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I.The first time England saw France, they were just children. The sun of the late autumn afternoon made France’s hair gleam like spun silk, and England had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run his grubby fingers through it. He crushed the strange desire down, and tried not to think about it again.II.They’re at war, yet again. But despite the anger he holds for France (which, when he thinks about it a little too much, he’s not really sure why he’s so angry at the other nation), he can’t help but think how righteous and noble he looks among his men, brow furrowed in determination, his uniform streaked with blood and dirt. England thinks about undressing him, washing him, bandaging his wounds. He gets shot in the shoulder, which quickly rids him of any such thoughts and back to the task at hand.III.It’s Christmas Eve, and England is home alone, yet again celebrating the holiday on his own. He’s lost count of how many decades, how many centuries, he’s gone through the festive season alone. A glance to his telephone - a new invention, one that he’s rather grateful for; he can’t count how many letters he’s sent over his lifetime - and he considers ringing France, to ask if he would like to do something together… But no, he’s sure the other is entertaining, frivolous as always, milling his way between humans, living like he’ll die as one of them. England shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He’s not jealous of them, certainly not! He doesn’t care that France will be taking one (or more) of the pretty women to his bed to celebrate the night. He doesn’t wish it was his lips being kissed, his skin being touched. Sitting down heavily in his favourite armchair, he pours himself a whiskey, not even bothering to water it down before he takes a sip. He isn’t in love with France - the idea is absolutely preposterous. He continues to tell himself that with every sip of whiskey he takes until he drags himself to bed and passes out in his drunken state.IV.It’s 1940, and England has just evacuated as many soldiers as he can from Dunkirk. He tries not to think how his heart is in tatters over leaving France on his own soil, the little pocket that’ll soon be torn apart by the invading armies. To see the Frenchman crying - not for himself, but for his people - it felt like part of his already shredded world-weary soul had been pulled away, left in France, like it could somehow be a scrap of comfort to the other personification. All he can do for now is pray that he can somehow get those French soldiers across the channel and to his own miraculously safer lands.V. Phones are much smaller now, easier and yet harder to use, and still England doesn’t have the courage to call France to ask how he’s spending the evening and if perhaps he’d like to go out to dinner together, though it’s certainly not on a date! He knows he could text, but it just seems too impersonal… So he cracks open the whiskey again, and drinks, reasoning with himself that it’s perfectly fine to be an alcoholic when he’s lived as long as he has and seen everything he’s seen. Having the thought of texting France probably wasn’t the best idea though, because his clumsy, drunk fingers tap out I’m coming over and send it without regard for how sober England will feel about all this the next morning. He pulls on his shoes and his coat and heads out, navigating the streets with ease, until he’s standing on France’s front step and knocking on his door with a cheery little rhythm. The other opens it up within seconds, brow furrowed in concern. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” he asks, one hand on his hip. England mimics him, laughing. “Perhaps a little,” he admits. “But sometimes I wonder when I’m not. I mean, I’m old, and I have a lot of things to deal with. Work, memories, emotions.”France snorts. “Yes, emotions indeed.” It’s clear he knows something, making England press his lips together into a thin line. “What’re you implying?” he asks. “I’m allowed to have them, y’know!”“Yes, of course you are, Angleterre,” France says, “but I do wonder how you deal with some of them… One’s you have been struggling with for you. Do I dare to say you are in love?”England splutters, shifting to lean against the door frame to stop himself from sitting on the ground in his intoxication. “No. No! I most certainly am not in love with you.”“I never said you were,” the French nation says gently. “But it seems you have confirmed my thoughts. I’ve been wondering for decades, for centuries, when you’ll find admit it to yourself, and me.” He kneels down before the other, warm hands cupping stubbled cheeks. “There’s no need to deny it any longer. I love you too.” He smiles gently, before standing to help the other to his feet. “Come inside. Dinner is still warm. Food will help you sober up and then we can discuss this properly.”England blinks, his usual eloquence escaping him as he accepts the help and steps into the warm house. It smells like the other man, and good French food, and yeah, he’s nervous about the impending discussion, but a little part of his brain says sober England will be grateful for his drunk decision, and France’s ability to read him like an open book. There’s no use opposing it any longer. “I love you too,” he says with a inebrated smile, always more honest with alcohol in his system, a little bit of Dutch courage. “I always have, and I always will.”