The lion sleeps tonight

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: HWS England, HWS France

Prompt: Respiro quieto

"Alright, this is ridiculous. I don't actually talk like that. And by the way the Eiffel Tower is not visible from there, I can tell you and ... are you even listening?"

Head on France's shoulder, England doesn't grant him the honour of an answer. While on the screen the heroine massacres his beautiful language, France rolls his eyes.

"Of course. He's French so he must be some kind of deviant pervert."

It's met again with absolute silence, safe from the constant chatting and occasional explosions coming from the television. Which is to say something. Normally England would never lose a chance to reiterate the fact that, yes, he is a pervert and so are his people. Instead, nothing. 

"I sincerely hope you aren't ignoring me on purpose."

He refuses to believe the Englishman is anyhow actually interested in this second-rate thing America insists on calling a movie. France knows  movie-school freshmen who could do ten times better with half the effort.

"Fine, enough."

He is stretching toward the remote lying somewhere between the pillows when something warmish and wet trickles down his neck. He jerks away.

"Ugh - what? Oh, that's disgusting."

It's spit. France cringes. But England would never spit on him on purpose - not anymore, at least. Last time was well before the Entente, more than a century ago. Which means either he had an unexpected regression in the last hour or so or ... oh, of course. 

Finally grabbing the remote, France silences the audio, cutting all noises except the buzzing from the static and England's quiet, regular breathing.

He's fallen asleep. 

He's fallen asleep and he's drooling on Francis' shoulder. 

That’s somehow endearing; but also gross. Very, very gross. France taps him lightly on the side.

"England? You sleeping?"

Murmuring something unintelligible England snuggles a bit closer and lets out a little huff. France bumps him in the side with a bit more strength. Again, he gets no reaction.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Well, given the status in which England had welcomed him a few hours ago, and the shade of the bags under his eyes, it was only a matter of time. He would bet his hat that England hasn't had a  proper night of sleep in some days. 

At least France had somehow managed to coax him to take a pause. Meaning, he managed to have England sit on the couch to work on his laptop while he popped in the movie, one of America's he found buried in England's drawers. He knew how much England loved those, despite all his claims of the contrary.

And as previewed, after some more grumbling, soon enough England had begun lifting his head from the work to glance more and more to the screen. Eventually, about half an hour into the movie, he had completely abandoned the pretence. Another half an hour and the help of some hot brew, he was leaning against France, enough engrossed into the plot to not actually notice or care. 

And now sleep has had the best of him.

"I see," France chuckles, softly, shifting on the couch carefully so as not to wake England up. 

Seeing he hasn't yet, he probably won't, but he's not about risking his luck too much. Gentle and slow, he guides him to lay down till he has his head on the pillows. England mutters something that sounds a lot like old Anglo-saxon.

"Be right back."

He knows exactly where England keeps the blankets, and one in particular, patchworked and that has always been his favourite. When France comes back, he has rolled on his other side, one knee to his chest and his left arm pinned under his chest. It's the first time in ages France sees him with his face relaxed.

"You'll get all pins and needles" he warns. If he were awake, England would tell him to shut up and that he isn't his mother. This England sniffs and shivers. Wiggling, he buries himself further into the blanket as soon as France covers him till nothing but the crown of his head and the tip of his ears peak out. It's an old habit, one he has never lost from his days in the forest where he would bundle up in his green cape to fight the cold and the rain.

Under the cover, his shoulders raise and fall at a quiet, steady pace, following a breathing that has got calm and regular. From time to time he whispers half-words, but they are too quick and too slurred for France to understand. Yet, at a certain point he's certain to hear England cursing against the mice for stealing his banana bread.

"I’ll bake you some more tomorrow morning,” he whispers with soft hilarity.  Feet pressed against his thighs, England hums appreciatively. With some luck tomorrow morning he’ll be sufficiently rested to be in a good enough mood to not protest upon finding France in his kitchen, uninvited - because given the time, France is not down searching for a hotel right now, let alone taking the train home. He’ll make himself comfortable in one of the guests' bedrooms; or England’s, once he has carried him to bed, the same bed they had shared time and time again. He’s not sure.

Things haven’t been exactly peachy between him and England as of recent, despite old promises they would always keep their private and public lives separated. Some of the newer cuts have yet to heal. There are new dynamics to consider, new things to negotiate. But they will get there. They had always had

Finding himself staying at England house for the night, with England that could have put him at the door at any time during the evening, instead of agreeing to cook dinner together and later watch a movie snuggled on the couch, is a good start.