The Hours That Remain

Chapter 3: Need vs. Want

Stomping out into the winter chill, England seeks to put as much distance between himself and France as possible. He is not in any mood to be humiliated, taunted, or embarrassed tonight. That encounter was precisely why he wanted to avoid running into any familiar faces. The stress of merely entering that sad, little office was more than enough. Finally, to add insult to injury, he has France's teasing comments swirling around in his head:

'I think perhaps most of them did not even notice your absence.'

A bitter pang hits his heart as England remembers those words. His hurried pace slows.

He shouldn't be bothered by it. He shouldn't expect anyone to miss him, he knows this. And yet, maybe a part of him is still clinging to the slim hope that someone will. That maybe there is someone who truly wanted him there, as part of the Union. Not that he needs anyone to miss him or care about him. Absolutely not. It's just that... It's just that it bothers him, for some reason. That's all.

England holds his cardboard box protectively, as though a mild breeze would toss its contents into the wind. It jostles a bit as he walks through the quiet night. The sky over Brussels is dark and the surrounding area is deserted. There's no one to accompany England on his walk back, which is... Fine. The lonely, pale streetlamps offer enough company anyway.

"Brussels is gorgeous this time of year," sings a loathsome, pompous, froufrou voice. "Don't you think?" France prances up beside him, and England makes a point of not looking at the man.

"I'd prefer if you didn't follow me," England replies. Politely. Calmly.

"You misunderstand, Angleterre!" France exclaims. "I am not walking with you. We just happen to be travelling in the same direction."

England grumbles in agony. It's a shame that the idiot isn't quite within kicking distance. "My hotel is this way," France continues with nonchalance. "It is 'La Résidence'."

A full-body wince snaps through England's body. Oh, for Christ's sake, of course they would be in the same bloody hotel. France giggles. "By the look on your face, I imagine you are staying there as well? But that is to be expected, no? Germany does prefer to place every nation into the same hotel for the sake of convenience."

A sickening feeling of dread settles into England's stomach.

As France reminded him earlier, an EU meeting took place today. For this, all members of the Union were called to Brussels to take part, including him. He foolishly accepted the complimentary room under these pretences. So, naturally, every single person England needs to avoid is currently sharing the same hotel as him. Fan-bloody-tastic.

He looks up to see France eyeing him carefully. His lips are pressed thin and his delicate brows are bent down ever so slightly, as though he is reading a book with small print. Something in the other man's eyes is making England self-conscious and he feels a touch of heat rise in his cheeks.

France's peculiar expression disappears and is replaced with a cheeky smirk.

What on Earth is he after? Is he just trying to playfully get under England's skin or is he after something else? It's difficult to say. France is very cat-like in that regard. Whatever France's motives, though, England refuses to play along. He will not be acting as a form of entertainment for France tonight. He's deciding that right now! So, no matter how much the (creative insult) prods, England resolves that he won't respond to any of it.

And as if on cue, said (creative insult) quickly swipes a loose photograph from England's precious box.

"Oi!" England protests.

"Don't be so secretive," France says, smiling. He looks down at the little picture and lets out a joyful holler. "Ahh! Look at this! It is from the New Year's party of 2000!"

Frozen stiff between red-faced embarrassment and shock, England stares at France as the man ogles the photo. "That is the scarf Finland made for me," France says, pointing to his figure in the picture. "It frayed after one wash, but I didn't mind. It was a little plain anyway – not enough colour for someone of my taste. And... Mon Dieu, Spain's hair is terrible. Look, here! See for yourself."

France pops the picture in front of England's face, tapping it gently. "He tried to copy an American musician, but his hair was far too thick. He ended up looking like a poodle with a bouffant."

Worn paper edges frame a happy group in holiday attire. Greece is barely awake, slouching as he waves at the camera. Germany stands stiffly as Belgium drunkenly hangs off of him. Denmark is in the back, pulling a silly face. The Italy brothers are munching on a bowl of snacks and Spain does, indeed, have ridiculous hair. There they all are, frozen in time.

"Give it here," England mutters over the lump caught in his throat. He's entirely too uncomfortable to be dragging up old memories today. He reaches for the photo, but it darts away from him.

"And you," France continues. "You look the same as ever! Really, you should try smiling for group photos. When you don't, it brings down the mood."

Fed up and flustered, England manages to snatch the image out of France's hands. He stuffs it back in his box and walks away. "I was only curious!" France calls after him.

England knows that France must be enjoying whatever sort of game he's playing right now. Shifting the box's weight in his arms, England reaffirms his resolve to not give in to the twat. All he has to do is get back to his hotel room and bolt the door. He can do this. "Why are you in such a hurry, anyway?" France asks, catching up quickly. He spins with an unnecessary flourish and starts walking backwards to face England. "Hmm... Could it be that you have an important date tonight?"

England doesn't say anything to the idiot. England doesn't react. At. All. "It is hard to imagine someone wanting to date you, but miracles do happen! Maybe it is someone I know?" This might be an impossible task. "Angleterre," France wails in mock distress, "are you listening? You've said hardly a word to me! It's breaking big brother's heart!"

England wonders if he should dive off a bridge, or toss the frog off one instead.

A cool, sly expression crosses France's face. "Ah, I see now. Maybe you are trying to avoid running into--" An audible 'thwang' rings out as France hits a streetlamp at full tilt. He stumbles like an ostrich on an ice-rink and flops over with a high-pitched squeak, grabbing the back of his head.

Startled out of his agitation, England watches the performance with bewilderment... Before absolutely roaring with laughter.

The sight of his posh, intrusive, elegant, narcissistic rival sprawled out in the street sends him rocketing over the moon. Like a lightning bolt from heaven, all England's tightly-wound tension shatters and falls away to nothing. It's the blessed relief he so desperately needs on a night like tonight. Thank God for France and his stupidity. England laughs and laughs until his lungs run out of air and he devolves into a coughing fit, hot tears pricking the edges of his eyes.

Schadenfreude is such sweet mercy.