Written for my friend Marie with whom I share real life FrUK. Ohlala~!

She prompted me on tumblr, and who was I to refuse?

It's non-linear and uses nation names in human circumstances.

"Ah-"

England looked up from where he was taping his hand to a cardboard box labelled 'CDs'. He took in France's wrinkled nose and arched eyebrows. "What?" he asked.

France shook his head, wrinkles still marring his face. "…Nevermind."

England regarded him a moment longer, shrugging when he didn't find whatever he was looking for and going back to disentangling his hand from the tape, hissing a quick "bollocks!" out when it tore some of the hair off his knuckles. France laughed, which earnt him a glower.

They continued in silence, the whisper of cardboard over carpet and the tear of tape being wrenched and torn punctuating the quiet.

"Yuck!"

At France's outburst, England looked back to him, frowning. "What?" he asked again with considerably less patience in his tone.

"Wormwood! Does it have worms in it?" France sounded aghast.

"For someone who eats snails, you're showing an awful lot of displeasure towards garden creepy-crawlies," England deadpanned.

That had struck a nerve, judging by the way that France's face shifted to a sneer. "They are what's called a delicacy I know the concept of delicate is well beyond your ability to comprehend, but some of us are considerably more refined than you."

"Snails?" England said, expression dry.

"Snails, as you call them, which have been especially bred and fed a luxurious diet which is no doubt better than anything that you have ever fed yourself with," France clarified. He raised an eyebrow in challenge, his lips now pulled into a small smile.

England huffed, turning back to the box that he was working on with a sulky expression. "Oh piss off."

France didn't respond, his attention having returned to the box that he was packing. Bickering were one of the foundations of their relationship, after all. Even the fateful decision to move in together hadn't gone without an argument.

"Move in with me," France said suddenly over a supper of toast slathered with honey.

That certainly drew England's attention away from Coronation Street, the abruptness cutting through his usual nightly telly schedule like a hammer to the skull. "What?"

France had seemed surprised himself. "I…ah…" he went over what he had said again in his head. Somehow, it didn't seem like such an awful idea. "Well…you heard me. Move in with me." If he sounded a bit unsure, he managed to smother it with his usual easy confidence as he went on.

England stared at him for a few moments. "Why?"

France frowned in response. "Why?" That hadn't been the sort of response he'd been hoping for, even though he hadn't been aware that he was hoping for a response until he'd heard it. He just knew that that wasn't it. "Fine, England. Don't bother. Forget I said a thing."

Grumpiness was an art that England excelled in, but as France sank back into the material of the settee, arms folded defensively, England thought that he made quite the good protégé. It made him relent a little, settling back with France and turning his face towards him fully. "Okay. Why do you think we should move in together?"

France wasn't overly sure himself. He had, after all, blurted it out without much thought. "I ah…" he frowned, thinking. "I…well I suppose we get on alright don't we?"

"We fight like cat and dog?" England interrupted, though his considerable eyebrows were arched with amusement.

"Alright," France relented with a smile. "We fight like cat and dog, and you can't cook to save your life-"

"Oi!"

"-but most nights after work somehow I find myself here, or I find you in my car coming back to mine-"

"I think you mean every night," England corrected him, though he looked a little startled by the revelation.

"-alright, fine. Every night. Now will you let me talk? Good," he said without giving England time to answer. "We effectively live with one another already."

England looked thoughtful. "I suppose it has been a while…"

"Almost two and a half years," France supplied. It was quite the feat for both of them, since England's previous track record had been disastrous, and France's had been fun but immensely tiring.

"Hmm…" England still looked a bit dubious. "Is this some sort of panic because all of your friends are settling down?"

France laughed. "Hardly. I'm not entirely convinced of their choices, so my desire to emulate them isn't particularly strong."

"And you realise that you're saying that you're willing to commit? In a very big way?" England asked, still undecided.

"I thought I made that clear when I stayed the first morning after," France grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

England punched him lightly on the arm. "I know you're not that bad, France. You're an irritating bastard, but you're not that bad."

"England!" France laid a hand over his heart. "I'm swooning!"

"Yeah, yeah," England smiled, shaking his head. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah. Let's do it. We're adults in an adult relationship that can almost stand to be around one another. Let's move in together." This time, England sounded sure. His cheeks were tinted with a small amount of red and his brows were furrowed, but when he met France's eyes, France could see his conviction as clearly as he could see the smile trying to tug at England's lips.

"Okay. Well…okay. Yes!" France nodded, smiling with less resistance than England. "We'll box up your things and get you moved!"

"Get me moved?" England frowned. "Hang on. Are you on about me moving into yours?"

"Yes?" France responded. He thought that part was clear.

"No. You're not tearing my life up from the ground and relocating me while you just sit back and do bugger all!" England insisted. "No, you can move in with me. You have less stuff than I do!"

"If by 'stuff' you mean useless bits of rubbish then yes, you do," France bit back. "And I am not moving into yours. Have you seen your décor? It looks like the house of an eighty year-old widow!"

England's lip turned up at that, a low growl crawling from his throat. "And yours is gaudy! It looks like an homage to the Élysée palace!" That jibe earnt him a narrow-eyed glare from his lover. He returned the look with equal intensity.

"I can't believe that I'm moving in with a man who collects this crap like a teenage girl trying to be alternative," France muttered to himself, glancing at the jars of various oddities that he was transferring from bookcase to box.

"Actually, it's not usual for men to be a part of Wicca," England responded. He was usually conversational about this part of his life. He saw no need to be defensive. "And it's not all crap either. Take wormwood for example. Historically it has been used for-"

"Absinthe!" France crowed. He grinned at England, holding up his phone. "I just looked up the French translation. It makes absinthe!"

England stared at him for a long moment looking very much like a schoolteacher. "France…"

"Can you get some more in?" he was excited now, eyes alight with mischief. "We could get a distillery, get some-"

"We are not celebrating our first night in our new house making bootleg liquor!"

"England," France said, looking entirely reasonable. "I'm starting to think that moving in with you isn't going to be the dream that I envisaged it would be."

England snorted at that. "Sorry about that, but I already have plans for the cellar anyway."

"Oh? And what would that be?" France asked, losing interest.

"Mini brewery," England grinned.

It was France's turn to snort. "I'm moving into a house that will smell like beer. Delightful." He headed over to England's side, flopping onto the floor next to him, long legs stretching either side of a partially filled box. "Why are we moving in together again?"

"Because I tolerate you," England replied, leaning against France's side.

France dropped an arm around him. "Ah yes. That was it," he smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head, bird nest hair tickling his nose. "I tolerate you too, my dear."

They shared a long moment leaning against one another, marvelling in how some things that seem so hopelessly wrong together can go on to fit so well.

"You know…" France said softly, voice dropping. "One thing that we can look forward to is…I believe the term is 'christening' every room in the new house?"

"Mmm…" England sat up, stretching. "Well you can have fun shagging my corpse because I think I'm going to be dead by the time we finish sorting through your clothes."

France groaned. "The romance never ceases. Hold me."

England responded by shoving a box into his hands. "Hold that. You can pack away the fairy charms."

France looked incredulous for a moment before his expression eased into a small smile. "Why are we moving in together again?" he asked, causing England to laugh.

He knew the answer, of course. He knew that it was something along the lines of mutual tolerance, and, perhaps deep, deep down, even something a little like love.

xx