eternal and unchanging

Belgium is always at her most philosophical after two cups of morning coffee. She sets her current one down almost mid-sip, thoughts tumbling over one another until she finally lets them out.

"How much do you love me?"

England is not so philosophical after two mugs of morning tea. He sets his own beverage down to blink owlishly at her from across their table. It's a quiet one, a booth at the very back of the Brussels cafe, because England is not a morning person and he couldn't possibly be expected to put up with perky staff.

(Besides, between conventional conferences and diplomatic dates – Belgium rather enjoys having him all to herself.)

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't hear?"

"Oh, I heard all right. But I'm not so sure I understand the question."

Belgium can't quite resist a truly diabolical giggle at that... which only prompts England into frowning at her. He's a frowny one, her man.

"I asked how much you love me. Because you often say you love me—"

"Because I do."

"Yes, yes, and it's very cute."

She savours the way he watches her with a degree of trepidation, though she at least has the decency to try a reassuring smile. It's difficult for England to admit he loves anything past the Queen and football, but after such a long time – sprawling centuries, rich soil turned to battlegrounds – he's comfortable enough to be open with her.

And that's part of the problem.

Centuries, they've known each other; they swap memories of Roman columns and medieval wool, of on-deck caresses and the political pissing-contests of all the men she knows in Europe. Belgium cannot pinpoint the moment she realised her handsome, witty, slightly belligerent ally became another factor in her heartbeat – perhaps she always loved him, though he's never questioned why she chose to kiss him following that Treaty.

She prefers to hold his hand beneath the Menin Gate.

"You want me to," England begins, and he trails off to wave his hand about with uncertainty. "You want me to – quantify how much I love you?"

"Don't be silly," Belgium tuts. "Love isn't the sum of something. I'm requesting... a scale."

England hums, pleased with that. He does love a good scale, but evidently not enough to stop him asking, "Why now?"

"Hm?"

"Why you're asking." He swallows, a sure sign he's wavering. Belgium feels slightly guilty about how much she enjoys the way his throat shifts. "Have I... not been affectionate enough, perhaps? Inattentive? Because I do love you, dear girl, and that hasn't changed a bit—"

The idea of England not being affectionate enough (behind closed doors, at least) is nearly enough to make her snort with amusement. Instead she shakes her head to silence him, awarding herself another sip of coffee: she's going to need it.

"Nothing like that, liefde. If I needed more flowers I'd demand them. No, no; it's because I was admiring you a moment ago, you see—"

"Oh, really, now." He grins his crooked grin, the one that always makes her want to kiss him. Insufferable. "Admire away."

"Hush!" she declares, in her best scolding tone. "Now is not the time, Mr. Kirkland. You've been posed an important question."

"I've been posed a bloody stupid question, more like. What the blazes do you expect me to say, my dear? A sense of scale does not come naturally to someone who fondly remembers when codpieces were in vogue."

More grumbling. He's a grumbly one, her man. Nevertheless, despite the venom of satire dripping from his tongue, Belgium finds herself smiling as she states, "Very fetching they were on you, too, dear."

"Mm." He takes a contemplative sip of tea. "You know, I hear the corset is making a come-back..."

"No it is not, and I'm very upset you'd rather force me into one of those godless contraptions than tell me how much you love me."

Belgium didn't intend for that to hurt him, not really – but he flinches. She considers adding something but she doesn't know what to say, so it's a good thing he beats her to the punch.

"I don't mean it. You're unfairly gorgeous as you are, and I'm only trying to buy myself time... Hm." He arches one thick brow, leaning back in his seat. Intellectual posturing requires comfort, after all. "I'd say I love you a bit more than myself, a fair portion more than the Norman Conquests, quite a bit more than my wars with your brother... and at least doubly more than the Plague."

Belgium smiles, which becomes another giggle when he lifts her hand across the table to kiss the back of it.

"How romantic, liefde."

"I'd say so."

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Ask you what, my dearest darling? My sugar plum. Light of my life, my reason for being, the comeliest kitten—"

Each syrupy statement of his is punctuated with another kiss to her hand. He's teasing her, cruelly so, and she swats him away until he finally retreats, grin smugly resurfacing. It must be witchcraft that she only wants to kiss him even more.

"All right, all right." He drums his rejected fingertips against the table, eyeing her with sudden intensity. "Tell me. How much you love me."

For a moment, she's silent. She returns England's stare until his resolve begins to falter, watching with silent haughty pleasure as he returns to raising a brow. He wants to say something, the corner of his mouth twitching with it, but he's just as lost for words as she was a moment ago – so he only continues to watch her. It's always satisfying when she makes her lion squirm.

"Ah," she announces, finally. Throwing her hands skyward with exasperation, she shakes her head. "It cannot be done. My love for you fits on no scale – it's grander than our universe, my dear."

England splutters, exactly how she wanted him to. "Pardon! You can't make me play your game then change the rules, madam."

Belgium only smiles – but even so.

Even so, a part of her knows it's not true, knows that England will always love her so much more than she loves him. And that isn't to say she doesn't love him completely, adore him enough to follow him anywhere and then pay for the train journey home... but to her, he devotes a sort of loyalty far fiercer than she's ever known. He would never talk of it; perhaps he's unable to.

Still, that doesn't stop him from fuming now, indulging in his little childish tantrum of the day, so Belgium provides comfort the best way she can: she kicks him beneath the table. Lightly, mind, enough to make him look at her again, cheeks burning their usual shade of outrage.

"I love you," she murmurs, though there's no need to be so quiet. Their booth is at the very back... the way he prefers it. "No more pouting."

It doesn't take much for her to make him smile. He slides into displaying one, the only response she gets before he nods towards her cup. "Finish your coffee, minx."

She intends to do just that.

Beneath the table, she rests the soles of her shoes on the tops of his, finding him rather quite comfortable. If anyone can see them, being where they're seated, she wonders if they'd only see another young, ordinary couple in love, eliciting snickering from youths and rolling eyes from the elderly. It won't last, as naysayers chime. It never does.

Belgium defies it, because loving him forever seems to be what she's always done.