The Hours That Remain

Chapter 6: Black Sheep

In the bar's tiny, single-person restroom, France takes his sweet time. He checks himself over in the mirror and marvels at how incredibly well he is managing the night so far. France knows himself to be a cunning linguist, but tonight he is just on fire.

Unfortunately, he is not sure how to answer England's question; the reason why he calls the man 'Angleterre'. He can try, though. Perhaps he should say, "Speaking your language is so taxing and saying your name is such a chore. I could never do both at the same time without injuring my vocal cords."

France snorts quietly at the thought.

No, no, no! As funny as it sounds in his mind, that would just be too cruel! England, the poor soul, looked so adorably earnest when he asked, as if he truly did wish for an honest answer. The way pink flushed into his cheeks, crept over the tips of his ears, and then flooded his entire face... It was delightful.

France twists open the sink tap and lets the warm water envelop his hands. So much about England is hilariously compelling. From his characteristic brows, to his frumpy outfits, to the hair that's as stubborn as its owner. How he trips over his own tongue in social settings and struggles to maintain the air of a 'gentleman'. How he squawks at France's light teasing and attempts to furtively hide what, or who, he deeply cares about. He's an old-fashioned nation, born stuffy and prudish. On paper, he sounds boring - like a slice of plain, burnt toast. Yet, for France, England is anything but.

Wiping his hands dry on a paper towel, France realizes he still is not sure of what answer to give his companion. He supposes though, he has time to figure something out. The evening is still young, after all.

Pushing out of the restroom and into the vibrant restaurant, France grasps onto the twinkle of happiness in his heart. It's warm, reassuring, and perhaps even somewhat romantic. What a strange feeling to have on the eve of Brexit. He makes his way back to his seat.

And the blissful atmosphere evaporates.

England is not there.

Faltering, France glances around the bar. His eyes dart from tables, to happy strangers, to dark corners of the room, but there is no sign of his grumpy companion. Quickly, he inspects their seats. England's coat is gone and there are a few crumpled Euro bills resting on the bar counter.

Thorns twist around France's heart. Did England truly just leave without a word?

Utterly bewildered, he runs through the night's events in his mind, trying to place where he went wrong. Was his teasing too much? No, hardly. After a thousand years, England is surely well acquainted with France's flirtatious nature. On some occasions, he's even been responsive to it. But if not that, then what could be the cause for such an extreme reaction?

A familiar voice calls out over the background chatter, nabbing France's attention.

"Hey, France!" the voice cackles from behind. "What're you doing here?"

Startled, France turns to witness a surprising sight: several of his friends squished in a booth clearly meant for fewer people. They all easily meet his gaze. Prussia with his sharp grin, Spain with his tousled brown locks, Belgium, Germany... All welcome appearances of course, but how can this be?

"Big brother France, it's you!" cheers Italy. Smiling wide, he waves his arms enthusiastically. "Come join us!"

"Italy?" France wonders aloud, approaching the group. "Everyone, what are you all doing here?"

"What's it look like?" Romano scoffs. "We're getting drinks, dumbass."

"You should join us!" Italy joyfully repeats, bouncing on his worn, leather chair. He shifts himself over to offer France a small corner of the seat - barely enough for one leg.