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As usual, nothing was ever finished in that corner of the room that should’ve resolved many global problems. Typical.
“Hahhh…,” A deep sigh could be heard slipping from England’s lips. Even if it was an ordinary occurrence, sometimes he wondered whether these meetings had any meaning at all.
And yet, there were still some redeeming qualities.
The sweet, fleeting gestures of allies, the smiles thrown around the table, the bright and warm sound of laughter surrounding the room, and even the light bickering that should’ve annoyed and irritated anyone else, softened the edges for him.
Not that he was a part of it. Not really. Well, except the bickering, of course—he’s always in the centre of that one. But the other things… never. Well, at the very least, he could still hear it, still catch some sights of it—the one elusive thing he had lost.
Joy.
It had been centuries since laughter last escaped him. At times, the corner of his mouth would twitch upwards, but it was soon replaced by the deadpan, or a scowl face—the familiar expression others now associate with him. Honestly, it's not because he didn't want to laugh; just that he couldn't.
Each time a spark of a smile threatened to emerge, it always summoned the same ugly, terrible memories, withering any bud of happiness before it could blossom.
It hadn’t vanished all at once, no. It eroded slowly, like a progressive disturbance that slowly took the emotion away from him piece by piece, until only the mask remained. A cursed mask that he couldn't take off once he put it on.
The start of it all? The year 1558. The year when his laughter, which accompanied the time he cherished all his life, disappeared. Yet, it was to be expected, inevitable, some would say.
He had lost one of his dear royals, the first Mary of England, to the succumb of the ever-embracing death.
If it were just that, he wouldn't lose the ability to laugh. No, it was just an unfortunate scenario. He had already lost too many kings and queens; he could no longer count them, and from that he learned: mortals would always die. He had prepared himself for that truth. So, no, it was not the death itself that suffocated him; it was the weight of all the despair, depression, and loneliness that she carried throughout her life.
And then there was a man from another nation, betrothed to her. He didn’t have any grudge with the man; he was just a mortal, no more, no less; he would die anyway, one way or another.
But a couple of years could change so much. The marriage between their governance stirred something inside him. Feelings he didn’t know he could have, and even actions he didn't know he could commit.
He wasn’t talking about Mary, of course. Mary was a sweet child, so dear to him, but he would not harbour any feelings for someone he had practically raised since a baby. No, no way, he still had common sense. Even if he loved Mary as a woman, she would die so much sooner than he, so that he wouldn’t ever dream of acting on it at all; he wouldn’t burden himself with the passing of a loved one. So, no, it wasn't Mary that raised the fire in him, and nor was it the guy she married.
It was the one person with the same nature as him, the personification of the country of the nation that his dear Mary married to—Spain.
She reminded him to the epitome of warmth in the middle of spring. How her laughs sounded like the melodies of chirping birds, and how her smile was like an incarnation of a bonfire — melting down all the tension.
If he could even say (which he won't), the marriage itself wasn't that bad.
On that short point of time in the perilous life he lived, he learned to love, to let loose of the carnal desire, to just… be himself when there were only the two of them.
But…
Every beginning has its end, and the marriage of convenience between both countries was deemed to be unsatisfactory, and lest it be dissolved.
Oh, how miserable his life was–is–.
He couldn't say anything; he couldn't utter a single objection. It was a mutual decision from both sovereigns. And even if he protested, it would only fall on deaf ears.
He tried to keep up his smile because he didn't want her to think that the separation would cause him to break.
Yet, he didn't dare to look at her face. He didn't want to see her expression—possible joy or relief that everything finally ended—convinced behind all the sweet smile and affectionate conversation, was a seething rage and hatred for him.
The laughter now concealed in the deepest part of him that he couldn't reach. Afraid that everything Spain had offered was just a farce, a reminder of what he could never truly have.
Without him realising, the sound that was blazing in the room suddenly went quiet. It snapped him back to reality.
"Ah, what happened? Why are you lot zipping up your mouths suddenly?" The words sounded as sharp as a knife when they fell out of him. However, it was just a standard tone that the other countries are accustomed to.
"No need to push the stick further up your ass, England. We were just worried."
The answer, not unexpectedly, came from the one sitting to his right, the bloody git that made most of his headache—America.
"Worried? About who?" He replied, not understanding where this conversation came from, purposely ignoring the tone thrown at him.
"Dude… about you, of course! You've been too quiet since before! You know, you even look like a ghost, dude! Your gaze never settled with any of us; your eyes didn't even seem to have any life left. C'mon dude! You've been silent for a whole two hours!"
A correspondence nod and affirmation of yes, right, and other similar ones flew across the room.
"Oui mon Angleterre, tis so not like yourself to be frozen," the all-familiar sound of his frenemy chimed in.
"Oh shut up, you bloody frog! Was it so strange for me to be quiet? I deemed it was a good time to just appreciate some little things." His voice carried a firm rebuttal, yet the news left him utterly flabbergasted.
There's no way I just wasted two hours reminiscing about the unimportant past, right?
"Right… sure then, if you very much believe so–," The words hung awkwardly in the air, fully sceptical, but didn't want to pry out too much this time.
Sounds of protests rang out, echoing the disbelief over the nonexistent bickering between the two nations, famous for it. Didn't really expect that much attention, d'ya?
He could feel a doubtful gaze scanning his expression coming from his left. Silent stretched for only a couple of seconds, until–
"You sure you're alright, old man? Just talk to us if anything's wrong, okay?" America asked him rhetorically, the sound of uncertainty obvious in the air, expecting him to still be answered.
Burdened by the gaze, he unwillingly nodded his head in response. As it seemed like the git was satisfied with his answers, he was relieved out of his wits that all of them put it off as 'England's strange acts #xxx'; gladly, he put it down as blessings in disguise.
They didn't bat an eye when I messed up something, and now, when I shut my mouth off for a second, they suddenly care. Oh, what a bunch of hypocrites they are.
"Right, so is there any important things i missed?" He scanned the room asking for answers, but he's sure that the only things he's missing were just some bickering of other nations.
A couple of shrugged shoulders confirmed his suspicion; therefore, he turned his gaze back towards his notes again. He didn't find anything meaningful in it, so he closed them and just waited for the meeting to finish.
It didn't take that long for it to end. However, as everyone was packing their things and preparing to go whoever knows where, he heard a muffled sound coming from behind him.
He found America standing there-wait, no, it's not America. America doesn't have flowy blonde hair, nor violet eyes.
Ah, it was Canada.
"Canada, my dear. What's wrong? It's unusual for you to come to me after these meetings." England asked, his voice tinged with concern, already assuming that there was something wrong with the lad's country's condition.
It was rare for England to call anyone by a pet name, especially after a meeting. Yet, it went by unnoticed by England himself. Meanwhile, Canada, on the other hand, felt the flush creeping up the tip of his ears. He was embarrassed, yes, but still also extremely happy by the sudden show of affection. Still, he knew that this side of England only surfaced when the older nation was not really in a great mental condition — coming from someone who nursed him for a couple of years after America's rebellion.
"Um, England… Do you probably want to get a cup of tea with me? Or dinner perhaps? I've been meaning to ask you since then, but I never got the chance. Haha…" The invitation came out so softly, and he's not sure if England really heard him, but he at least thinks that England got the gist of it by the contemplative face he showed.
Well, it's not that he was really planning to ask England to catch a bite with him, but after what happened during the meeting, he thinks it's best to at least probe without outright asking him. Because he's certain that something weighing him, and he needs to find out what it was.
If something was wrong—especially the country's condition—then most commonwealth countries would receive the damages too. Even if it's personal, well, it will still impact them (this time with his temper).
"Right, I guess I have the time," England finally replied after what felt like an eternity. He then tilted his head slightly, a subtle gesture to usher the lad forward. "Lead the way then."
Canada beamed a little and quickened his pace until it matched England's stride. Relief that England hadn't brushed him off completely.
Now comes the hard part: constructing the questions that are subtle enough not to provoke him too deeply, yet sharp enough to reach the heart of the problem. He needs to tread it carefully here, else England will just brush it off or worse, storm off and leave him.
They then walked side by side, the smell of rain in this gloomy country and the sound of rocks being kicked around accompanying them throughout the road. All the questions forming around in his head either seemed too direct or too soft. Canada glanced briefly toward England and quickly looked away. The glimpse of dark colour and heaviness around his eyes speaks louder than any words — proof that there was really something bothering him.
Ah, fuck it, damn it all. :)
"So…," Canada started a bit too cautiously, "how do you fare these days, England? I haven't been able to visit due to some work back home… Hopefully you're alright? These meetings are a bit draining sometimes, especially today".
England scoffed, as if the questions Canada asked were something so trivial, it doesn't even need to be answered, "Well, I'm spectacular, thank you," lie, "They are always draining all of us. Nothing new about that."
"True…," Canada hesitated a bit, "But, it seemed like today has been really rough on you, no?" The grip he had on Kumajiro tightened. He realised too late that the questions forming around he uttered was too sharp.
That earned a sharp look out of the corner of England's eyes. Shit. He immediately tried to cover up the mishaps by adding, "Not that it wasn't rough on me, of course, just that you looked a bit more tired than usual."
England raised one of his eyebrows in response, mulling over whether he should reply or let the comment hang in the air, "Ah, was this about the time I froze up?" The nervous smile given by Canada confirmed the suspicion. Bullseye. "I told you lads, I'm fine. Trust me a little, won't you?" He said as he hastened his speed.
"A-Arthur…" — a name so rarely spoken — abruptly stopped his tracks. Blimey, did he really worry the lad so much?
"Hahhhh, I know, Matthew dear, you're just worried about me, don't you?" Seemed like he still couldn't let go of the care of his once -still- loyal ward. He patted his shoulder to affirm his concern, "You're right, probably I'm a bit too tired these days. I just need some sleep, and I should be as good as new, okay. So stop looking at me like that." Well, he won't give him the full truth, but that should be alright. He then looked around impatiently, "And where the bloody hell is the diner? We've been walking for a while."
Typical Arthur, always trying to divert the conversation after what felt like a heartfelt one.
Canada chuckled, and gave up, at least he answered a bit, it will be hard to press him down more than this, "Ah, just in time, we've arrived," as he stopped in front of a Korean fried chicken place. "They have really good food and beers. My treat this time, hopefully you'll be in your best condition soon," he said as a genuine smile formed on his face.
Beers? Should I be drunk then? Welp, nothing is stopping me. I'm sure I won't even talk about that, based on the others' previous witness, I'm just going to talk about that American again.
"You sure? You probably need to take me home, you know?" A look of uncertainty clouded his face.
"No worries. Just let loose, England. I'll be here eating my chickens."
Everything felt like a blur after he drank his fourth glass of beer. He roughly remembered that he was truly talking about the time when he raised both of them together — the quiet and understanding Canada, and the loud and energetic America. Blast him for always taking refuge in that time.
After losing every shred of romance with Spain, along with his laughter long replaced by curses and profanities due to the armada, England hardly expected to feel anything more than annoyance when he'd meet her again on the conquest of claiming to be 'the empire on which the sun never sets'.
What bollocks, he was delighted to even see her again, with those pirate outfits that fitted her curves so, and even the chance to fight her, with the same fiery moves and cunning strategy, the same recklessness. But, the reality was harsh; the fact that they could now only meet as enemies — or at best a distant acquaintance- hurt him deeper than any sword could, and those curses spilling from his mouth were the only way he could vent out his frustration, to blow off the fuses that otherwise would explode him from the inside.
Every profanity, every growl, every sharp mockery was then just a bitter reminder of the warmth he had once known — an oasis that now only exists as an illusion, just out of his reach.
After that, he turned his gaze away from any romantic things and changed it to a platonic and 'familial' one with his colonies. Raising his colonies felt like he had suddenly become a father to too many children, without even the help of a partner to look after them when he was busy. Hell, he was even the epitome of 'A single mum who works two jobs, who loves her kids and never stops', but in this case, he was the 'dad'.
The two children who were the closest to him growing up were those two North American ones. He cared deeply for the others as well, but none compared to them. Well, if he were to be honest, he had a favourite between those two too (unconsciously, mind you), who else if not the always making trouble one.
Regardless, even if he lost his ability to laugh, he could still smile — a real smile with heartfelt emotion — to those children.
Raising two boys did not require many laughs anyway. Giving around some smiles here and there, along with praises, was sufficient. And it looks like it worked. Both of the boys grew up wonderfully. Even if he were not there most of the time because of 'duty called', everything seemed to go smoothly, until protests were suddenly happening in the lower part of North America, America's country.
Continuous unresolved riot finally led to rebellion. The official start, the battles of Lexington and Concord, 1775. Their three-person make-believe family lost its sparkle. Everyone became too tense to just make small talk, and at the end, they didn't even utter a single word to one another.
Each one of them is deeply affected by the wars; Canada and America — the supposed siblings — need to raise their guns and weapons to fight for their chosen cause. Meanwhile, England — or, in this case, the Empire of Great Britain — tried to hold on, fight, while hoping that America would come to his senses and return to his side.
Which is utterly ridiculous, if he reminiscence about it now.
The war dragged on for years, until finally independence was declared on July 4, 1776. However, it was only after the Treaty of Paris was signed on September 3 that independence was officially recognised. The struggles and separation weigh heavily on England. The fact that he couldn't move from his own bed for a month was already bad, but the blood he coughed up every time the date approached him — even now — made it unbearable.
And forgot to mention that she was also there to help the boy regain his independence. Once more becoming enemies… it seemed that fate was really hell bent on never letting them have their peace.
So then his smile… the one remnant of any joy and care he could show others, now vanished into nothingness. As the American raised his musket—the one he gave, no less—and left him to mend the broken pieces.
He felt ever so sorry with the other boy, Canada. Even though he was the one who stayed beside him all the time after that whole fiasco, he couldn't even spare him a smile. He could only hope that his muttered words of casual affirmations could satisfy that child. The child who had been by his side through thick and thin. The child who was now already grown taller than he, and prospering in his own way. England hoped that every bit of affection he showed could convey how grateful and proud of him he was.
"You know," He slurred, "even if i didn't say it enough-hic, thanks... For everything."
Then he blacked out.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun had already risen alongside the joyous sounds of chirping birds. He grimaced while running his hand through his hair; the hangover hit harder than usual.
"Bloody hell, shouldn't have drunk that much yester-," the words caught in his throat as he saw long dark brown hair facing opposite him. He scanned the room, afraid that he was not where he was supposed to be. But it was his hotel room. His.
Yet, there's someone else beside him
He decided to pretend that he had seen nothing. Yes, everything must be an illusion. There couldn't be anyone else beside him, let alone her. He thought as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, hoping that when he opened it again, the figure would disappear. However, the view welcomed him back as if nothing had ever happened.
Shit shit shit, what did I do yesterday? I remembered I was drinking with Canada, and he made sure that I would be safe and sound coming back to my room! There's no way I got any chance to mess myself up, right?!
A silent panicked scream echoed around his mind, flooding each and every corner it could reach. He braved himself and glanced once more at the presence beside him, hoping it would magically go away. Yet, reality is ruthless; nothing would be that easy, would it?
He sighed silently as he slowly and carefully removed the sheets and then finally slipped out of bed. As he made his way to the bathroom to clear his mind, the sound of a small moan and ruffling of the duvet stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head slightly and saw her sitting up from the very corner of his eyes.
"Nggh, Buenos días," she muttered as she pulled her hands upwards to stretch. But then, her gaze met his. She froze. Confusion flickered in her vibrant, olive-green eyes.
She looked around the room, trying to make sense of what had happened the night before, but nothing came to mind. Then, her eyes drifted downward, taking in her current state. Naked. No clothes except the sheet that covered her. Her face and ears went full-blown crimson; it could probably even beat the colour of those tomatoes she loved so much.
"Why… am I-"
"Before you could say anything," England cut in sharply, "No, I do not know. No, I do not remember anything related to you at all. And no, I do not bring you here."
Silence loomed in the room, and thick awkwardness enveloped the air between the two of them. Five seconds go by, and another. Finally, it was cracked by the sound of Spain clearing her throat; her face's colour already went back to normal.
"Right…," still unconvinced, but just going to leave it at that, "let me just gather my things." She seemed accustomed to this kind of setting, especially years after the dissolution of their marriage and the Armada Wars.
As she stood up, still clutching on to the sheet cover, she turned towards England and asked, "It's just the usual, right? Nothing happened yesterday." The tone felt accusatory, but she gave him the usual eye-blinding smile. Yet, it felt like the end of the smile couldn't reach those sorrowful eyes. Unnoticed by the man who was looking straight at her.
And then a sudden knock came from the door. Then the creaking sound came continuously as if someone opened the door. England remembered that he gave Canada his other room card as a precaution, and now it led to this.
"E-england, are you okay? I've brought some breakfast, ibuprofen for your hangover, and te- oh."
Canada froze in the doorway.
He witnessed the one thing he shouldn't. He wouldn't mind if it were someone else, because it will always be a fling. But… not her.
"A-ah, right... Sorry for intruding. I will just leave them here. Enjoy your day, both of you."
"Just so you know, nothing happened."
"Em…, right. I leave you guys to it, " then a small smirk crept up his face, "didn't want to interrupt a lovely morning between a couple."
The door clicked shut.
"MATTHEW! NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED!" He screamed, and his face — whether due to anger and embarrassment — became as red as a boiled lobster.
Spain rolled her eyes, "Sheesh, calm down, will you, Inglaterra? I also did not want to be in this predicament, you know. Was it that bad waking up next to me? Didn't think you had that problem back then."
He snapped his head towards her, "NO. You don't understand! Nothing really happened yesterday. If it were, I surely remembered bits of it!"
She replied to him with a scoff, "Yeah, right, just like all those nights centuries ago." Her eyes wandered to another time, "You know, you've always prided yourself as a gentleman. But, the way I see it, you've always run away from any actions that have consequences, except wars — maybe."
She saw him furrow his thick eyebrows and open his mouth, preparing to retort to the statement. So she added, "Save the words. I'm not really in the mood for it right now. Let me just find my things, and then I'll be gone from your sight. And then, everything will go back to the way it was."
She gave him a sharp look, one she rarely gave to anyone. On top of that, she frowned — too uncharacteristic of her, if we set aside the whole armada thing.
"Well, get on with it then. No need to keep you here longer than you want."
And then true to her words, she found her things, and went out the door, without any more words coming from her mouth.
After she had left, he flopped himself into the bed again. He brooded again about the whole debacle. Because he really was sure that nothing went awry the night before, especially after Canada dropped him off.
Burdened by the thought, he chose to just take another nap, to take his mind off things, even for a while.
Then he slept, too soundly to hear anything else.
Outside the window, unseen, some small golden lights fluttered, ones that should not be there in the middle of a morning. A faint jingle and small chuckle sounds accompanied them, as they were satisfied with the result of their meddling. The stage has been prepared for the main one. The jingle sounds became a bit louder — even if England still couldn't hear them — as it seemed they got another idea for mischief.
Not a bad or cruel one, mind you. Just a necessary one to get the dear friend of them to laugh again.
At the same time, the Spaniard was busy pacing around the hallways looking for her room. Same as England, this time she actually didn't remember anything at all, but she assumed that she was just too drunk for it. The last thing she recalled was drinking with France and Prussia.
She rummaged through all of her pockets and purses, but still couldn't find the keys to her room. And there was no way she was going back into the Englishman's room to double-check. Feeling frustrated, she dialled the first number that came to mind.
"Eiiii, Francis. How's the hangover? Quick question — do you know what happened last night, and did you see my room keycard anywhere?" She asked, with a sound too cheerful after what had happened previously. Too easy a mask to put on.
"Ahhh~ mon cher Isabella!" France purred. "I'm sooo glad you called after suddenly disappearing into thin air yesterday. We were just drinking, and you fell asleep, while we talked and looked away for one second—poof! You were gone. But don't blame us, okay, we were drunk. We thought maybe you wandered off somewhere, so we just kept drinking," He paused for a moment, “And no, I don’t think I’ve seen your card anywhere.”
Disappearing into thin air… what the hell was he saying? Never mind that, the main problem right now is the key. I need to wash up and prepare for the meeting this afternoon. There's no way I would go with the same dress as last night.
"Right, fine," she sighed. "I'll try to contact Prussia—maybe he's seen it."
"Bonne chance-," France replied teasingly before hanging up.
After contacting Prussia and getting the same answer as before, she resigned herself to fate. Contemplating her choices for it seems to be more or less an hour, she finally went back to England’s room, fuming with a rage that was hidden by her smile. The thought of having to step inside and see that man again made her jaw tighten. But still, finally, she asked Canada to help her open the door.
Canada was puzzled by the request, but accepted it without further thinking. Who knows, while she finds that key, there's a chance she could help England as well.
Inside, she found the man was sound asleep — too peaceful, even. How he could fall back asleep was beyond her, but then she froze for a moment, watching the serene look on his face, with the steady rhythm of his breath. The faint morning light spilled through the curtains, brushing across his face and softening his usually too sharp features.
A rush of those old, bittersweet memories between the two of them resurfaced and flooded her mind — laughs shared, vulnerabilities gone, dumb arguments thrown, all moments that burned and healed too fast for it to end. Without realising it, she raised her hand as if guided by habit, to ruffle his hair,
The sway of his hair while she patted him formed a small smile on her lips, as if nothing had ever gone wrong between them. Only to be stopped when she heard a quiet groan escape his lips. The sound dragged her back to reality; the moment was shattered. She quickly retracted her hand and went back to the main objective. That damned key card.
So she went tiptoeing round the room, because she didn't want to wake him up. Her eyes were darting between the table, the bedside table, the floor, and even under the chair. Still no sign of the keycard.
Then, her eyes caught something that certainly wasn't there before. A note… with a cursive handwriting that definitely didn't belong to England. She'll know if it was his.
She picked up the note and saw the words etched onto the sheet of paper. It was in a language she hadn't seen or heard in so long — Middle English. A once pleasant speech that accompanied their earliest day together.
Gif thou sekest that thyne herte desireth, whispre whan thou woldest it be, and nem the pris thy soule dar payen.
If you seek what your heart desires, whisper when you wish it to be, and name the price your soul dares to pay.
Carajo! I didn't have time for this, she thought. Then she raised her voice a bit, just enough for it to be above a whisper.
"I need it back ASAP, just anything- anything at all, so i could finally exit this room."
A glimmer of shine slowly shimmered in front of her. The note that she held so hard slowly morphed into the key card she once looked for. She clutches it tight, afraid it will morph into something else again.
Not having the time to react to the bizarre thing that just happened, she heard him stir and wince, seemed like the hangover was worse for him. But then…
Wha- why was she here again…
Panic spread all over her. What did she just hear?! His voice… in her head — clear, groggy, and unmistakably his.
The worst part is, his lips hadn't even moved.
She tried to play it cool, "yeah, just need my key back," she said while showing him the clutched card.
"Right. I see you've got it, then?" He lifted one of his eyebrows, but quickly grimaced as a sharp pain throbbed in his head.
Hell. How many drinks did I have yesterday? I've already slept and woken up twice, but the headache hasn't even subsided a little bit.
Blatantly ignoring the fact that she could hear his complaint, she put on a wry smile and answered straight away while approaching the door. "Sí, got it here, right in my hand. Uhm- so, as I've got what I need, see you around. Hope your hangover eases up soon!"
Before he had any chance to reply, the sound of the slamming door and hurried pacing footsteps could already be heard echoing down the hall.
Oh, mierda, she cursed inwardly. What kind of hallucination was I having? There is NO WAY that I've just heard England's voice in my head, right? And that morphing note?? What the hell was that?
She took a deep breath, trying to reason with herself. Yep. Just need to clear my head and act as usual. It'll go away soon. Nothing's wrong! Everything's definitely normal! Just need to keep my mind for the afternoon's meeting, and everything will be just fine!
Then, she went straight to her room.
Come to the afternoon meeting.
The same afternoon meeting where all they did was mostly bickering over which one of them had the best idea. And as usual, England was trying to hold out his temper just to not knock out both the 'hero' American and the 'frog' French.
Oh, good lord, when will this hell ever end? Can I just punch him once? Fuck, they're so annoying. Just once- no, can't risk any diplomatic problems. I'll remember this after the meeting, and I'll punch them then.
Spain, who heard the thoughts, didn't outwardly react, but she bit back a cackle that was tempting to explode out of her mouth.
She didn't notice that his gaze was now aimed at her.
Ah… hers. Still sounds the same as I remember.
She froze, unable to believe what she had just heard. The sound of longing that was transmitted to her head, the sound of the once-affection shared between them. She shook her head, trying to reason that she was probably just hearing wrong, and even if it was right, it was probably a one-off. Just once in a blue moon.
After that ridiculous banter, the meeting resumed its agenda—the same endless ribbon of topics, always circling back to the ludicrous beginning.
Right… back to this nonsense again. Should've not come at all, what the heck was I doing here wasting my time?
He glanced at Spain. Also, what's with all the nonsensical occurrences since the morning? First, she just appeared like that in my room- thank God I still have my pride and common sense intact… and also the hungover, else I could literally jump at her. Then, she appeared again, 'for her key,' she said, but then she looked really suspicious. What was with that smile? I know she usually smiles like that when she tries to cover up something, and doesn't know how to respond.
He started playing with his pen while still continuing his internal rambling. Shite, I really need to find someone to let out this pent-up emotion- no need for emotion, no, no, just a one-night stand. I just need to forget about her, forget all about the way her smile struck me straight to the heart, the way her hair smelled so rich with olive oil, and the sight of her body next to mine-NO-STOP.
Spain's face started to redden as she heard his thoughts, but just as relief bloomed, thinking it was over, he continued.
Yeah right. Like it'd help me stop thinking about her for the past couple of centuries. That damned face card and laughter of hers always chained me back to where I was before. Hell, I can't even control my urge to just pin her down right here and straight up kiss her, just to stop that bloody smile of hers. I'd even go rough, like we did those years-.
“¡Cállate, for heaven’s sake! Just shut up, will you?!" She slammed her hands onto the table, embarrassment and fury tangled across her face, with her gaze holding thousands of knives aiming to cut through him.
Startled by the sudden loud noise, all the other nations turned their head towards her. The air froze. The old, scary, and terrifying aura of hers that rarely came out after that point sent a chill across the room.
"What? Me? Why are you even mad at me?" A confused, curt, but detached reply came out of England's lips. "I didn't even say a single word!"
Hearing the sincerity in his voice, and taking in all of the countless pairs of eyes suddenly on her, Spain realised that she had just burst out of nowhere in their point of view. Of course, they couldn't hear the aggravating voice, slick with lust, all over their head.
"Ah… Sorry about that." She forced a small laugh, trying to cover up, "Think there was a fly. It just wouldn't stop buzzing." Her smile widened, and all the previous terrifying aura around her vanished. "Once again— sorry everyone!"
She feigned that everything was fine. But before she could even take a new breath, she heard him again.
What's wrong with her today? She flipped out of nowhere! Sure, there's that thing in the morning, but 'shut up'? When I don't even utter a single word??
Struggling to keep herself calm— hearing all of his unfiltered thoughts, she decided to go outside for a bit to refresh her mind. As she walked out of the meeting room, all his voice disappeared. Then, she understood. As long as she kept her distance, she could at least be spared from his thoughts.
Then, a peculiar realization occurred to her. She remembered that England had those weird imaginary friends of his that he called "fairies". Add with he wizardry stuff that he did centuries ago. There's a chance that they have a hand in all the absurd things that have happened to them. If England "claimed" that nothing happened, and she herself didn't remember anything, along with the statement from France, and all of those weird things happening, there was a high chance that something —or someone—meddle with them.
But there was no way, she could just go up to him and ask Hey, did your fairies do something to you without your knowing?
Her thoughts got cut short with the sudden sounds of footsteps followed with those voices in her head.
Shite, is this really okay? Is she mad at me? For what-heck-for when? Is it fine if i just talk to her? We haven't even spoke at all after the morning incidence. Hell, we haven't even talk non-diplomatically since that time. What should I ask… Is she okay? Does she need anything? Do I-
Annoyed by the voices, she cut him off with a frustrated shout, "¡Dios mío! England! Of course everything's fine!" She paused, taking a deep breath, "First, I woke up next to you without knowing anything! Then, a freaking note morphed into a keycard right in front of my eyes, and then your voice has been blasting all day round in my head! So yeah, everything's totally fine!"
…Oookay… did she finally lost it?
"Oh, fuck you England! I'm perfectly in my right mind!" She shot back, her voice cracking under the weight of stress, hands planted firmly on her hips.
England blinked, utterly dumbfounded. " … Excuse me?"
"God, help me! This idiota was making my blood boil again!" She muttered under her breath, then snapped louder. "Yeah, you idiot tomato! I've been hearing all your 'secret' thoughts since the morning!"
Fuck.
"Yeah, fuck! Imagine having to listen to all of that! You know what — while we're at it, let me just ask. She jabbed a finger onto his chest. Too exasperated. "Those things… remember? The invisible ones you always talk to — did your imaginary friends ever done something without your knowing? Were they even real?"
He opened his mouths, but no such words came out. Only silence. And then-
Bloody hell. No-no way. There's no chance she heard me throughout the meeting. Please let it be a joke. The fairies-did they do something this time? Shit! Fuck! Why her, of all people? I'd even take the bloody fatass America instead.
"Yeah, yeah," she scoffed. "Open your ears and listen to me — it was all real. Okay? REAL."
He didn't respond. His eyes dropped to the floor.
And then, from somewhere deep within him— Then, did you hear me… longing? To have you back to my side? To be whatever we were, back then? All of it?
Her breath hitched. The anger bled out of her voice.
For the first time since centuries, she looked at him beyond any pretence. Just him. The one she shared warmth with a short time, a long centuries ago.
She realized, she was still standing exactly where he was — trapped by the memories.
Even if she hadn't changed at all, it was just a shield to protect herself. If she were asked outright — if she weren't a nation, if she was just her — would she choose him again? She knew the answer would certainly said yes.
After all, all of those forgotten "nothing happened" nights wouldn't happen if she could let go.
And then she noticed.
Had she ever see him laugh — a genuine laugh — since then?
Even a smile, she couldn't recall one after the American rebellion.
Did he… Did he ever smile again?
The silence was heavy — too heavy.
"Arthur…," The name sounded so foreign at the tip of her tongue. A name she couldn't remember the last time she spoken.
He froze. Hadn't expected to hear it again.
"Do you know that you're like the sun? Because, mi sol, even with all those clouds and rains, it was still there hovering. And I just couldn't see it." She reached up, cupping his cheeks, her thumbs brushing over his lips to coax a smile. "Even with all those political mishaps, rivalries, empire wars… deep down, I still remembered your warmth, your touch, and most importantly your laugh. A sound that I wished I could hear all the time."
Her eyes met his. He still didn't let any words come out, but he let his thoughts answer.
And I, to you. Your smile, your infuriating joy for life, your scent — everything. I missed them so, so much. Even if I tried to buried it, it always rose from that shallow grave.
The raw honesty made her pulse quicken. The masks worn by both of them slowly crumble. The gruff grumpy England, and the nonchalant no care for the world Spain was nowhere to be seen. It was just them. Arthur and Isabella.
She left her thumbs, but his smile remains. His gaze softened, warm and tender, just like it had before.
"Isabella…," his smile radiating warmth, "If I'd known it would be this easy, I would've asked the fairies to do something long ago."
She chuckled. "Well, where's the fun in that? No drama, and you'd probably mind your thoughts too much anyway."
They laughed. Together. A scene straight out of their memories, frozen in time yet alive in the present.
When they returned to the meeting room, the air felt noticeably lighter than before, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from the both of them.
Sooo… about the thing that I've thought before. Would you be willing? Sober this time.
Her face flushed a deep red again, hiding her face between the stacks of paper, but making sure a small nod was still visible.
The next meeting.
After what felt like eternity — even though it had only been a month since the last one — England and Spain seemed noticeably closer than ever. They still argued but now it was mostly just playful teasing. And this time, England seemed lighter somehow.
Canada was the first to notice a warm smile forming on England's face.
America grinning from across the table, couldn't help blurting out, "Dudeeee, been so long since I've ever saw him smiled like that. Not since- yeah… not since…" The words of rebellion caught in his throat. He stopped himself, not wanting to reopen any old wounds.
Then they heard a small chuckle. Followed by full blown laugh.
"Wow, the old man is really smitten. That's the first time I've heard that. Even though it's … eugh. Good for him I guess." America fake-gagged and laughed. A genuine joy could be felt; the guilt eased up a little
"Yep I agree. Really good for him." Canada added smiling, "And you too."
Later, when Canada saw England alone, he approached him with a smile.
"Good for you, Arthur. I see you're already in good shape. I suppose that everything ended well between the two of you?"
England raised an eyebrow, "Hey, since when did you become such a tease?"
Canada shrugged, suppressing a grin, "Hmm…, probably since my 'father figure' is about to have a 'mother figure' for me and the others."
"Hush. Shut up you." England muttered, but the corner of lips betrayed him. "And for the record, it's 'brother figure'"
They both laughed together.
For the first time.
The fairies, watching from a safe distance — making sure England didn't see them — let out a collective sigh of reliefs. Then they beamed with joy. "We did such a good job, we do. Hurray for the great teamwork!!"
A soft clinking of tiny bells echoed, audible only to those sensitive enough to their kind.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.