They're built from the dust of old empires, millennia together and minutes together. The way the sunlight halos France's golden hair, the way grass after rain matches England's eyes. They fight and they love and somewhere between the days of battle and the nights together lines blur and neither of them exist alone. Intertwined through all those years touching, not touching. Together either way.

Rainy days and old movie reruns, warm afternoons and walks along the Seine. The slow decent of two who knew their destination and were enjoying the view on the way there. The houses of parliament and the city of love. Words whispered between breaths and heartbeats in the quiet of the night. Falling together, drifting apart. But never far, never out of reach. Always held together by that little string of fate.

Some days one will break .Then they scream in harmony with the shattering of hearts and plates. It never last forever, not in the way that they themselves do, after all, broken hearts can be an easy fix. And they do fix it, they glue each other back together with laughter, muttered comment and gentle touches and they wear the new scars proudly, battle wounds from wars that are much more easily won.

They part ways. When business calls and the world outside can no longer keep its distance. On those days -weeks, months- France sees England in the steam rising from a cup of tea, in the sound of the Beatles as they sing from a taxi radio, in the sun through the tree leaves and the laughter of children in the park.

On those, weeks -months, years- England waits. Counts his scars like friends around a table and watches the rain pitter patter through a gutter hole. Imagines that the blue of the sky is the blue of France's eyes and that the whisper of the wind is France's breath on his neck.

In the winter it snows in London and the cars and foot fall turn it to slush, puddles freeze over, ghosts of the frozen Thames that only exists in memorise. England remembers the scratching of skates and joyful shouts, lighting fires in the hearth and cradling warm tea to chase away the chill. Warm hands and soothing words that do it just as well.

Across the Channel France wills the ocean to freeze that he might cross it. Wakes up alone without the smell of burning from the kitchen and wonders if it is worth getting out of bed.

In the spring Paris is beautiful. Flowers bloom in window boxes and the old city has new life. France pulls on a light coat and walks amongst his people, greets an old couple and dismisses the ache in his chest by purchasing a rose for a young lady in front of café, feeling the ache grow as she thanks him in a sturdy English accent. A spring rain catches him unaware, soaking through his coat and forcing him into a shop doorway. The smell of old parchment and worn pages bring alight memories of sunny afternoons, plush armchairs, good books and good company. Of picnics and lazy reading. The ache becomes nigh unbearable.

In South Kensington England rubs his chest as he catches a breath of lilting French and considers heading home only to stay another hour.

In summer they meet again and their reunion is sweet like the air of a French patisserie and warm like rare British summers. They embrace each other, pretend not to see the other's tears, as they reacquaint themselves with familiar smells, shapes and sounds. Settling into that well acquainted warmth between them. They celebrate Bastille Day, and celebrate each other, kissing under the fireworks and chasing away the old ghost of gunpowder that settle around them by the burning castle.

They sunbathe lazily on the warmer days, indulging in hobbies and each other on the rainy ones. They cradle each other and romanticise. France cooks dinner for two and England takes them out on the town, in remembrance of their youth, he claims. They sleep in past the eight o'clock chimes of Big Ben until it chimes again at noon. They clasp hands under the summer sky and live in the moment and the presence of the other.

In autumn they part again. And the string in their chests pulls taught between them. Yet the calls come and the paper work piles high until they can no longer pretend that they are nothing more than lovers and must remember they have responsibilities outside of each other. They whisper familiar promises as the other crosses the Channel. And as the days grow colder and the nights grow longer their dreams are rife with thoughts of summer, movie reruns, the smell of books, warm hands, the sun in the leaves and that familiar warm ache in their hearts.

This is just a little fruk one shot that I spewed out the other day whilst putting off working on other things. It's my first time writing for this pairing and fandom. Reviews and criticism make my day! I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!

France and England are celebrating Bastille Day in Carcassonne, every year they have a huge fire works display and a light show that ,makes it look like the castle is burning!

South Kensington is a part of London said to be home to many French speaking people. Although in 2012 it was reported that London was 'France's 6th biggest city' as it has a higher French population than some cities in France (don't tell Arthur, haha).

Cover image found here: www. duitang blog/?id=511226946 (remove spaces).