Chapter Text
“Artorius, stop running this instant! We’re having guests tonight and I can't have you ruining my image!” The British teenager sped up, desperately to get away from the French teen, “We’re going to meet a new country! You can not keep acting like this!” The French teens' footsteps sounded closer and faster. Normally the Brit wouldn’t be against getting dolled up to meet a new country but this was different. France seemed too interested in this ‘new country,’ it was all he had been talking about for weeks, and England couldn’t stand it. Anything that France loved, he hated. He took a sharp right and ran towards a narrow hallway, the sharper blondes footsteps seemed to falter in confusion for a moment.
“Catch me if you can, Frenchie! HA!” The Brit ran into the narrow hallway and squeezed his way through until he reached a flight of stairs. France had these stairs covered up for a few years because of lack of use, there was no reason anyone needed to go onto the roof that way they couldn’t use the open hatch for. Except for England, he loved the hidden stairs he had since he was a child; exploring and running around France’s summer home whenever he got caught and was forced back there. It was the one place he could hide that France couldn’t reach.
The hallway was filled to the brim with dust, every small movement would cause an eruption of it. The hallway itself was devoid of light, the windows were completely coated in dust, as if someone had meticulously placed it there. The walls were filled with carvings, England had spent almost his entire life in this hallway, avoiding France like the plague. Anything and everything he needed to hide was there; his lute, his old bow and arrow, extra food, clothes, and- most importantly- his sword just in case he ever needed to take France out.
A loud groan could be heard from outside the hidden hallway France had lost track of the younger teen. His retreating footsteps made the teen sigh with relief. The Brit rushed up the stairs, picking up a whirlwind of dust with him, and only stopped when he reached the old wooden hatch, it had been rotted by time but it was still quite heavy. He waited for a moment until he heard footsteps above him, France knew him well enough to know where he’d be hiding, “He’s not here! God!” He snickered to himself as the French teen stomped his foot, “Where could that little bastard be hiding?” As the footsteps retreated once again England waited for a moment before opening the hatch and peaking onto the roof in case France was ambushing him.
Once he deemed the coast clear he pushed open the hatch and fully emerged from the dusty hall. He kneeled and closed the hatch quietly. He shot up at the sound of yelling, “Artorius ‘Engla land’ Kirkland! You had better stay hidden when my guest arrives if you’re going to keep up this behavior!” The mention of England's original name caused a shiver to run up his spine, the shout came from the garden. He tiptoed over to the ledge that peered over the garden, he watched as France turned furiously, “If I catch you when my guest arrives you’re royally fucked!”
England felt a shiver run up his spine because of the Frenchman's pure anger, his face distorted with anger, it made the Brit very uncomfortable. He pulled back slowly and retreated to the center of the roof and sighed. ”Like hell, I’d want to meet whatever prissy country Franciscus is obsessing over.” The teenager shrugged off his green cloak so it would lay on the floor of the roof. He reopened the hatch and jumped down slowly walking down the stairs so he wouldn’t pick up mountains of dust once again. He reached his pile of extra everything and he snatched up his bag of food and his lute before he turned around and went back upstairs.
The blonde dumped his bag onto the area of the floor next to where his cloak lay before he followed and laid on the floor. It was a beautiful day, the clouds stunningly framed the sky, it almost made running away from France worth it. The sky reminded him of his younger years, hunting, training with Britannia, running around with his brothers, and being free; he held up his hand for the sky and sighed. As much as he hated being with France, he hated being away from his family more.
His stomach growled and he sat up, which was quite contradictory to his previous action of laying down. He picked up some of the bread in his bag and began to chew on it. He didn’t have any sugar or honey to pair it with so it was quite plain, but more enjoyable than whatever fancy slop France would give him. He wasn’t even allowed to hunt for himself anymore, the Frenchmen insisted he was responsible for the Brit. He scoffed to himself before shoving the bread down his throat, he coughed for a second before hitting his chest. Once his coughing fit was over he laid back down with a sigh.
He picked up his lute and began to play an old song Britannia taught him. He played for what felt like minutes until the bright blue sky turned into a beautiful symphony of oranges, pinks, and purples. He played the song of the sky, the song of those long before him. For those few ‘minutes’ he stayed on the roof he heard France call for him a few more times before he inevitably gave up. The annoying clattering of horseshoes made him shoot up, the frog's guests were here. Even though the sound was far away, England’s a skilled hunter, oftentimes hunting horses if needed, so he could tell when one was near. The carriage’s loud creaking also helped him identify that the guests were nearby.
He stood up slowly so as to not alert anyone of his presence, even if no one could see him, he wanted to be extra careful. He walked across the roof so he would be peering over the entrance gate, he kneeled so only his head would peek over the edge and watched as the gold and red carriage came to a stop. It was a new type of building he hadn’t seen before, it looked strikingly similar to France but it was different; different woods, dyes, even different gold plating. Whatever new country would be willing to drive around in a regal carriage like that was probably very supercilious, just like France?
France emerged from the mansion with a literal kick in his step, no longer seeming upset by the Brits' disappearance and lack of cooperation. The Englishmen knew him well enough to easily tell France was borderline giddy, whoever this country was would be a pain in the ass. France’s walk towards the carriage seemed like an eternity, almost like he could feel England's eyes on him and wanted to torture him, but it was probably just him wanting to look regal. Once he reached the door the coachman stood up and approached the door, making a signal for France to move back. God whoever this guy was had their head shoved up their ass.
The door opened slowly and England held his breath in anticipation. He didn’t know why he cared so much, maybe it was just because France did. The Brit’s eyes widened as the strange new country exited the carriage.
The man who emerged was beautiful. His long curly, untamed brown hair framed his olive skin perfectly. It looked like a piece of the waves had been cut and placed on his head. The gold hair clips brought attention to him, causing him to shine brighter than anyone else around him, it made him seem godlike. His features were sharp and precise as if he was formed by the gods themselves. His high cheekbones made his face look serious and calculated but it was overturned by his soft and round cheeks. His eyes were a sharp, piercing green observing everything around him meticulously. They didn’t seem cruel or uncaring, just precisely that they seemed almost kind. He donned a simple white tunic that fit him in all the right places, extenuating his muscular biceps and pectorals. His brown leggings were fitted with dark red chausses, they squeezed at his thighs in what looked to be an uncomfortable manner; he bore a shoulder belt that led to a golden hilt encased with emeralds and rubies, the hilt itself was a dynamic array of swirls and patterns, and his scabbard was nothing to scoff it, bearing the same eccentric patterns of the hilt. The final thing England noted about the mysterious new country was the yew longbow attached to his back along with a quiver of arrows, whoever this man knew how to fight.
England watched him with wide eyes, drinking in every movement he made, even though their distant it was hard to see his little details. He watched as the man smiled when he noticed France, taking two long strides in front of him and touching his shoulder which caused France to stand at full attention. His mouth began to move, England couldn’t hear a word but he could tell that the man was putting a lot of energy into his words. He leaned over and enveloped France in a hug, he was a few inches taller, maybe two or three inches taller, it wasn’t a drastic height difference but enough for it to be noticeable. He watched as the olive-skinned man grabbed France’s shoulders and leaned over and kissed him on both cheeks. He pulled away, keeping his hands on his shoulders for a moment before he let go and clapped, the coachman returned holding a bouquet of the brightest roses England had ever seen. He handed them to France before turning around and hopping back onto the carriage. The strange man bowed for a moment, taking one of France’s free hands and placing a kiss on it before turning up with a smile as he began to talk again.
Whatever conversation they were having began to move as France finally chimed in and turned his back to the man, motioning him to follow along. He did so without hesitation and wrapped his arm around the Frenchman’s shoulder, who was now holding the bouquet in both hands. Even though to the untrained eye France seemed to be the one getting dragged along, he was in complete control of where they were going. They approached the house and England rapidly pulled back, no longer in view of the two teenagers. He stood up once he heard the door open and close. France would have his head if he went down there looking like this, but he wanted to meet this country, he’d never seen anyone like them before. Someone so confident and so secure about their place in this strange and confusing world.
He looked down at his outfit, his tunic wasn’t horrible, but it was dirty and ripped, along with his leggings. Unlike the mysterious man he looked drab, even if their outfits were practically identical, all England lacked was the sword, longbow, and chausses. He reached up and touched his unruly hair, it hadn’t been brushed or washed in a few days, in fact, he hadn’t been washed in a few days. He pursed his lips as he went over his options; meet the beautiful country now and face repercussions from France or get changed and perhaps never get a chance to meet the mysterious stranger. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment, perhaps he wouldn’t bathe but a change of clothes and a comb should be enough to quell France’s anger. He could even put on that perfume they both enjoyed.
He opened his eyes and began to walk to the hatched, pulling it open with a quick tug, he kneeled and grabbed his cloak, lute, and now empty bag of food. He grabbed the hatch and jumped down, closing with his body weight, the dust on the flood erupted once again and caused the Englishman to slip. He fell onto his back and coughed loudly as the dust entered his lungs and as the air got knocked out of him. He took a few deep breaths of dust in when he heard a murmur of talking, it almost sounded concerned, he could tell France’s annoying, bothersome accent from anything as it responded to the voice. England laid still for a moment, as if any movement he made would alert France and his guest he was hiding there.
After a few moments, he stood up slowly, wiping the dust off him and taking small steps down the stairs, not wanting to alert anyone of his presence. He didn’t need to pick up his cloak and assorted goods, he would have just left them there anyways. He peaked out into the main hallway, it was completely devoid of life. He shimmied out of the narrow hallway and began to sprint to his room, he attempted to take light steps, but in his rush, he couldn’t. Every step to his room meant a step closer to the new country, the faster he got ready, the faster he could meet him.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath, he looked around and noticed the garden had two new figures. The familiar blonde Frenchman and the unfamiliar brunette were walking along cornflowers and marigolds. Two strikingly different colors gave England a sense of universal symbolism, the cornflowers had always reminded him of France but those marigolds, with their striking orange and red hues, made him shiver. They reminded him of the stranger and his striking aura, he couldn’t peel his eyes away from the stranger's back. The Frenchman turned almost violently and shooed him off, his face was one of pure anger and disgust. The stranger perked up and looked at France for a moment before turning around, the Brit locked eyes with the stranger for a moment before he sank rapidly. He felt his face heat up and his heart skipped far too many beats. He has died many times before, but he has never felt like this before, it felt much much worse.
“Who was that?” Hispania asked, turning back to look at the Frenchman. The blond teen scoffed and looked back towards the olive-skinned man. By all means France was extremely attractive. Fair almost porcelain skin, her cheekbones were sharp and high and her nose curved most beautifully. Her unnatural piercing purple eyes seemed to hide hints of blue, like a hidden treasure in the deep sea. While Hispania was built with muscle, France was not, her body was slim and almost delicate. It didn’t help that she wore beautiful blue dresses that complemented her perfectly. She was unsuspecting, like a hurricane's eye. France touched his cheek and closed his eyes, her hands were picture perfect, her fingers long and thin, they were soft and precise. Hispania glanced down at his own hands, larger and uncouth, rough and calloused through hard work. “That’s just,” she sighed and let go of her face, waving her hand, “a little country I take care of,” She opened her eyes and smiled, “but don’t worry my friend! We won't be seeing any more of him tonight!” Hispania raised an eyebrow but brushed off the Frenchwomen’s comment, but he had an irking suspicion that France would be eating her words. “Let’s go to dinner?” The blonde suggested.
Hispania turned back to look at the window, what a curious creature.
The Brit crawled from beneath the window and began sprinting on all fours before he was well out of view. He stood up, slowly arising from all fours and sprinting normally, his room was just in view but he took a halting step that almost caused him to fall over. He walked to his door and opened it with a small creek. He entered and took a look around, the French architect wasn’t disgusting but it was far too fancy for England’s taste. He used to live in a wood hut with his family and he’d consider the mud floors infinitely better than this.
He closed the door before he began to take off his tunic. He threw it into the floor and took a look at himself in the mirror. For the first time in a while, he couldn’t see his ribs poking out, but he was still rather thin. While France was elegant and lean, the mysterious man seemed to be built with muscle; England was built to move, he was built to run and shoot, and he could barely even wield a sword. He was rather small, he was smaller than his brothers, even though he’d been around for over two hundred years. He leaned his head back to observe his neck, his collarbone popped out and his neck stretched, he looked sickly. He opened and closed his hands almost impatiently before he began to undo the string that held up his leggings. He turned his back to the mirror with a hop as he ripped off the leggings, struggling with the left leg before throwing them onto his makeshift pile of dirty clothes. He huffed for a moment before turning towards the bathroom.
He walked towards it; it was even more eccentric than the room for some reason, it had more gold encased in the walls than any other room in the house, other than France’s room. He leaned over to a bucket of water in the corner and dipped a towel into it, granting the water full access to soak the towel. He stood at full attention before plopping the towel on his neck and allowing it to drip down his back. He stood there for a minute before the water began to seep into his undergarments. He dropped the towel back into the water with a wet slap before turning and walking back out of the bathroom, that was the closest he’d get to a bath today. He lingered at the door for a moment, he looked over to the table, and at the perfume. He nodded before walking out of the room and to his chest.
He kneeled and popped it open; his tunics, leggings, extra cloaks, and chausses were all folded neatly by whatever servant France had sent to do it. There were also some pieces of gold and silver necklaces, bracelets, brooches, hair pins, and arm rings that France made him adorn himself with. He picked up an off-white tunic and a pair of simple brown leggings, quickly wrestling with himself to get on both items. He looked at the golden jewelry and outwardly groaned, he picked up one of the necklaces with emerald encased in it. It was a simple necklace, not too much stood out about it, but that's what made it such an impactful item to wear; it was a nod to England’s rich country, it was a call to attention, almost as if he was bragging without trying. It also brought out his eyes.
He held it in his right hand as he walked back to the bathroom, he walked to the table and placed the necklace down before grabbing one of the many glass vials which held the small amounts of perfume. He grabbed one of the purple vials with lilac-scented perfume. It opened with a small pop before England placed it on his neck for a second and quickly let it go, using his wrist he spread it around his neck. He rubbed his wrists together to remove the extra perfume, he then grabbed the necklace and put it on. It hung heavy on his neck, but it was regal, something someone in his class should be wearing. He reached for the hairbrush next to the vials and began to sift through his hair, just to get all the dust, leaves, and branches out of it. He put down the brush and then wiped off his clothes to remove any dust or grime that may have landed on him and beelined towards the door.
He walked through the eccentric hallways, he’d been living at France’s house for almost five years now, but he never got used to the elaborate tapestries that lined the walls, almost all of them being of one of France’s victories. As he walked towards the dining room, where he assumed the two were and his assumption was proved correct as the closer he got the sound of chatter increased. He could make out France’s shrill, feminine voice but there was a new voice as well, it wasn’t much deeper but enough for it to be obvious, it was much more animated. He subconsciously smiled to himself, someone new, someone who wasn’t France, he stopped at the door of the dining room. He thought about knocking for a second before deciding against it. He pushed open the door and there sat the country that had plagued England’s thoughts for the last 10 minutes and his hated friend. Both of the heads turned to look at him.
“Oh Artorius, I thought you weren’t interested in meeting the new country with me,” France smirked and placed his hand on said new countries bicep; the Frenchman raised his eyebrows, usually England stuck to his word, especially when it came to getting on his nerves, something was wrong more so by the fact he had gotten cleaned up for this. “Oh, France I thought I told you,” the new country had turned his attention from the Brit to look at the Frenchman, “I’m not ‘new’ per-say, I’m just more around now!” he laughed and touched France’s hand that laid on his bicep, France turned to look at him before turning red with embarrassment.
“Oui, yes yes, I forgot.” The blonde laughed sheepishly and looked back at the Brit taking the brunette's attention with him, England gulped at the green eyes staring at him. He closed his eyes and took a slow inhale, “I saw you both coming in and I thought it only appropriate if I came to greet this country.” He gritted his teeth in an attempt to hold his tongue. He couldn’t control his anger around France, but he didn’t want to seem like a fool in front of the stranger. The brunette smiled and stood up, he began to walk closer to the Brit, now that they were closer England could truly take him in. His brown hair was much curlier than he had originally thought, his skin was beautifully freckled like stars in the night sky. His eyes shone with a bright glimmer, the green was sharp and bright, and they had hints of hazel and spots of a darker green. The man had dimples, beautiful dimples that went perfectly with his smile. His lips were plump and a lovely shade of brown. The the few inches of difference in height with the blonde didn't seem like much on the roof but down here, France was already taller than him, and this guy was taller than France.
He opened his arms and embraced England, “Gracias for coming all the way down here to visit me! It’s a pleasure to meet you uh, Artorius, isn't it?” he pulled away and held the Brit at arm's length, not even giving the blonde a second to wrap his arms around him. He smiled brightly before the Frenchman chimed in, “His name is England, that’s his country.” He smirked at the scene before him, England’s foolish antics always amused him, his awkardness was something to soak in. Hispana turned to France when he spoke and then he quickly turned back to England, “My humblest apologies! I didn't mean to call you by your human name, I know how close-knit that is.” He let go of the man and bowed his head, placing his hand on his chest, “I hope you may find it deep in your soul to forgive me.” England was in shock by the man's expression of sorrow by the accidental use of his name, it shocked him quite a bit. He laid his hand on the brunette's back, “It’s alright?” he honestly didn’t mind, but that man’s drastic reaction caused him to freeze up.
France laughed at the display before him. “Oh Hispania, you are too funny! Poor England doesn’t need an apology like that!” His howling laughter annoyed England to his core, but right when he was about to spit back a comment, Hispania looked up hopefully. “I’m so glad I didn’t offend you,” he glanced at France, “but perhaps my reaction was too much, I guess I’m still stuck in the Roman ages!” he laughed to himself and glanced back to England, “Any little thing back then would cause a war, my mother once called Roma by his name and got us invaded!” he chuckled to himself again and shook his head, “good ol’ days, not really, but somewhat.” He placed his hand on England's shoulder and smiled before glancing at France, who was still laughing, and back to England, “Francia, would you mind if I went along with this little- uh England since I have spent a few minutes with you, I find it only fair if I spent some with this young man as well, we can come back and all have dinner together!” France froze mid-laughter and stared at Hispania with an open mouth as the brunette looked at him, causing the Brit to break out with laughter. He shut his mouth as he glared at England for a moment, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking back at Hispana, he smiled kindly and nodded, “I don’t see why not, as long as you’re back in a few minutes, dinner should be ready.” Hispana smiled and nodded before pushing England by the shoulder towards the door, England turned around and began to walk with Hispana towards the door.
Once the two were out of the room and the door was shut an uncomfortable silence filled the air, the brunette rubbed the back of his neck before he dropped his arm and took a deep breath. “So uh- you’ve been around since Rome?” The Englishman looked towards Hispania as he began to walk forward. The question caught Hispana off guard as he quickly coughed and began to walk alongside the blonde, “Si! I have been, well it’s a lot of technical stuff, but si-“
“I would like to hear about it if you wouldn’t mind.” The Brit made sure to talk as eloquently as he could, if he didn’t, he was sure France would have his head. He also wanted to put his best foot forward, not wanting to seem like a fool.
The comment caught Hispania off guard as he looked over to the British man, he looked rather lovely under the setting sun, “Well, I was born in the second century when Rome took over Iberia, my mother. In the fifth century, Rome fell and so I was left to my own devices, being taken over by a few Germanic tribes so I became the Visigothic Kingdom, that's when I first met Francia, then I was Muslim for a bit but then!” The Brunette was talking quite a lot, he was very very expressive, moving his hands around to make his point more clear, “the Christian reconquest! And now I’m me. Country stuff is quite confusing so I don’t think about it. I think my father was Rome? But I can’t be sure because he’s, as you know, dead.”
The Englishman blinked for a moment before he let out a small huff of a laugh, the brunette’s rambling was quite funny, especially with the fact that he was just as confused, if not more so, than England. He placed his hand on Hispania’s shoulder, “Oh you are quite funny.. uh Hispana was it?”
The brunette didn’t get what was so funny but if the blonde next to him found it so humorous he guessed it couldn’t have been that bad, “Si! Hispania, or Antonius, but that’s for when we become closer.”
England stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Hispania. The sentence echoed in his head when they became closer, he had heard that before, suddenly a realization hit him. "Do I know you?"
Hispania smiled, to the untrained eye it would have looked amost wicked. "Si, I was waiting for you to realize." They did know eachother. They've known eachother much longer than England had noticed, the Iberians features softened into a look of bashfulness, "and if you forgot about me, I didn't want to make it weird by trying to force-"
The blond blurted out before Hispania even had the chance to finish his reasonings and explain himself,"Your face! Its different! Thats why I didn't recognize you! How could I be so foolish?! Your personality hasn't aged a bit how could I not notice..." The Iberian laughed and placed a hand upon Englands shoulder. It was warm, so very warm.
"I don't look that different do I? Still as handsome as I was, right?" He pointed at his face, closing his eyes with a bright smile. He took no offense that the Brit didn't remember him. He looked different, thats what everyone said. He didnt think he looked that different. England didn't look any different, even if they felt like strangers.
He stared at him for a moment before coughing and standing up straight, “How about we take a walk in the garden?! I saw you were looking at the cornflowers earlier today, so we can go and give them another look!” Hispania perked up at this, France’s garden was absolutely beautiful, and perhaps this English fellow might give him more information about the flowers. With the sun finally setting it would be nice to see the flowers under the moonlight, he nodded towards the Englishman and the blonde took that as a sign to change their aimless walking towards the garden.
Maybe being only around France for so long was doing something to him, being charmed so easily by a man of all people! He internally swore, it didn’t matter how handsome this man was, he was still a man. God forbid the church knew how England was acting because of a man. He had some similar thoughts about France from time to time but it was never serious! His blood boiled at the fact that some forgotten friend could elicit such reactions in him. He looked towards the taller male and watched as he observed every tapestry that hung upon the wall with a meticulous gaze, almost as if he were copying them into his brain.
The brunette suddenly turned to look at England, like he had felt his eyes boring into the back of his skull. He smiled and the blonde grew more upset by the race of his heart increasing. He quickly turned away and jogged towards the garden door, “Here we are! Let’s go!” He internally scoffed at himself for his voice getting higher, and he swiftly opened the door to quickly distract from it, and in hopes, Hispania wouldn’t notice it. He noticed it anyway. The Blonde waited for Hispania to walk outside before closing the door.
The garden was gorgeous, and the flowers looked amazing under the setting sun but the moonlight was a completely different experience. The brunette rushed forward and looked around in childlike wonder, “Wow! Tú vives aquí?! You can come out here every night?!” He wiped back towards England with wide eyes, “This is beautiful! Of course, my home is lovely, but the sun never sets there, this place… wow. You don’t get moonlight like this at my home.” He smiled at England while he stared back at him. To England, Hispania was the most beautiful thing in the garden, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The world itself could have ended at that moment and he would have died happy knowing he had met and revealed in Hispania’s presence. He was about to speak before the brunette turned back around and began to walk toward the cornflowers. England followed after, curiously watching the man, as if he were a wild animal.
Hispania stopped and leaned down, grazing one of the flowers with the tip of his fingers, clearly trying not to harm it in any way. England floated over next to him, “Did you know,” he began as the brunette looked at him, “those flowers actually have quite a few meanings such as prosperity and wealth. I believe that's why France has so many here, he hopes he can bring himself some extra luck,” he smiled to himself, ”It's also in season.” He added and looked over to Hispania with the ghost of a smile.
The Brunette looked back at the flower and grabbed it by the stem, pulling it out. He stood up at his full height and turned towards the Brit, “Maybe they’ll rub off on me,” Hispania paused for a moment before smiling at the Blonde and holding the flower to the Brit's face, “It’s funny they sort of look like you, they bring out your eyes.”
The Britishman's mouth hung agape, as Hispania turned his attention back to the flower. “You’re beautiful,” England muttered, grabbing the Iberian’s attention.
“Que? What did you say?” He raised a brow as he leaned in slightly to elevate his hearing the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
“They’re beautiful! Beautiful flowers I mean.” He laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.
Hispania laughed and touched the Blonde's shoulder, “Don’t worry my friend! A lot of men find me beautiful because of my hair, I understand.” He spoke with a laugh as the Brit took notice of his hair, his long hair was very beautiful, and people most likely thought he was a woman from behind. England wasn't mistaken though, he wasn’t looking at him from behind, everything he spoke was in full conscience. The Iberian let go of his shoulder and placed the flower into his hair, “Why don’t we get back to dinner? We can’t keep France waiting.” The Brit nodded as the Iberian turned and began to walk away. The Blonde lingered and watched him walk away.
Hispania kept walking until he reached the door, only turning around once he noticed England wasn’t with him. He didn’t speak but he nodded towards the door as if to say something. The wind howled, shaking the cornflowers behind the blonde, his unruly hair returning. He jogged up to the Brunette and opened the door, shutting it once he and Hispania were inside. They walked parallel to each other. The silence between the two was deafening.
“You know I’ve been around for quite some time too,” the blonde began, catching Hispania’s attention, “I was born in 800 BC when the Celts arrived at my mother's home, Brittania. I remained small for quite some time, I was a child for a few hundred years, and I only began to grow in 43 AD when the Romans invaded,” He took note of the way Hispania closed in on him, “In 577 they established the Anglo-Saxon rule and that’s how I became what I am now. Then I was a Viking for a bit. I actually recently reunited under a new king. I forget his name. Sadly, I don’t quite remember everything from my early years.” The brunette was now standing extremely close to England- he could feel the rise and fall of Hispania's chest, the way his hand grazed the Brit's hand. Hispania had a sharp memory, and if theres one thing he remembered, it was history- but he just wanted to hear England speaking.
England pulled away from him as the dining room door came back into view. He sped up and opened the door, “Oh! Welcome back you two!” France’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, he was sitting there like he had stayed frozen in time after they left. “How was your walk?”
The Iberian walked into the room with a big grin, England closed the door behind him and watched as Hispania bounced over to France, “It was a wonder mi amigo! We had a nice chat about our childhoods and flowers,” He took a seat across from the Frenchman, “Your garden is lovely, I hope you don’t mind I took one.” The Iberian pointed towards the flower in his hair as France laughed. England took a seat in between the both of them while one of France’s many servants put down three plates. The plates consisted of lamb and cabbage and peas, each plate had a moderate piece of bread which lay underneath the lamb, soaking in its juices.
“I usually get very offended when someone steals from my garden, but when it’s you? Feel free to rip all the flowers from the root up.” The Iberian laughed whilst England lingered at the door. The laugh eventually died down and once again, Hispana gestured wordlessly for the blonde to sit down, he hesitated a moment not out of fear or genuine hesitation but because of how wordless the tanned man had become.
As he sat down one of the servants arrived with a wooden plate of fruits placing it directly in the center of the table. France quickly ushered them away and extended his arms, but it truly only felt like an extension to the Brunette, “Dig in!” Hispania did as told and began to indulge in the food. England scoffed and did the same, leaning slightly down to put his full attention on the food. He felt a rough kick to his ankle making him shoot up to look at France. The Frenchman straightened his back and coughed twice before brushing down his shirt and reaching toward the utensils. England sighed dramatically earning him another kick to the ankle, he reached towards the utensil and began to eat like a proper gentleman.
But when he looked over towards the Iberian he saw how the man ate with his hands, the rest of his posture and composure was spot on, it was just, his hands. They weren’t even clean. England looked at France for guidance but received none. He hesitated to take hold of his utensils. At the end of his inward debate, he took hold of the utensils and began to eat, his eyes were trained on Hispania; watching how he ate, how he moved, he looked wild but controlled. A delicious mix of control and crazy.
The dinner went on silently. France had finished first, then England, and Hispana last. The Brit watched as Hispania leaned towards the plate of fruits for one of the oranges as France began, “So Hispania, how about you stay for breakfast?”
The brunette had begun to peel the orange when his meticulous fingers came to a halt, he didn’t move his head as he glanced up, “What?”
“Why don’t you stay the night? I haven’t seen you in so long,” France reached over the table and touched his arm, “we have some catching up to do.” Hispania glanced towards the pale hands, he seemed to think before resuming his peeling. England could feel the energy that surrounded France and it made him recoil in disgust, unable to mask his facial expressions.
"I would, my friend, but I’ve got business to attend to at dawn, I wouldn’t be able to get there if I stayed.” England squinted, he couldn’t get a read on the brunette. He couldn’t gauge if that was the worst lie he’d ever heard or the most elaborate truth. He watched as Hispania threw the peel onto the floor without any care.
France sighed and let go of his arm, “Oh Antonius you wound me.” England’s head shot towards the Frenchman and back to the Iberian rapidly. The brunette chuckled to himself as he brought his thumbs in between the middle two segments of the orange.
“So sorry, Franciscus,” he spoke with a smirk as he leaned over and handed France the other half.
England looked over at France for any sort of reaction and received none but silent laughter. He looked at the Iberian again. He was dividing the remainder of the orange in half, one of the sections had popped onto his hand but it didn’t seem to bother him. The Brunette held out the one with an unpopped section towards him, “I got a little rough with it, sorry.” England took it with a sliver of a grin before nodding. He looked down towards it for a moment before looking back up and watching and France finished his half and Hispana all but shoving it down his throat. England undid the bag on his waist and plopped the orange section inside.
Hispania stood up as France ate his last slice, “It’s about time I leave, isn’t it?”
France stood up as well as England, the Frenchman placed his hand on England’s shoulder and gripped it, “It is, why don’t I walk you out?” The brunette smiled and nodded beginning his walk towards the door.
“I’ll go too,” England stated as took hold of France’s hand and roughly shoved it away. France’s face contorted with disgust and he was about to retort before Hispania opened the door. England turned around and France began to walk towards the door. Hispania was already out and in the hallway at this point, hands joined together behind his back, England attempted to follow after but he miscalculated where his chair was and ended up tripping.
France shot around and covered his mouth as he snorted, “I will kill you, frog,” England put his hands on the floor and kicked his feet to get up, giving him a boost to run after Hispania. France fumbled for a moment before hurrying after them.
The Englishman halted next to the walking Iberian, before he began, “So Hispania, will you be coming to visit us more often?”
He hummed in attention and turned to look at the blonde, “Well, maybe? I would love to but I don’t know if Hispania would be allowed to visit.” He chuckled to himself as if he had made an inside joke that only he and the whispers of the wind knew.
France, who had been lagging behind, had shoved his way in between Hispana and England, the brit huffed in annoyance, “My home is always open to you! Come whenever you please.” He wrapped his arm around the brunette's shoulder and leaned in to whisper something, England tried to listen in, taking a step closer to them but France side-eyed him and pushed him aside.
Hispania let out a huff of laughter before pushing France off of him, “Oh France, you can’t stay things like that. I am a man of god.”
Before France could open his whorish mouth a servant appeared around the corner, huffing, “Sir, I am so sorry to bother you, but we just received a letter and it needs your utmost attention,” France’s face fell into one of annoyance before the servant continued, “it’s from your majesty.”
He groaned loudly and completely slumped over before standing up straight and pinching his nose bridge, “Okay, I’ll be right there,” he waved his hand and the servant ran off, “I suppose I have taken up too much of your time, do come again?”
He looked over at Hispania with hopeful eyes, causing the Brit to internally gag. Hispania nodded with a smile before slapping France’s back, “Of course! I’d never miss out on seeing you, we’ve been apart too long!”
England shifted on his feet while France leaned into Hispana’s touch, “Well if you’re sure, then I must go,” he pulled away from the Brunette before taking a step towards his fellow Blonde, “If you fuck this up for me,” he leaned towards Britians ear, “I will kill you.”
England pushed off with a scoff, “Yeah, yeah whatever, get off of me.”
France glared at him before turning back to Hispana with a smile, “I’ll see you?” The Brunette nodded as France began to walk off.
Britain let out the breath he was holding and took a step closer to Hispania, “Shall we be going?” He stuck out his arm to signal for Hispana to grab it. The Iberian chuckled and nodded, taking hold of his forearm. The walk was uncomfortably silent, England didn’t know what to say and Hispania seemed distracted, he wasn’t ignoring the Brit but he wasn’t the Iberians center of attention. They walked out of the house, with France the Iberian seemed to flow freely as if they had known each other for hundreds of years, which they definitely had. England wished for their conversation to flow as freely as theirs had if it would even start. He let out a huff, every step in the gravel meant one step closer to Hispania’s departure. He didn’t want him to leave, but he also didn’t want to writhe underneath his clothes because of how uncomfortable he felt. He side-eyed Hispana, staring at him for a moment when the Brunette suddenly turned to look at him. In shock the Brit completely turned away, feeling the heat rush to his face. The tension in the air was as thick as the deepest parts of the ocean. It was suffocating.
He coughed violently before holding out his right hand, “There’s your carriage!” Hispania chuckled to himself, letting go of England's left arm.
“I suppose this is the end of our meeting.” England rubbed the back of his neck as Hispana turned to face him.
"I suppose it is.” The uncomfortable silence returned as Hispania’s coachman coughed awkwardly, opening up the door of the carriage, and causing Hispania to turn back to him. He huffed and turned around completely, “I must be going now,” he took a step onto the stairs leading up to the carriage.
“Wait!” The Iberian shot around, his mouth slightly agape, he looked as if he had wanted England to stop him.
“Si?” His voice had hints of a smile, he took in the brunette's expression, he felt his face heat up once again and he looked down and picked at his nail.
“I- uh- I wanted to know if you would return soon,” Hispania’s face fell, his mouth opening to answer but the Blonde cut him, “Not for France, not for duty, for meee?” He looked up slowly with his last word, taking in Hispanias facial expression. The Iberian’s face broke out into a contagious smile; the sun, stars, and the shining moon would freeze right in their spots to see him. The way the moonlight shone on him, complementing every dimple and crease on his face.
He got down off the step and completely turned to him, he took a careful step towards him, leaning down slightly, to meet him face to face, “For you?” His smile grew as well as his ego. England shot straight up, nodding furiously. The Iberian laughed, he laughed so hard he began leaning back to face the sky. The laugher went on for a moment before Hispania wiped his eyes, “Oh you make me smile,” he leaned forward to completely face the Brit, “I will, because you're so cute.” He poked his nose with a chuckle, a soft smile etched onto his face.
England frowned as the color rushed to his face, “I am not.” He was.
Hispana looked at him in shock before laughing again, “Si, you’re not.” He smiled and glanced back at his coachman, his face falling, “I must go now, perdoname.” He sighed and turned around, taking a step to get back onto the steps.
England took a step forward, being only an inch away, “I’ll be waiting for you, Hispana.”
The brunette looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed for a moment before his eyes lightened with mischievous glee, he reached up to the cornflower in his hair, and he smiled to himself. “Good,” he tossed the flower towards England before fully stepping into the carriage, the coachman closing the door behind him. England fumbled with the flower, holding it with both hands, he watched as the carriage began to pull out and slowly drive into the distance. The blonde gulped, staring as the carriage went over the horizon.
The door opened and Hispania peeked his head out, "And it's pronounced Hes-pan-nya!" he laughed and disappeared back into the carriage. England's mouth widened, his face flushing in embarrassment. This charming man had pushed his way into England's life, doing nothing and yet everything. Disturbing his life just enough to mess with him. His breath was heavy, what just happened? He looked down towards the flower, he had only had it for a minute and it had already lost some of its petals.
“Artorius! Did he leave already?" He could hear the airy steps of France approaching him England shook out of his trance-like state and looked back at the Frenchman walking towards him.
“Yeah, you just missed him,” France groaned and shook his head, tisking before turning away, not even stopping at England's side. England followed after and shoved the flower into his pocket, where the now warm orange had settled