All The Time In The World

[pyrrhiccomedy]

Title: All The Time In The World
Originally posted: Here, for ghostofthemotif for her reverse request post. Thanks to lilichen for bravely providing me with some French profanity. *grins*
Length: 2500 words.
Characters/Pairings: England/France.
Premise: Here's the prompt - "England/France. The two nations discuss whether or not they believe a 'united world without borders' would result in their deaths, or if they'd be freed from their responsibilities and able to lead a normal life. Wishes for their future, fears for their countries, and grudgingly comforting words would be nice inserts." I did my best!
Time period: Modern.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 3/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 2/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: It's basically a rambly, philosophical conversation between a couple of cranky old married people. It's also my first time writing for this pairing--I hope I did all right.

---

He didn't know how a thousand years of war with France had turned into more than a century of cooperation--or how a century of cooperation had turned into knowing how he liked his sodding eggs for breakfast.

"Sit down, Angleterre, before you break something." France swept him away from the counter to a sunlit corner of the room laid out already with honey, tea and crumpets.

France liked his eggs 'not prepared by England.'

England huffed and folded himself down at the sunwarmed breakfast table.

"Such a rude child," France went on. England watched as France took over his station at the stove, changed the temperature for the gas burner, and sloshed England's half-finished attempt at eggs machiavellian into the sink. "I'm sure it's all your influence. Do you know what he said to me, at the G8? That he was looking forward to when, in his words, 'this whole EU thing really goes official,'" France's upper lip curled, "And he only had to deal with one of us."

"What do you mean, my influence?" England protested. "The only one I'm rude to is you." He picked up a crumpet, warm and spongy and crisp on top, and flexed it a little in his hand. He always made sure to bring these, when he stayed at France's house. Otherwise, it'd be croissants and brie for breakfast every morning, or something, and England would rather die.

"Only in your opinion," France replied. Their eyes met briefly over the counter, and neither of them smiled, because neither of them had to. He went on, "He said we're all 'too much to keep track of,' 'he's busy, you know'--he said we're not much different from his states, and it would be so convenient if he could 'deal with us all at once.'"

"America's iron grip on the nuances of foreign policy has always been his most salient virtue." England reached for the honey.

"I said to him, yes, just like your states, aside from the thousands of years of history which make us distinct and separate us--"

"Still not separated far enough," England added.

"I reminded him of that, too; how you don't even think of yourself as European."

"Yes? And what did he say?"

"He said 'if you can fly there in an hour from Paris, it's Europe.'" France flipped something steaming in the pan onto a plate, tossed his hair, and came out from the wide and well-appointed kitchen to join England at the breakfast table. England didn't even recognize what he was eating, and he was far too proud to ask to try it. And France would make him ask.

He took a bite from his crumpet with great deliberation. "You should have reminded him that there are parts of his country from which one can fly in an hour to Russia, if that's all it takes to be culturally interchangeable."

"I should," France agreed, "If I did not bruise so easily."

A little pause while they both imagined one of America's face-heel turns, from 'I'm trying to be diplomatic, honest' to someone getting laid out with a mouthful of broken teeth.

France shrugged it away. "You could do it, Angleterre; no one would notice if your teeth were made any worse. And a pretty bruise might even improve your general appearance."

England swatted France's hand away and claimed the table salt. "Oh, sod off."

---

"You know, it does get me thinking." England stretched back in his chair once they finished their meal. France glanced up from perusing some gossip magazine. "Our politicians do like to talk about 'a united world without borders;' do you think anything will ever come of it?"

France looked blank for a few seconds. "Oh…this is about that thing America said?"

"Mm. I can't imagine someone like us ever emerging to represent the EU, but…"

"Neither can I," France murmured. "Although, perhaps I wouldn't mind; fewer tedious meetings I would have to attend."

"It's not as if it's unprecedented," England reflected, "Established nations banding together and giving way to some overarching entity. Just last month I had a lovely chat with United Arab Emirates. Have you seen the plans for that new tower he's building?"

"Perhaps, but consider your brothers." France flicked his magazine onto the table. "You've represented all of them for years, and you all persist just the same as you always have."

"Unfortunately," England sighed.

"It takes more to make one of us than the legal fact of a country. They need that…ah, how did you put it, once? That touch of destiny."

"But it does happen," England repeated.

France threw away a lazy smile and shrugged away a lock of hair. "Don't tell me you're worried about waking up some morning as part of some--how do you imagine it, cheri? Some monster out of America's terrible movies, stitched together from various parts of all of us? Perhaps Germany's volume, Italy's good sense, Austria's efficiency, Spain's resolve, your appalling fashion sense…my God, suddenly I see why you might be worried--"

"Very droll," England grumbled. "And what part would you play in this Frankenstein?"

"I will not participate," France demurred. "But I will be happy to offer it advice on how it could improve itself."

"Oh, do we just get to opt out? In that case, I'll keep my fashion sense, and your monster can go about naked, for all I care."

"I'm sure all the others feel the same. So I wouldn't worry."

England made a vague sound in the back of his throat and sipped at his tea. France looked out the window. England watched France's profile over his teacup while France's attention was away. Ten o'clock sunlight fell across him and bathed him in a soft luster. It was…greasy, really; not a glow at all--France just needed a shower. And a shave; and the way the first two buttons on his shirt hung open was certainly no way to present oneself when there were guests in the house, and--

"Like what you see, Angleterre?" France smiled, his chin propped in his hand, still gazing out over the garden.

"Certainly not." England crossed his legs.

He suspected for a while that France was only concentrating on looking photogenic in the sunlight, but then the other nation let out a little sigh and suggested, "It would take a very long time."

"--Sorry?" England's eyes flickered up from the triangle of radiant skin exposed below France's collar.

"For our people to forget us--and think of themselves as something else." He folded his arm down on the table.

"…I'm sorry, I don't follow…"

"Your 'united world without borders.'" France glanced his way. "We would have to become very nearly culturally indistinguishable, don't you think? My people are French. They have been French for as long as there have been nations in Europe."

"Likewise." England scratched the side of his nose. "That is, English, but--"

"There are so many things that make us distinct. History, prejudice, culture…"

"Good taste," England added. "Notions of decency."

"--Language…your language really does make a horrible sound, rosbif--"

"Yes, yes…"

"Compared to French, you know, in which you can say va te faire foutre, enculé or ma saucisse est dans la bouche de ta maman and make it sound like poetry--"

"I beg your pardon--"

"And cuisine; French cuisine is, after all, the best in the world, while yours," he sighed. "What you do to food is a crime. I mean it. It is a crime, and you should be punished."

"Did you just say your sausage was in my mother's--"

"I would say you should be sent to prison, but there you might actually find the cuisine to be an improvement. Maybe shot--"

England finally noticed the edge in France's voice. He peered at him. "Is this something you've worried about?"

"My people are French," he repeated.

A thin grey tension stretched the air between them. England extended his legs before him and laced his fingers in his lap. France propped his chin up again and looked determinedly out the window.

"I'm sure I would never have brought it up, if I'd known it was a real concern," he said at last.

France shrugged. "You aren't as involved in the EU as I am. It's impossible not to think about it, when you can see this unification, drawing us closer every day. Those boundaries between us blurring..."

"So all of these laws of yours, to, ah, protect your language and culture from outside--"

"I'm not the only one with those laws." That a touch sharply. "There are many of us concerned about safeguarding our identities."

"I thought you were just being petty," England mused. France flashed him a grimace of a smile and rubbed the side of his jaw against his shoulder. "But…come now. Even if the nations of Europe should be, as you say, drawn together--or the nations of the whole world, for that matter--there's nothing so very disastrous in that, is there? Falling under the auspices of some wider state? Moving into Germany's basement seems to have had no effect on Prussia other than to free up more time for him to be wanker--"

"But you see less and less of him lately." There was no mistaking the anxiety in France's voice, now. England wasn't sure what to make of it. "He doesn't like to associate with us as much. Where do you think he goes?"

"I…suppose he's getting drunk and picking fights, as usual--"

"Is that a fitting pastime for a nation?" France demanded. He turned in his chair to face England, his arms folded before him.

"--You're asking me?"

France flicked his fingers through the air. "You still do other things, Angleterre…occasionally," he allowed. "That is what it means to be a nation, no? We set trends, liaise with our leaders, attend conferences and meetings--"

"So many meetings…" England exhaled.

"--Take part in the occasional war, when there is nothing better to do…would you really be content to spend every day at the pub?" He overenunciated that last word.

England thought about it. It…didn't sound so bad, honestly, but he thought somewhere in there he could see France's point.

"Prussia, Romano, the others like them…I pity them," France finished. "And what if they become too like their fellow states? When there is nothing left for them to represent? How long will it be, do you think, before we look around and realize that no one has seen Prussia in decades? And that none of us any longer expect to?"

That sat between them for a little while. England chewed on his lip. France's fingers twitched on his napkin.

England chuffed. "You know, it used to be that the only danger of inconsequentiality we ever faced would come from war--civil war, or conquest. But you propose that all this peace may make us obsolete."

France looked down at the table, at his perfect fingernails. His hair fell before his eyes. "It was from fighting each other that we first defined ourselves," he observed.

England twitched him a tiny smile that went unseen. "So it was. But surely you don't prescribe more war?"

"Of course not." France sniffed and looked up, waggled his hand carelessly. "After the last one, I think we've all learned our lesson."

"Well, then…"

"I just wonder how much longer I will be France, and you will be England." A quiet, guarded glance. "Or how long who we are will even matter."

England watched himself as he reached out and patted France's hand. "You're an existential bastard, aren't you," he sighed.

A wince of a smile. "You'll have to indulge me, mon ami." His fingers steepled and laced into England's.

England studied their interwoven hands and said slowly, "I should think…that so long as you care who you are, and how active you are in that role, then things will stay the way they are." France didn't relax, but he watched England without objection. England knew them, all of France's little tells of anxiety: from his eyes, to his mouth, to his hands. England had learned to read France's hands before England had learned to read. "The very fact that our cultural independence is important to us, protects us from relinquishing it."

"But, if this is inevitable…" France tightened their fingers together.

England smiled. "Well, perhaps I'll just have to learn to cook at last."

France gave a soft laugh, but said, "I'm serious."

"I know you are, and you really do worry about the damndest things, but…so am I. After all, if we were all like Prussia and Romano…that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it? We might finally have time to--to get to know each other, I suppose--"

"I think we all know each other more than well enough--" France started.

"--Not…just getting to know each other for how we might use it against one another, I mean…purely for enjoyment. That is, without the--concern of protecting our interests, simply…simply because we have an interest…in how..." England stopped, flushed, tugged to get his hand away, and muttered, "Bloody hell, would you listen to me go on…"

France held firm, and his smile finally crept into his eyes. "I am, Angleterre. …Thank you."

England rubbed his eyes. "If you repeat one sodding word of this…"

France laughed and raised England's hand to his lips, kissed it. It only made England flush deeper, damn them both. "I promise. And what's more: if a united world ever does free up a great deal of time for both of us--I promise I will try to teach you how to cook. Try," he repeated.

"Well," England managed, and he had pinkened to the tips of his ears, but it wasn't…altogether terrible. He cleared his throat. "Well. Are we quite finished with this metaphysical waste of time, then? Because--"

"I know." France let him go. "You have a meeting with the prime minister at noon. You'd best go and prepare."

"Quite, yes." England tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. Their eyes met for a moment.

Perhaps one day, we won't always be rushing off like this.

Neither of them said it, but they both betrayed an involuntary little smile.

England snorted. "As if I'd ever become indistinguishable from the likes of you."

"I don't know why I even thought of it," France chuckled, and picked up his magazine. "Not even the inexorable pressure of history could turn a lump of coal like you into a diamond." He tossed back his hair.

"Coal is actually useful," England informed him. "All diamonds do is sparkle about doing nothing."

"But doing it beautifully, cheri."

England took his leave, and France did not see him to the door. But England allowed himself to look back, once, and he saw France's smile still lingering around the edges. He wished he had time to go back and kiss it--even if that meant kissing the pretentious git it was attached to.

One day.

Perhaps.

Comments

[pyrrhiccomedy.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you so much! That's really nice to hear! =D