eeveee | Said Fielding (Hetalia, France/England)

It is a deeply ironic fact to be stated, but England likes the decorum. He likes the rituals, the rules, the predictability of having done something the same way for a hundred and fifty years.

France is just somewhat of a connoisseur, and gives himself a mental pat on the back when he doesn't complain as he lifts the fragile milk jug and pitches it over England's cup as England watches, still sunken into his seat, with weary eyes and a shaking hand resting lightly on his brow.

England's hands, to his credit, were firm around the handles of the tea tray as he put it down on the a tablecloth that France has wondered about for years. England has funny ideas about public relations and image, and seemed to have carried the day with a pride and a dignity and a very British stiff upper lip that had he had kept in place even as he came home to find France absently studying one of the magazines he keeps discretely stored beneath a stack of The Sun from 1997. France had expected some kind of reaction at that - at least a telling off for having his shoes on the seat, for since when has England ever missed a chance of giving someone a lecture? - but England had only stared at him for five seconds with the look of a man who had spent the day not saying anything that could possibly be interpreted as incriminating, and then turned to the kitchen without a word.

He had kept it up for as long as it took him to put down tray and sit down in the chair opposite of France. His spine had seemed to meld against it for a total of three seconds, and then he collapsed into a slump that does not speak much of the gentleman that England prides himself with trying to be. France doesn't particularly mind that he left it to him to set out the cups. He pours milk without asking 'how much', and says,

"It would have come out sooner or later."

"You don't say," says England, his expression never changing, and France lifts away the tea cosy to reveal the pot in the same hand-painted china as the rest of the service. Dust-pink roses cover the pieces in a pitiful sentimentalism; France would have complained about England's miserable hang to kitsch if he did not know that it is antique because he remember drinking tea from these cups for at least as far back as sometime before 1849. "Doesn't your boss bother you about it at all?" he continues as France pours tea through the strainer and forgets to complain about England and his habit of ruining fine beverages as he watches it cloud with milk.

France shrugs. "He wanted to know if it was true. And then he asked if Germany and Poland knew."

England is silent for a beat, and then proclaims, "The Prince of Wales rang me. The sodding Prince of Wales wanted to know if it was for real. And then he congratulated me."

"I imagine he has the uttermost sympathy with your situation," says France and drops two sugar cubes into England's cup. A glance across the table reveals that that was not what the complaint concerned, so he adds, "honestly, it has been your own choice to maintain the monarchy for this long."

"Yes, because your republic was such an inspirational example," England answers with an unnecessary amount of acid, "did you ever even realise that if you hadn't scared off Prussia and Austria back then, we could have avoided the whole mess with - "

"Are you trying to blame me for the fact that someone gave your regent your telephone number?"

"There was a reason I had the Bill of Rights written! His mother's not even dead yet, and even she is required by common courtesy and respect for Westminster to keep her nose out of my private life. Even if it did affect the Nation's international relations," England exclaims, steams for a few seconds, before continuing in a voice that still carries the tone of a previous argument, "which it doesn't."

"Scotland didn't know?"

England makes a sound of outraged ridicule and stirs his tea with a vigour that effectively shatters any illusions anyone might have possibly maintained about his dedication to etiquette. "I had to have someone ring up his First Minister and make him let up so that others could get through my line. And if Scotland had known, then Wales would have known, and if Wales had known, the whole Commonwealth would have known."

"Well, they do now."

"Yes," England hisses from his seat, "I know. I had to listen to Canada complain for twenty minutes about how he had to assure America that it wasn't because of your new legislation that he hadn't caught wind of it before."

"Ah," says France and does not mention to England that he also is a member of the European Union. He will be hearing about this for the next three weeks to come, so he sits back instead, and lifts the cup steaming with the aroma of high-quality Ceylon that has been brewed with care and the expertise of three hundred years of tradition.

Across the table, England has straightened in his chair and taken to the same idea, although France suspects it has less to do with the choice tea and more with the familiarity of the tea set.

It is - France supposes - just a sign of how very lamentable his situation is that he can look at England with his garish neck-tie and his bad language and his complaints about his self-elected political system and think that yes, of course England fits into his home. The sharp light of the late afternoon sun cuts in through the windows and glares over the naked and unconvincingly large breasts on the magazine left on the table from where France neglected to put it back where he had found it. It makes for a particularly sour key in this living room more fit for a middle-class Victorian housewife than the British Empire, but France lowers his hand after a second of consideration. It is utterly tasteless, but he is distantly aware that the next cup will have steeped for too long, that he will have to add sugar to it. It is, after all, not as though it is any use trying to deny it any longer.

They might create an agreeable illusion between them like this, a fond echo of the time when England ruled the world and when France had yet to be convinced that coffee was the only beverage suitable for republics released from the tyranny of kings and gods. It is a comfortable scene, but marred beyond repair by how France keeps on getting distracted by how he thinks England's pornography fits into this bizarre alloy of bad temper and needlework.

It is somewhat of a resignation to have to agree with himself that it is neither the nostalgia nor the tea that keeps him here. England drains his cup and his hands are no longer shaking, and France thinks absently that it is only a matter of minutes until he will be accusing half of Europe of having found them out and behaved like old ladies about it. And the worst thing, the worst thing, is that France will probably not mind listening to it.

No, thinks France, there really was very little worth hiding when he somehow thinks that it is charming how England has kept this service for a hundred and fifty years for the sole purpose of putting milk into tea.