De-anon from the Hetalia Kink Meme.

Here is one of England's greatest skills: hide and seek, minus the seeking.

It's a skill, an art rather, that has been perfected over the many centuries of life he's faced. Occasionally, England wonders when it began: this little habit of hiding away from the world. Trusted teacup in hand, he leans back in his armchair and and shifts through memory after memory after memory, until, before he knows it, he's back at the beginning: lying half-buried in the sand of a beach he knows instinctively is his, with salt-tinged water lapping up around his new, fawn-weak ankles and sand blowing in his eyes.

But this scene of a beach and the waves is lacking in the answer he seeks, so he moves onward through the scenes of his life until he is standing beside Gaul on a hillside; there is confidence in this memory, in himself and his people, but it is short lived, for his childish courage dies the moment Rome appears on the horizon in all his bloodthirsty glory.

There. That is where it begins.

Because it was then, under the siege and swings of those bloody, merciless swords, and the screams of those foreign words, harsh and hot on his young ears, biting like bugs; it is then, growing with Gaul under Rome and the scalding pain of a whip on pale flesh or a sandaled heel upon his head; it is then that Rome engraves fear deep into his young, soft skin.

It continues; his brothers are there when Rome is gone; Arthur shakes and cowers under pounding fists hardly bigger than his own, shivers and ducks under hate filled words not meant to spout from the lips of his kin; he makes a habit of hiding deep in the forest until morning; it is a night full of hunger and cold and shaking, but it is a night without his brothers.

And then, it is 2011; there are airplanes in the sky and cars replacing horses and buildings as high as the sun; he is allied and ready and armed enough to protect his borders, should the need arise. But the habit of hiding and fearing has not left him all these years.

(It is something deeply ingrained in his bones, carved in with the hands of other nations since he was only a child; it is simply his nature to fear the others around him; he is nothing more than a rabbit dressed up as a wolf.)

England covers himself in a careful disguise - for fear is a weakness, he knows - stitched up just as carefully as his embroidery, a clever costume of an angry man filled with hate and pride and arrogance, who speaks nothing but insults and arguments and curses.

(And silently whispers of loneliness.)

But unknown to those around him, England is fragile as glass; he is a small, scared, weak, little thing hiding in the too large clothes of a once proud and powerful Empire. But he takes care to hide it away; shoves it behind a cleverly crafted masquerade mask and holds his head high and back straight.

(What, lonely? Never. Can't you see how very calm he is?)

Emotions are tricky little things; they have clawed at his insides time and time again, leaving him so weary and battered and raw that he wishes to dig out his own heart. (Perhaps force it into a little glass jar and throw it into the depths of the River Thames; his heart always did lie with the water.)

England has lived centuries and centuries, and with time he has grown older - if not wiser - and has learned how to tuck those dastardly emotions away from sight and mind; it's always easier to pretend they don't exist, isn't it?

(But in 1607, a little blond haired boy comes along, digging his little fingers into England's heart and claiming it as his own, freeing those pesky emotions from their cages. For a while, perhaps, England is happy; but good things always end, and suddenly it is 1776; his little boy grows into a soldier who leaves him on a battlefield painted in blood and mud and tears. And with the loss of one, comes the loss of five more and he is as alone as the day he awoke to the world.)

Emotions, those trick little bastards, make him weak. Or so he tells himself, to justify his act of locking them away in the very back dust-covered corner of his mind. It is his Pandora's box, made not to keep the evils of the world locked in, but the emotions of a broken man locked away.

(They make him vulnerable, and he can't have that; he doesn't want another person to sneak their way into his heart and tear him apart from the inside out.)

But despite England's attempts and his locks and his keys, he is not without emotions; they sometimes beat against his chest, screaming and raging and rattling their chains. Your mask is an act, they scream. Your heartlessness a disguise.

(But this is usually after large amounts to drink, when he is not coherent enough to hold as tightly onto his thoughts as he would like; they slip and slide out of his grasp and spin about in his mind, dragging forward memories best left forgotten.)

England is a walking skeleton of a man - but are they truly men? It's a question he's never answered - filled with an aching loneliness he's too stubborn to admit, robotically going through meetings and paperwork and arguments, only to drag himself back to a far too large and empty house.

There are echoes in the old walls, rattling about like ghosts, of little, running feet; there are shadows of children long gone hiding away in corners; there are empty halls and empty rooms that occasionally drive him to the rocky brink of insanity.

(And trust me; he's so very tempted to let himself fall.)

It is in these moments of twisted thoughts and old, aching memories that England finds there is nothing to do, no action to take, but the one thing he is best at.

So he hides; hides from responsibilities and duties and laughing, jeering faces.

(Because dammit, he is not indestructible and he'd take sticks and stones a hundred times over.)

England is sure - as he locks his house and sets off though the stale, December air - that no one will find him hidden away in his rabbit hole and he will be free to escape the world and it's burdens for a peace-filled hour or two.

(But here's the evil whisper in his mind: will they even try?)

.

.

"You never change, do you, cheri?" The voice is all too familiar; England does not turn to see who it is intruding on his sanctuary. The footsteps approach slowly, as France winds his way through gaps and over ropes until he is standing beside England, interrupting his peace and quiet as he has for centuries.

Like the marvelous actor he is, England pretends not to hear him; he merely turns a page in his book, too caught up in the oddities of Holmes to even insult the blond hovering above him. France eyes him carefully before taking a chance and seating himself next to England on the dusty floor. It is dark in the tower, especially now that the small slices of sun that occasionally force their way into Westminster have begun to fade away into the night. Is it really that late? England hadn't even noticed.

Beside him, France lets out a sigh, long and overly dramatic but so very, very French. The book in England's hands seems to suddenly dull and he can't keep his attention on it with France sitting there beside him, so he places a bookmark between the pages and shuts it, turning to the nation beside him with annoyance obvious on his face.

France makes no move to speak again, so England asks, teeth gritting and fists clenching, "How in the world did you get in here; the tower is open for respectable English citizens only."

France debates answering with an insult - respectable? Then how are you here, cher? - and England can see it on his face, the contemplation working through his features before he decides against it and pulls a card from his pocket. "You can get anywhere with the right amount of authority," he says, grinning and waving his identification card through the air under England's nose. He swipes it back just as England makes a grab for it, and puts it back safely in his pocket.

The other nation growls angrily, not sure if he's more annoyed that France is there beside him or that France is in the tower at all - his tower; it's his tower, and France should remove himself at once.

England's mind rewinds back a moment or two, and he glances at France out of the corner of his eyes, voice heavy with suspicion and irritation as he asks, "And what do you mean I never change?"

France turns away from eyeing the wall and gives England a small smile - or a smirk, really, but with France they are usually one and the same - and says, "You always run off and hide when something upsets you."

England knows this is true - has admitted it to himself centuries ago - but it does not stop him from huffing and turning away from France, acting for all the world as if such an accusation has offended him greatly. "I am not hiding from anything," he assures him, false anger laced through his words. "And I am not upset."

France raises an eyebrow at him. "So you are hiding away in Westminster Tower reading books instead of attending meetings simply because you feel like it?"

Ah. Well, that's a problem isn't it; was the world meeting really today?

"And you were the host, too; how unprofessional of you, mon ami. I'm disappointed," France's words are teasing and happy, and England can not help but hit him for it, not sure if he's angry with France or himself. Probably France. It's usually France.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," he growls, pulling his book open and burying his nose in it once again - if only to have an excuse to look away from France and his smiles and smirks and sparkling blue eyes that are just so very infuriating. (And beautiful, but he's not going to say that; not even in his head.)

"Which usually means you do not have a good excuse," France says, laughing.

(That twinkling, bell like laugh is real, England knows, because everything about France is absolutely, irritatingly real; it is one of the few things England truly envies about the other nation. One of the few things he truly loves about the other nation.)

"Belt up," England says, because there is nothing else he can say.

"Germany was furious, you know. But then America suggested you were hurt and everyone panicked; you certainly know how to cause chaos, don't you?"

England shuts his book once more and pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Avoiding looking at France's laughing face, he turns it on; sure enough, the inbox is full of messages from America. England is not even a minute into the first one when America mentions aliens and abductions and England deletes it and the others, not in the mood to suffer the headache they will bring.

"The others seemed worried, though I can't imagine why, and when I told them I had a good idea where you might be they forced me to come find you and drag you back." France sighs after the explanation, and his entire form sags dramatically. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here in your silly clock tower if I didn't have to." But when he glances again at England and England glances up to meet his eyes, there is something quite like concern hidden away in them. But surely that must be a trick of the light. "So what exactly is your reason for being here?"

England hesitates a moment before answering - because this is France, who will hold it over his head until the end of time - but finally mutters, because even if it is France, he wants someone to know, "It's December 19th."

France eyes him, confused. "And December 19th makes you want to hide yourself away, why?" he asks, but England offers no more on the subject; if France really wants to know, he can figure it out for himself. France sits, face scrunched up in thought - he looks ridiculous and England considers snapping a picture with his phone to laugh at later but decides against it. He doesn't really want a picture of France on his phone; it would probably mess with the mechanics and lead it to a sad demise. France would no doubt misinterpret the gesture, anyway.

Because France is busy contemplating England's foul mood, and England really doesn't want to head back to the meeting, he reopens his book and begins reading once more. Holmes is halfway through one of his brilliant explanations when France's eyes light up, and he turns to England. "The Sino-British Joint Declaration was today, wasn't it?"

With a sigh, England closes his book; he does not raise his head to look at France, though, and keeps his gaze locked with the closed book in his lap, tracing the title with his finger. Instead of answering, he says, "I should be worried you know so much about my history."

"When we've known each other as long as we have, it's hard not to."

And then something rather odd happens: there is silence.

And even more strange: they are content with it. Neither is willing to break it with the typical arguments and insults, and so they sit in the silence and shadows and tick-tock-tick-tock of the giant clock, England looking at his book and France looking at England.

Perhaps there is some sort of magic about the clock tower, that allows two age-old enemies contentment and peace.

(Or perhaps, here in this tower, separated from the world and its weight, they can do as they please and not as they have been doing for centuries.)

There is rustling, then, beside England, and he glances up away from his lap to watch France rifle through a small messenger bag at his hip. He pulls from it a dust covered, unopened wine bottle, and two small bundles wrapped tightly in the London Times. France sets the bottle in-between them, and unwraps the newspaper to reveal two wine glasses.

It is somehow funny, and so very typically France, that England can not help but laugh. (It's a nice sensation, laughing; he should do it more often.)

France stops in his motions, turning his face towards England to watch him with an unreadable emotion - England thinks there might be surprise in his eyes, which is actually a little depressing if he thinks about it; is it really such a sight to see England laugh?

"What is it?" France asks as England takes deep breaths to recover. He eyes the wine glasses in his hands and the wine bottle beside him as if he can't quite understand what it is that England finds so very humorous, before setting the wine glasses on the floor and opening the wine.

"You say I never change; you hypocrite."

France merely smiles. "I never said I didn't."

England shakes his head at him, somehow managing to smile through his mask.

(He can feel it cracking and chipping with every moment France spends seated beside him. Soon there will be no mask left at all; England is not sure how he feels about that.)

"What's the occasion?" England asks, and the usual anger (or heartbreak) seems to have been chased away by France and his wine, leaving only mild amusement in its place.

France grins, picking up the two glasses, holding one to his chest and offering the other to his enemy. "Occasion? One needs no occasion to enjoy good, French wine."

England has never much cared for wine; it is bitter and awful and weak. God, it is weak, and it takes glasses and glasses to drink himself into a much loved stupor.

(He much prefers the harsh whiskey that leaves his throat needle pricked and burning, and his head empty and thoughtless; it chases away the memories and heart-clenching emotions that leave him feeling so lonely.)

But he is a gentleman and does not spurn gifts, so he accepts the glass that France hands him with a little appreciative nod.

England raises the glass to his lips, but before he can take a sip, France is grabbing his arm and spurting out half-felt curses. "Fool," he murmurs, shaking his head at England in the manner of a wiser sibling. "We must toast first."

England rolls his eyes - France and his oddities and silly ways of doing things - and wrestles his wrist out of France's grasp. "Alright, then. A toast. A toast to what, exactly?"

France pauses, thinking, eyeing first the glass in his hand and then the nation beside him. "Us."

England sputters, red faced and eyes wide.

(Because a statement such as that suggests what exactly? Alliance? Friendship? Love, even? And these are the very things England distances himself from so desperately.)

France seems to realize his mistake - there is nothing between them besides their usual abhorrence of one another; there can't possibly be anything else; it would be too strange and different, and far, far too frightening for either of them to stomach. They are nations bred for fighting and killing and they were always meant to hate each other.

(Or is it just that it is easier and simpler to fall into that age old routine and hate one another?)

But France recovers from his slip, waving a hand lazily through the air and looking at England as if he were completely ridiculous for ever misinterpreting France's words. "I simply meant that we should toast to ourselves; to power and empires and the centuries we have lived through."

England recovers as well, placing his mask back in place despite the cracks and holes. There is a scowl on his face where only moments previous there was a smile and his eyes are as guarded as ever. "And to the changing times, as well, that walk all over us and push us into the dirt. Why toast to empires if they didn't last?"

France laughs. (England loses himself in it; drowns himself in it; completely emerges himself in it.) "You must find negativity in everything, mustn't you, rosbif? It didn't last, true, but we had our fun, non?"

"Yes, and our glory days passed us by; face it, France, we're not the powerful nations we once were. The world has changed and left us stuck in the past."

"Let the world change," France says, challengingly, waving his free hand about once more as if chasing off imaginary foes. England personally thinks it makes him look like a foolish, old drunkard. "You can't stop that, England. It is the natural order of the world to change and for nations to rise and fall from power." He pauses and studies England, his face serious. England feels the unpleasant sensation of being as easy to see through as glass, and he shifts nervously under France's gaze.

"You are not alone in the past," France says finally, looking as if he has finally figured something out. He turns his gaze to the wine glass in his hand and says slowly, "As you said, I am stuck there as well."

And just as France has said earlier, it is hard not to understand one another after the many years they've lived as neighbors; England has no trouble translating France's words. ("You are not alone," France says. "I am right here beside you.")

And now this, this is to be noted and recorded: France's words manage to bring a smile back to England's face. He grins into his glass, for he dares not grin at France, and says, "We're too unused to these new times, aren't we? Perhaps we were better suited for swords and castles."

"Perhaps we are just old." It is something England has never expected France to say - France, who would mourn his perfect skin if he ever gained a wrinkle; France who would rather jump from his precious Eifel Tower than let his hair gray - and he nearly laughs before he shoves it back into his throat and bites at his tongue to hold it down.

"Perhaps," he agrees. "A toast to old empires and new changes, then."

(A toast to us, he wants to add, but it is not the time or place to say it; with them, it may never be, but England will take this rocky alliance of theirs over nothing at all.)

France hesitates before nodding, so England allows himself the delusion that his thoughts are much the same.

"Cheers," France says, raising his glass.

"Santé," England replies, clanking his glass against France's.

The wine almost tastes sweet when he drinks it.

Notes:

- France was orginally called Gaul
- the first documented Anglo-French cooperation was when Britannia and Gaul forces banded together to fight off the Roman Empire; the Roman Empire won, however, and ended up controlling both of them for along time
- I didn't know the exact number of colonies the British Empire lost; I used five because I was only using the ones I've seen in fanfics (America, Canada, NZ, Australia, India, Hong Kong)
- the clock tower of Westminster Palace is more commonly known as Big Ben (Big Ben is actually the name of the bell in the clock tower, not the tower or its clock)
- Westminster is closed to all foreigners
- the book England is reading is obviously one the many Sherlock Holmes tales
- The Sino-British Joint Declaration was when England returned Hong Kong to China; it also is typically thought to be the end of the British Empire (because the Empire gave up their last major colony)
(basically, when England was left all alone and lonely)
- Sante is a common French word to say when toasting