Wonderful Complications: Ch 1

England tried his best to stick to his word and avoid all thoughts of France and to his credit he had been fairly successful for a while. Whenever a stray thought of his lead to his mind drifting towards images of France and their prior conversation, England was sure to put a quick end to the train of thought and shove it into the back of his mind where it belonged. Yet as time crawled on those stray thoughts came more often and the act of repressing them became more taxing.

As the days grew longer and warmer, England found himself growing more withdrawn and miserable and at long last all those repressed thoughts had clawed their way to the front of his mind. His nights were sleepless as he spent hours tossing and turning and trying his hardest not to think of France and the child (potentially) growing inside of him. His child. Or not his child. It was so hard to decide which thought was more likely anymore. He only knew that guilt was eating away at him and he would never feel any better if he didn't go to check on France and see for certain whether or not he had been telling the truth.

He left the settlement early one morning and headed north towards the French territory New France (such a ridiculous name) in hopes of finding France. England told himself that he was only going to confirm that France was a liar and that once he felt assured in that fact he would return to his own territory.

Locating France proved to be more difficult of a task than he had originally imagined as the man seemed to have relocated since their last encounter. England soon found his brief, one day hike turning into a journey through the northern regions of the land in search of his elusive enemy. When he did finally happen upon France, he hardly recognized him.

He found France sitting by the bank of a river, a small stack of branches piled up beside him, as he soaked his feet in the shallow waters rushing downstream. Everything about France had changed since the last time England had seen him. His hair had grown a bit longer and didn't look nearly as silky and well groomed as usual. The thick bags under his eyes had disappeared, yet if at all possible he managed to look even more exhausted thanks to his red rimmed eyes and distinct lack of color in his cheeks. Most alarming of all, however, was his stomach. England may have been standing a good distance away from France, but even from where he stood he could see that France's stomach had expanded to nearly triple its previous size.

Dear God. He really is… He didn't allow the thought to continue, choosing instead to push down the word that longed to bubble to the surface of his mind.

He should leave, he told himself, because he had seen exactly what he had set out to discover. Yet something kept him rooted to the spot and England had a hunch that it had everything to do with the way France was currently rubbing slow, gentle circles into his massive stomach.

England sighed, fighting against the stubborn pride that would have him turn and run as far away from here as possible and deciding instead to move forward towards France.

"Well, what a surprise seeing you here," he began, trying desperate to keep his tone calm and casual.

France turned towards him then, squinting in his direction as he shielded his blue eyes from the sun's bright rays. "England?" he asked, looking the man up and down and no doubt noting the tattered, worn clothes that England had been wearing for far too many days on end. (He hadn't exactly expected to go wandering around the wilderness searching for France and had neglected to pack anything else to change into.) "What are you doing here?"

He gave an awkward chuckle that sounded forced even to his ears. "Well, I just went out for a stroll and…" The words died out on his tongue as his eyes once again drifted downward towards France's stomach and the child clearly growing within. "How have you been managing? (Not that I care, that is.)"

"Oh I am doing quite well actually," France beamed as he pointedly turned his gaze back towards the water and away from England. England watched as France gave the still waters a casual kick, causing ripples to explode across the surface. "My fur trappers have been capturing a good deal of animals and my territory is expanding nicely."

"France," he began, but was quickly cut off.

"Oh, you were not asking about that were you?" France asked casually, his gaze still turned away from him. "You must be wondering about my little delusion. Well, as you can see I have been eating a lot." He gave the top of his stomach a quick pat to emphasize his point. "It takes a good deal of food to keep up such a ridiculous story, you see." France grimaced momentarily, but England could see that it was out of discomfort and not pain. "Excuse me, my delusion is kicking me. There there mon petite," he soothed, caressing his own stomach sarcastically. "Do not trouble yourself with the awful man over there. He is nothing to you."

England scowled bitterly both at the gesture and his words. A part of him knew that he had deserved that, but the part of him that hated France didn't care. "Alright fine," he huffed, marching a few steps closer to his side. "Maybe I've decided that I believe you after all… Is there anything that I can do?"

"You can go away," France told him. "The child and I are in the middle of a marvelous afternoon and you are spoiling our fun."

"Very funny," he grumbled. "But I'm being serious."

"As am I," he said. France shifted, jerking slightly in what seemed like an attempt to stand, but he quickly halted the effort in favor of running a hand through his windswept hair. "I already told you that you would not have to trouble yourself with this matter anymore and as you can see the baby and I have been doing quite well for ourselves these past three months."

Three months? Had it really been only three months since he had last seen France? The lack of sleep and persistent guilt gnawing away at his belly had made the time seem much longer. He briefly wondered if France felt the same way, before quickly deciding that he didn't care.

"Fine. If you want to be a stubborn arse about it, then that's just fine. I only wanted to see if you needed my help in anyway, seeing how you're quite useless on your own, but since you refuse to accept my offer, I'll just be on my way then."

To his dismay, France remained silent, choosing instead to focus his attention on the task of drying off his bare feet on the warm grass instead of England's indignant speech. England huffed in frustration before turning to storm off. He told himself that he had done all that he could and that France clearly didn't want or need his help, so there was no reason for him to ever think on this again.

Yet every step he took in the opposite direction only made his stomach feel tight and his heart clench. By the time he found himself a good distance away from the stream, his legs felt heavy and his throat was painfully dry. England couldn't understand why he felt this way, but he knew the only cure for it was back by the lake.

With a frustrated groan, he marched back towards where he and France had been talking, telling himself he was only going back to make sure that France was already gone. He wasn't though. In fact, when he returned England saw that France had barely budge from his patch of grass, despite his best efforts. He watched from behind a thicket of trees as France groaned and squirmed on the grass, wobbling from side to side as he struggled to stand up. Apparently he hadn't yet grown accustom to the change in his body and was still having trouble moving.

The sight would have been comical if France didn't completely ruin the absurd display by crying. England was used to seeing France cry, because France was a cry baby and was not above using tears to get his way. Yet, as far as France knew, there was no one around for miles and thus such a display of "vulnerability" would be rendered useless without anyone to manipulate. Furthermore there was something different about France's sobs. It wasn't the typical over the top display of tears that England was so familiar with, but a quiet sniffling whimpe that caused his shoulders to shudder slightly and made the horrible feeling in the pit of England's stomach resurface.

"Oh, to hell with it," England grumbled as he once more pushed aside his own dignity in favor of France.

He didn't exactly sneak up behind the man as he made no effort in hiding his angry foot falls, but France had been so distracted by his own self pity that he actually jumped when England crouched down to slip his hands underneath France's arms. "E-England?" he stuttered, too startled to even bother to wipe off the line of tears decorating his cheeks.

"On the count of three," England muttered, wanting only to get this task over with as quickly as possible. "One... two..."

"Wait a minute! Be gentle with me," France ordered as he squirmed in England's grasp. "I am in a delicate condition, remember?"

England huffed, rolling his eyes at the comment as he adjusted his grip. "There. Better?"

"Oui, just remember to lift with your chicken legs and not your frail back."

"Bloody hell France! Do you want me to just leave you here for the birds to feast on?" To his delight France stayed silent and allowed England to finally hoist him off of the ground -- a task that he accomplished with a good deal of effort and a few pathetic huffs. As soon as France was standing erect once more -- which he did after quite a bit of wobbling -- his hands instantly flew to his back, grasping at his sides and rubbing out the lingering discomfort. The gesture only caused his already massive stomach to protrude even further, highlighting its girth. England tore his eyes away from the sight, busying himself by gathering the stack of wood that had been at France's side. "Here's your... dammit France!"

France, who had been casually walking away, came to a halt at the sound of England's offended cries. "You are not going to make me carry that are you?" he asked innocently. "You said you wanted to help and carrying a few sticks for me is the least you could do."

England was tempted to remind him that he had just assisted in lifting France off of the ground when he could have very easily just walked away and left him to his pathetic struggles, but chose instead to grumble lowly to himself as he followed close behind France. "Where are we headed?" England asked, hoping that wherever France was staying wasn't too far away.

"Do not worry, mon cher, I will not keep you too long," France assured as he lead England away from what seemed like a beaten path and towards a thicket of trees. He watched as the other man surveyed the ground as he walked on carefully, seeming to search out for something beneath their feet. After a few paces he stopped, eyes pinned towards what looked like a fallen branch. "Pick that up for me."

"What?" England frowned, looking between the bundle of wood in his arms and the large stick that France was currently pointing towards. "Why?"

"Because I need firewood and I think that would make good kindling," France informed him dully. "Now pick it up."

"I'm not your bloody work horse," he snapped. "And you've got two perfectly good arms you can use."

"Ah, even when you are being helpful you are useless," France sighed dramatically. He seemed to wait a moment or two, likely hoping that his goading would have an effect on England, but when he didn't so much as bat an eye France gave out an indignant huff and scowled at him. "Fine, I will do it myself."

What proceeded was a display even more pathetic than France's attempts to lift himself from the ground had been. England stood back watched as France carefully bent forward to pick up the fallen branch, only to wobble and tip forward. France managed to straighten himself before he could fall face first into the dirt and decided to shift tactics by crouching down slowly. He seemed incapable of lowering himself to ground level and instead tried to stretch out his arms around his massive middle towards the stick only to find that they would not reach. Once again England found himself in a situation where it would have been easy to laugh at France's misfortune, but the way his cheeks began to slowly turn green from the effort ruined the effect once more.

"Oh, don't strain yourself," England huffed as he quickly stepped in front of France and grabbed the branch for him, adding it to the wood held tightly in his arm. He had expected to see France smile triumphantly up at him, but instead found himself being pinned with a bitter frown as the other man carefully straightened himself and once again headed to the east.

They continued on in an uncomfortable silence which was occasionally broken by France periodically pointing towards things for England to pick up. When England began to feel certain that France was merely leading him around in circles, he spotted a small settlement just over the horizon.

"Alright, you may hand me my firewood and be on your way," France told him, holding his arms out towards England expectantly.

The idea of abandoning France was tempting, but it would feel like just that: abandoning him. For some unknown reason the idea of leaving France alone made his stomach twist and turn cold, because if France could barely lift himself and if France had trouble bending...

"No," he said finally, hugging the bundle of wood to his chest. "No I'll... I think I'll see you home."

"Please England, do not put me through the torment of enduring your company any longer," he snipped. "And do not pretend that you take any pleasure from mine. Now just give me my things and get out of my sight."

"How very like you to look a gift horse in the mouth," England snapped, although he knew that it wasn't like France at all. "Well I am sorry that you find my presence so bothersome, but you will just have to endure it for a bit more. Now show me to whatever mud hole you're currently squatting in."

France allowed himself a moment to pin England with a withering stare before doing as he was instructed and walking towards the town. The oddness of their path did not escape England's notice as he followed close behind France as the other man carefully took what seemed like a back path around the township instead of walking through it. He wasn't certain if this was to avoid being seen or to avoid being seen with England.

The cabin France led him to -- situated on the far end of the settlement -- was very simple and seemed to have been quickly constructed quite recently. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting, but he decided not to comment on it, choosing instead to deposit the bundle of wood on the front porch before following France inside. The interior of the cabin was small and bare and once again England chose not to say anything, feeling that it wasn't his place to do so.

"You probably want to spend the night," France guessed correctly as he nodded towards the sun that was slowly sinking in the sky. "Well that is fine, but I want you to get out of those clothes."

England rolled his eyes at the comment. He wasn't at all taken aback to hear such a suggestion, but he hadn't expected France to be so forward about it. "I would say that I'm surprised, but that would be a ridiculous lie," he scoffed. "It figures that you would have that on your mind even in these circumstances."

France did not look at all amused by England's comment. If anything, he seemed quite annoyed. "You smell," he said bluntly. "The stench from your clothes is making me sick. Go change."

"Oh," he said slowly. He allowed himself to feel embarrassed for just a moment before pushing the feeling aside. "And just what do you propose I change into? I don't exactly have a spare set of britches with me?"

"I will give you something to wear."

"Your clothes? Are you sure they'll...?" he stopped himself mid sentence, but it was already too late.

The expression on France's face quickly shifted from annoyed to something a bit harder to place as he wandered towards the back of the cabin and into a separate room tucked into the eastern corner. "These are from before," France told him when he returned to the main room. "They should fit."

England nodded as he accepted the clothes. He grabbed a small pitcher of water and headed towards the back of the cabin. Outside, the air was already beginning to grow cooler as the sky shifted into a bright orange hue. There was no one around, but that didn't stop England from quickly stripping down to his knickers and proceeding to hurriedly splash water against his bare skin. He ignored the urge to shudder at the sting of cold water against unsuspecting flesh as he quickly redressed himself. The clothes France gave him were incredibly simple -- a white blouse and brown britches -- and England couldn't help to think he had done so intentionally. The shirt and trousers fit perfectly, but that was really no surprise since he and France were about the same size.

Well... we used to be.

England sighed, allowing his mind to wander for the first time as he gazed out at the sun sinking in behind the tree tops. He felt torn over what to do with himself. He didn't really want to stay, because even now he couldn't bring himself to like France. What's more, France seemed to have gotten even more irritable over the last few months and the two of them sharing a small cabin would be like a powder keg ready to go off at any moment. At the same time, England knew that he couldn't just walk away from all this, because there was still a good chance that that was his baby France was carrying. What sort of man would he be to abandon his child before it was even born?

He turned his head towards the township where he still heard voices calling towards one another and smelled fresh wood burning in the fire. He envied those Frenchies. They didn't realize just how simple their lives were compared to his.

I'll give it one day, he decided. Just one day and we'll see how things turn out from there.

He took in a slow deep breath, straightening out the clothes that were still clinging to his slightly damp body. As he prepared himself to step back inside, England made a silent promise to himself to be civil. He wouldn't raise his voice or talk back to France unless he was provoked... maybe not even then. They had to try to get along. Just this once.

When he stepped back inside of the cabin he saw that France had already lit a few candles and was busying himself starting a fire in the heath. He couldn't tell if it was discomfort or weariness that was causing the deep frown spread across France's face, but he had a feeling that his current task was partly the cause.

"Let me do that," he offered, mindful to use his gentlest tone, as he pried the wood from France's hands.

France didn't protest. He merely gave a quiet sigh before walking over towards a chair near the fireplace and gently sitting down. England watched as France's whole body seemed to go limp as he relaxed against the arms of the wooden chair. France looked positively worn and England had to wonder just how much effort he had to put into the simplest task in his current condition.

"Um, France," he began awkwardly, using one of the pokers to coax the fire to life. "I just wanted to say... Well, I'm sorry. About the other day... and today, I suppose. I... I could have been nicer."

England held his breath, waiting for a snide remark or a teasing comment, but was instead greeted by the same soft sobs he had heard down by the river. Tearing his eyes away from the fireplace, England was more than a bit confused to find France openly sobbing, face buried in the palms of his hands as his whole body trembled and shook.

"Oh for the love of...! I apologize to you and this is how you react?" England knew that he shouldn't have raised his voice, but it was all he could think to do in that moment, because clearly the frog had lost his mind. "What the devil is wrong with you?"

"It's you! You!" France cried out from between sobs. "I hate you. I wish you were dead!"

England blinked, taken aback by the unexpected, yet venomous, response. "What did I do?"

"Everything!" France practically screamed the word as he lifted his face from his hands in order to glare up at him. The impact of his stare was lessened significantly by the tears streaking down his cheeks and England found himself feeling more sympathetic than angry. "It is your fault that I am like this." He took a moment to gesture towards his massive middle before standing -- quickly and carefully -- to give England the full force of his glower. "I used to be beautiful and strong, but look at me now! You turned me into an ugly, fat, pathetic thing!" The anger that had been burning so brightly inside of him seemed to die out in that moment as remorse quickly set in and caused France to dissolve into a fit of tears once more. "I hate being this way! I cannot sleep because the baby keeps kicking me. I cannot eat because everything makes me ill. I can barely walk and went I stand for too long my back hurts terribly. And no one wants to be near me! No one. No one."

Guilt twisted his stomach and made his throat go horribly dry and before England even knew what he was doing he actually found himself hugging France. France squirmed against the embrace, fighting and fidgeting for a while before finally giving in and allowing himself to be held. "Mon Dieu, how low have I sunk to be pitied by you?" France sniffed, burying his face in England's shoulder. "Oh how I hate you. I wish this had happened to you instead."

England felt his skin go positively ashen at the thought. It could have been him, very easily, and somehow he felt certain that France would have been so much better to him if their situations were reversed. "I know you don't want to hear this," he began softly, cringing slightly at the moisture spreading through his shirt thanks to France, "but I am... sorry. And well, to be fair, you were never all that strong to begin with."

In spite of everything the joke earned a soft chuckle from France who still stood limply in England's arms. He sighed, running his hand up and down France's back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. "And... I do think you still look... pretty."

"Really?" France asked, his voice soft and hopeful as he lifted his head in order to study England's face.

"Yes, very pretty," he assured him, offering the man's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Why, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were a young lass in a family way."

France sniffed, a small smile creeping across his lips. "I suppose that is the best I can hope for." He fell silent then as he reluctantly moved back towards the chair he had been occupying and sat down heavily.

England crouched down beside him, because there was nowhere else to sit, and allowed himself to stare openly at France's stomach. "Is it really so terrible?" he asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted, placing a sad hand on top of his belly, "but I do not hate it... The baby that is. I love her. Or him. Whatever it is, I love it. I just..."

"Wish you weren't pregnant," England finished.

France nodded.

An awkward silence settled upon them as England suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't exactly chastise France for the statement, considering his circumstances, and the effort to fight against the guilt spilling into his stomach was exhausting. England shook the thought out of his head as he slowly made to stand.

"You look cold," he said awkwardly. "I'll go fetch you a blanket." He went into the back room in hopes of finding something to wrap France in, only to stumble upon Pierre, sleeping soundly in a cage by the window. England scowled at the sight. "Damn bird," he muttered to himself. "It seems I just can't be rid of you."

Pierre fluttered his soft white wings in response, but soon settled back down and continued sleeping.

England rolled his eyes at the sight, before moving on to retrieve the blanket draped over the small bed on the other side of the room. He returned to the other room only to discover that France was already fast asleep. He frowned, moving closer to the other man's side and draping the blanket around his sleeping form. "Silly twit," England chided as he carefully smoothed out the fabric and wrapped it around France. "I'm not carrying you to bed, so you'll just have to deal with the cramps you'll get the morning."

He sighed as he considered what to do next. The sun had already fully set and with France already sound asleep here it meant that the bed was free for him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to go to sleep just yet. Instead he stood there, watching France take deep, even breaths and studied the way the glow from the fire settled softly against his face. England had to admit that in that moment France did look quite pretty and that thought was enough to make him shudder just a bit.

"I should get some rest," he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes wearily. "Clearly I'm not thinking straight."

Despite that thought, he found himself unable to move. He crouched down beside France and gently slipped his hand underneath the folds of the blanket and pressed it, carefully, onto his stomach. The round bulge was smooth and surprisingly hard as not a single bit of flab greeted his questing palm. England wondered how much France weighed now and just how it would feel to walk around with this sort of burden resting just beneath your skin. He hadn't realized that his hand had been lingering on France's body for so long until he felt a strange sort of pressure rise up to meet his palm. It didn't take him long to realize that the baby had just given him a quick kick, but the strength of the move was more than a bit startling.

"You're a feisty lad, aren't you?" he whispered softly. Just as he started to consider how absurd it was for him to be speaking to a stomach (and France's at that) the babe seemed to reply to his words by giving his palm a few more good kicks. He smiled at the gesture, but it promptly faded when he heard France groan softly in response, shifting and rubbing his belly in discomfort. England had to move his hand quickly to avoid having their fingers touch, but France soon settled back down and drifted off once more.

"Alright lad, that's enough for one night," he whispered chidingly to the stomach. "You both need your rest."