the heat radiating against his flesh despite the fact that there was a thin layer of clothing separating him from France's skin. Every breath France took pressed his stomach closer to England's cheek and when he shifted the wrong way he found his nose brushing against his taught flesh. England closed his eyes and held his breath and told himself very clearly that he didn't feel any heat pooling into the pit of his stomach at the intimate contact.
"Can you hear her?" France asked, loosening his grip when it became clear that England wasn't going to pull away. "She hears you, I think. Every time you talk she kicks like mad."
"I doubt that," England grumbled only to find his cheek greeted by a firm little push seconds later. His heart twisted in a way that he didn't quite know how to explain, but he did find himself smiling.
"There, you see how she kicks?" France teased. Even though England wasn't looking at him he could tell there was a smug smirk on his lips as he hesitantly raised his hands and placed them on either side of France's stomach. It had been some time since he had touched him like this, and the first time that he had done so openly, but England could already tell that the baby had gotten bigger. "Now say something."
England turned his head in order to glare up at France only to find that he was currently giving him a smile that was far too warm and open. "I am not talking to your stomach," he said stubbornly.
"Why not? You did it before."
England felt his eyes widen and the color drain from his face at France's comment. "Y-you were supposed to be asleep!" he sputtered.
"I was asleep," France said innocently. "Until the baby kicked me. I told you she is quite lively."
He frowned, fighting against the blush that longed to creep back onto his face. "I don't know what to say," he huffed. "Just like I don't know what to write. It's a stomach France!"
"You are so dense," France sighed as he took a few steps back and pulled himself away from England's cheek. England looked up just in time to see the disappointed gleam in France's gaze as he began to caress his own belly forlornly. "Perhaps this really was just a mistake."
A cool emptiness filled the pit of his stomach at that comment and suddenly England couldn't stand it or France's gaze. "It's, it's not a mistake," he said softly. "I can do this."
He didn't wait for France to move towards him and instead got up from his chair to kneel in front of him. He placed his hand against either side of France's stomach and stared at the round flesh with as much intensity as he could muster. England ordered himself to relax, but that didn't help any. He merely knelt there awkwardly, fingers caressing the thin fabric thoughtfully as he struggled in silence. Taking in a slow deep breath, he proceeded to lick his lips and push out the first thing that came to his mind.
"He-hello baby," he began awkwardly. The babe responded with its own greeting: a kick to either palm (how did it manage that?) and England felt encouraged to go on. "I'm your... Well, I don't know who I am yet (we haven't quite decided that one), but I'm someone who... who..." He stopped then, glancing up at France to see the man smiling down encouragingly at him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm someone who lo... loves you." The one word felt like a weight lifted off of his chest and England felt almost drunk by the pleasure of its release. "I love you," he said again, enjoying the way the word slipped from his lips. "I love you and I can't wait to see you. I... I know you're going to be wonderful."
Caught up in the moment England made the first of many mistakes (although he would not realize it until much later) when he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the swell of France's stomach. Under normal circumstances he would have caught the way France shuddered as he fought back against the moan welling in his throat, but at that moment the only thing England felt were the baby's excited kicks.
"Alright," he said after the silence had stretched on for too long. "I think I know what to write now."
"Ah, c'est bien," France whispered, his voice quivering from the strain of speaking. "I... I am glad."
---
Once England had finished writing his letter he was quick to seal it with the wax France gave him and hide it away, because he did not trust France to keep to his promise not to read it. Soon after he went outside to retrieve the laundry and went about putting it away (with some help from France who England suspected had become quite bored with simply reading and writing all day).
Night came quickly and France decided to head off to bed early. England wasn't surprised since he seemed to be losing more energy with every passing day. England chose to join him because he did not want to run the risk of waking France after he had already fallen asleep and be blamed for his carelessness.
England crawled into bed first, shifting onto his side and lying on the very edge of the mattress just as he always did. France flopped down on the bed beside him and surprised England by lying down on his back instead of his side as he usually did.
"No, I cannot sleep like this," he said after a few moments of lying perfectly still on the other side of the bed.
"Well I'm not moving over any further," England told him stubbornly. "If I shift over anymore I'll be sleeping on the floor!"
France offered him a thoughtful hum at his comment. "You are right," he said slowly, before pushing himself into a sitting position. "Why don't you lie on your back?"
England turned towards France, frowning at the unexpected suggestion. "Why?"
"Because I want to see something. Now lie on your back."
Hesitantly, England did as he was instructed and slowly adjusting himself so that his back was pressed flat against the straw mattress. He watched as France smiled in approval at the sight before lowering himself down onto the bed next to England. France shifted, pressing their bodies as close to each other as possible, which was only achieved by having his massive stomach lie on top of England's hip while one arm draped across England's chest.
"Ah, this is much better," France sighed, pillowing his head against England's shoulder. "Yes, I think I will sleep perfectly like this."
England could not see how France could be comfortable like this, because he certainly wasn't. He felt as if he were being smothered by the weight of France's belly and the arm wrapped around his chest coupled with the blond head on his shoulder only served to add to his discomfort. It was bad enough having to share a bed with France, England didn't see why they had to pile on top of each other like a couple of pups huddling together for warmth.
"Well I'm absolutely not enjoying this," England announced as he attempted to free his left arm from where it lay trapped underneath France's body. "Move back to your side of the bed this instant!"
It was then that France did something quite odd; he kissed him. Kissing France was nothing new as they had done so many times over the centuries, but they had never done so like this. Usually when the two kissed it was a harsh press of two sets of lips, their mouths clashing together with such intensity that it seemed as if the two were trying to suffocate each other using only their lips. Tonight France's kiss was soft and gentle and didn't even meet his lips, landing instead firmly on his cheek. It was the sort of kiss that said "I care about you far more than I should and it doesn't scare me at all" and it made England's stomach twist in what he told himself was displeasure.
"Let us try it just for tonight," France whispered. He let out a content sigh as he adjusted himself once more hands clinging to the fabric of England's nightshirt and head tucked firmly under his chin. "Good night Arthur."
England didn't respond. He merely laid there until his heart stopped beating so painfully in his chest. He would only realize later how dangerous it had been for him to allow them to continue to sleep like this.
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An awesome chapter and I can't wait for the next!