Our most dear enemy

[gwenchan]

 Personaggi: APH Inghilterra, APH Francia
Rating: Teen and up audiences
Additional tags: Nationverse; Hanahaki disease

Chapter ?/? 
Prompt: Alexithymia

Note: Anche se la condizione dell'alexithymia dovrebbe essere l'impossibilità di esprimere le proprie emozioni, ho voluto giocare sul significato letterale di "nessuna parola per l'emozione"

---

"Greece has eight words for love, did you know that?"

 

France's voice had the raspy undertone of a long silence as he asked his question, fingers idly tapping on the table, because one thing was deciding to sit down and discuss things and one thing was actually doing it. To be honest, England doubted hundreds years of conflicts could be solved in only one session.

 

He hadn't coughed in some time now, about two hours and England didn't dare to wonder out loud how he was doing.

 

"Aren't eight words too much?" he answered, with the silvery sound of the teaspoon against the porcelain and the whistle of the kettle cutting for a moment any other development in the conversation. He poured two cups without even waiting to know if France wanted one.

 

"You must agree that only one is not enough." France grimaced in the bitter taste of Scottish black tea. Right, he had always been the one to drink his beverages with sugar and milk, except for the time he wanted to get all moody and reflective. England passed him the sugar bowl anticipating his request, before turning to fixing milk in his own cup.

 

"And eight are?"

 

It reminded him of a very similar discussion he had with South Italy of all people only two months ago. A lifetime seemed to have passed since that quick and unexpected chat they had outside the conference room of the usual world meeting. South Italy's exasperation still rang in England's ears, with those words more piercing than he'd liked to admit. "Your language uses "I love you" for everything. Of fucking course you're confused."

 

"And what are those words?" he resigned to ask, sipping a bit of his tea with a care given not by the temperature of the beverage, but the fear an iris could suddenly fill his throat. By now the flowers had become only iris, no daisy or forget-me-not on sights for days. France counted on his fingers, with the sure tone of someone who had studied his lesson.

 

"Well, first there's Eros. Sensual love."

 

"Why am I not surprised you started from that?"

 

England swallowed. Sensual love, memories and imagines of flushed skin against flushed skin, a hot mouth all over his body, familiar fingerprints left on his hips as memento for the next day. The universal language that can be transmitted only by touch.

 

"Don't pretend you're ignorant on that. Then there's Agape, unconditional love."

"It must be a novelty for you" England couldn't help to comment, already knowing he was telling a lie. Despite the appearance France was absolutely able of selfless love.

 

Love without expecting anything in return, like the time despite all their rivalries and divergencies France had helped him in nursing back to health after the London Fire. The deep love France had for his people and land.

 

"Philia and Storge, friendship and the love between family members."

"The what now?"

 

Because, if England had to be sincere with himself, it wasn't like he had ever thrived with either friendships or familiar bonding, whether the ones he was born with or those he goofily tried to build from scratch. He curled his hands in fists. That wasn't the matter now. He peered back up at France. Somehow, there were times when they could be considered friends, under a good coating of vitriol. All the times they had gossiped together, for once allied against someone else. Family, however, was a complete different matter.

 

"There's mania, obsessive love."

 

The feeling of jealousy, not burning, more subtle and yet present, each time France flirted with someone else, whether Germany or Spain or God knew who. England would shake his head, telling himself the hell he cared, and yet wondering why he wasn't the one. Because France was his, has always been, his nemesis and only love, his eternal counterpart. His to kill and his to love and his to fuck.

 

Then Ludus, playful love, their session of sparring not anymore to kill each other, but because it was still a funny hobby both of them shared. When they spied on the Axis and found a way to make war be a little less gruesome.

 

"Philautai, self-love" France raised yet another finger as he counted.

"You must be an expert in that" England huffed, having an hard time to find a single occasion in which France hadn't been absolutely in love with himself.

"Oh, please, don't come and tell me the story you have self-issues, because I don't believe it."

 

England secured his grip around his cup. France may not believe he could be able of self-doubting, but losing friends and family, seeing a whole empire come crumbling down, hadn't exactly done wonders for his self-esteem.

 

"And finally pragma" France concluded, cheek cupped in the palm of his hand, a dreamful expression in his eyes. "Enduring love."

 

Love that resisted the strives of life, what was left after the fire of passion had eventually subdued. Love as exactly expected when, at the altar, two people recitate the formula of until death do us apart.

England tapped nails onto the table, pouring himself another cup mostly for having something to do. It would've been easy to admit pragma was what was going on between them since mid 1800, if easy was something they could had. Which, it wasn't.

 

"Eight words for love. Do you think one can work for us?"

 

"Hell if I know" England murmured, trying his best to not roll his eyes and falling miserably. "It's a bit of everything and yet it barely scratch the surface."

 

France laughed; or, he attempted to, for how much the roses and thorns allowed him. Once he caught his breath, he simply said: "Love is fluid, it doesn't have set borders". He had a tone of slightly annoyance , like he couldn't believe he had to explain something so simple. "Do you love me, England?"

 

 

That was a question kids asked to their school-crush after having send a heart-full note and maybe a box of chocolates. Honestly, in the mouth of a centenarian nation it sounded out of place.

"You already know it. Don't make me say it."

"Well, even if I may. This" France pointed at his throat "Doesn't."

 

 

England let his gaze wander as he tried to imagine being a couple, for how much their kind could do. Getting up in the morning and finding France in the kitchen would surely irritate him so much. Yet, he also felt that more for an habit. The alternative would be worst.

 

"I like when we eat together and when we bicker over work and anything else really" he began to concede. If love could be expressed not only in words, but also in gestures, that was the language in which he felt to be the most fluent. He looked up at France, pretending he wasn't seeing him brushing away white and red rose petals, cleaning a trail of blood with the back of his hand. His throat too kept feeling itchy, but irises didn't have thorns.

 

"What about you? Don't tell me you love me."

Maybe turning the question would've helped him in shedding some light in all that mess.

 

"If I'd tell you I don't, I would be lying."

England was sure the new, small rose in the middle of France's palm had only been coughed to underline the point and spite him.

"But. I can sense a but" he insisted.

 

"But it's complicate. Yet, as a start, I'd like to celebrate a second one hundred years anniversary of our little Entente" France continued, with that smile he wore so rarely and England knew it was genuine from the way France furrowed a little his eyebrows.

"That was merely a Commercial agreement" he muttered, only to be dismissed by an elegant wave of the hand.

"What about the Tunnel?"

"Again, commercial."

"The time you proposed?"

"War necessity. And you refused."

 

Somewhere inside him, the refusal burnt still, no matter how many times France had explained his reasons, changing his story each time a bit; no matter how much England claimed it was only Churchill's idea and he had never had nothing to do with it. Just as France insisted the refusal had spurred from Pétain, not from him.

 

 

"I can't say I don't love you, somehow" England whispered then, so low it would've been impossible for France to hear. Hell knew if he tried to deny it and each time another full formed iris had come to expose his lies. England put two fingers in his mouth to retrieve a new flower.

 

"Somehow."

 

"I suppose Greece doesn't have a word for I still very like to kill you but I also for some reason like your company and I feel something, but it's not just love."

 

"No. But maybe Germany does. He's the one who can invent new words."

 

Before England could say anything, France was already tapping on his smartphone. "Done" he feigned an innocent smile, the damn bastard. Moments later, the phone pinged.

"Here. Germany says Hassliebe is the word for hate love, but it's not that, right?"

England nodded. Hate-love only scratched the surface. France tapped a bit more.

"Liebentrugshass. Love, deception and hate."

"Still not right."

 

More tapping, then a pause, France's fingers ghosting over the phone."So what are we?" he reprised when he must have deemed the pause long enough.

 

A question so simple and yet so complex England's first reaction was to slam his hands down on the table and shout in frustration, exhibiting himself in the perfect example of a kid tantrum. It passed quickly, the continuous breathing problems normally would tire him excessively for anything more than a quick and salty comment. He buried his hands into his messy hair.

 

"It's that we've always been together" 

That was it, in all its simplicity. Beyond all that had come between them, from that very first meeting when their mutual hatred set, their lives irremediably had been intertwined. No matter if enemies or allies, whenever England looked back, France had been there, before Portugal or Spain and certainly before America.

 

"I'm not ready for this to change" he admitted. One thing was to scream from the rooftops he hated France's guts, one thing was it to be still reality. "Because if I'm not your rival, then who am I?"

There, the expression of the core of the problem. So much England had built his life around France, around that eternal chase, that now he felt to have lost part of his identity.

France's shoulders raised for a deep sigh. "England" he provided, pinching his nose. Both for the recent turmoil inside the EU and the hanahaki, he looked immensely tired too.

"What?"

"You're England."

"Wow, somebody rediscovered the wheel. England. The bastard sheep of Europe."

"You like it, though."

 

England let his gaze lowered. He had liked it, once, his dear isolation but in the end it was mostly because it was easier to deal with it rather than abandonment. "I like being alone when it's a choice, not because everyone else left me" he spitted out. He knew immediately by the look on France's he was having nothing of it. No wonder, after all their fights and iron-arm negotiations when England had chosen to leave the EU. Had it really been a choice, then? It wasn't like them nations had free will.

"Nobody left you"

"Whatever."

 

He let the topic fall only because they had something more pressing to discuss. It wasn't only a matter to give a name to their relationship - that would be the easy part - but to decide, in case, how to act on it.

 

England wrapped his arms around his chest in silent shield, diverting a bit his gaze.

 

"And we aren't humans."

 

In the end, all their problems born from that fact. It was difficult to feel anything when one didn't even know if what was feeling was their or belonged to a strange collectivity. Did he, England intended as the human who chosen to be called Arthur, still hated the human who once chosen to be called Francis. It may as well being the fruit of habit.

 

"I know. So what? We can love all the same"

 

France's attempts to catch his hands didn't go as he must have planned. England watched him resign to sit back in his kitchen chair, as England's hands stood firmly anchored at his ribcage.

 

"We can't. It would be for too long"

 

Two humans could promise eternal love and sometimes even succeed because their eternity was a joke.

"We wouldn't last a year" England continued. Even so, one can give it a year, maybe ten, or even a century, eventually their immortality would bring them back to ruin. Eternal love was something England had stopped to believe in a long time ago. France, on the other hand, was ever the dreamer.

"Always so pessimistic, England." 

"I'm not pessimistic. I'm just being real. Look at us."

 

Unable to get along on one thing if not prompted by their bosses orders or daring circumstances, always bickering over the pettiest of thing because it was so much easier doing that than actually cooperate.

 

England knew to have said, again, the wrong thing the moment France brought his closed fist to his chest, giving himself some quick taps on the sternum to ease, somehow, the new coughing fit. "I do" he panted, breath labored and stinking of the new roses. "The person I once swore to annihilate is sitting across to me at a table and strangely I don't feel it absurd. If someone a couple centuries ago had told you this, would've believed them?"

 

"Ah" England snickered. "I would have told them they were utterly out of their minds."

 

To think that once he didn't even care much with what other country he was allying, as long as it was against France. The same France that had just put down his cup after a sip to wash away the petals still stuck in his throats, knuckles against his cheek and a revealing, soft smile.

 

"See?" he said, so absurdly calm, "worst thing that can happen is that we're back at hating each others guts, so square one. Been there, done that."

 

How could he make everything feel so easy, England didn't know. Between something being familiar and not hurting there was quite the difference. Yes, once they hated each other, but at the time it was normalcy, before they could even know something different was possibile.

 

"It would hurt nonetheless" he said. France nodded with gravity. " Yes, but I'd rather not to think too far ahead. Things will forever be doomed if you believe they are before even trying"

 

Preparing for the wound still was a way to make the wound hurt less when it actually happens. People come and people go, that was a truth England couldn't yet abandon. Another iris found its way into his mouth. He looked at it, then gazed over at France, the only sure presence in his life aside from his brothers. If he had to give a name to the sensation, he could've called it the feeling of being exactly where it was supposed to be. Like he had felt during that meal they shared all those months ago, the security of knowing your once worst enemy isn't anymore.

 

Then, looking back at the last year, it was becoming clear what he had with America was something, but surely not romantic love. To understand it, however, would have taken another whole day and right now England had more pressing matters to deal with.

 

"Alright" he resigned to agree, his own voice surprising even him. "So we're doing this."

"Always the romantic one. You make it sound like a military operation."

 

It took quite the self-control to not snap again. It seemed they could never get enough of it, the contrast, the bickering, so much they really needed a new word for what they had. There was Ludus, in it, though; and Storge; and, yes, Eros was there too.

 

"Fine. But we're not boyfriends or anything. That would be too childish."

 

And limiting, England added, aside. That, however, he didn't say, only waiting for the reply he had no doubt would come.

"Love is never -" France began, only for his phone notifications to cut him off before he could finish the rest of the sentence. "Oh, Germany answered my second text. He said that, if we had to invent a word, the one for us would be: Vertrauensabhängigkeitsschmerzstreithaftigkeit."

 

He hesitated on the pronunciation, fingers back at tapping on the phone keyboard. England grimaced. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

His German was quite rusty these days, especially with hyper long and invented words.

"Literally.The fight you have when someone who your trust is dependent on pains you."

 

"It still doesn't feel right."

The fight didn't really pain England, not anymore. It had been there and it still was, almost a comforting presence. He scratched his throat, the petals always tickling. One would thought they would magically go away, but maybe that only how humans, not nations, work. It may as well be they would never disappear. Thinking about it, that seemed to be France's case, love so much a presence in his life to become chronically sick. 

As for England, he spent months to try and understand why he got sick all of sudden after hundreds of years, eventually resigning to accept he may as well never know. He should as well accept they could never find a word for what they were having.

 

"But we can't stay here all night finding a word that it doesn't even exist" he sighed, attempting at having a tone of complicity. By the look in his eyes, he knew already France was agreeing. Then, for him everything has always been Love.

 

"Then, it's just us? No labels? Would that work?"

 

England nodded. Us. Nous. They both had a nice sound, no need to labeling something that maybe wasn't even meant to be labelled.

 

"Yes."

 

Their discussion was far from being concluded and resolved, as now came to decide what to do with their new knowledge, if to continue things as they were or to act on them. It took only an exchanged glance to agree that would wait yet another day. They were old nations, one problem at a time.

 

France got up, starting to gather both their cups to put them in the sink. The clock on the wall struck six and a half. Then he wrapped his arm around England's waist and for once England let him."So, shall I treat you to dinner as a start? Scotland taught me all the best places in Edinburgh."

Normally England wouldn't have trust his brother with anything, let alone receiving suggestion about eating places; but Scotland and France had always got overall along, so it was right to suppose the place France would pick based on Scotland's suggestions would be good.

"Oh, fine." He glanced up at the clock. "Let's say you reserve for eight om?"

"Eight thirty?"

France gave him a quick peck on the cheek and again England scoffed, but let him.

"Alright" he conceded, feeling a smile tugging the corners of his lips. "Deal."