Wonderful Complications: Ch 4

England awoke that morning to the feel of France's gentle hands rubbing soothing circles into his chest. He moaned as he swatted the questing fingers away and determinedly settled back to sleep. France, having never been one to take "no" for an answer, did not accept this and soon England found his cheek being peppered with soft, yet determined, kisses.

"Wake up, mon cher, wake up," France crooned. His mouth hardly left England's skin when he spoke and England's cheek was soon warmed by his hot breath. "It is such a beautiful day. Take me somewhere special."

He groaned, shifting under the weight of France's body as his mind struggled to wake itself. England had gotten used to their sleeping arrangements, but his body wasn't enjoying the position in the least. Every morning he woke up with his left side all but completely numbed after being smothered by France, who liked to press himself firmly against England and coil his arms possessively around him while they slept. It was similar to sleeping in a vice that was slowly crushing one half of his body. To make matters worse, whenever the baby kicked England would feel it and when France shifted in discomfort he usually ended up resting even more of his weight on top of England. It was almost as if France were trying his hardest to compress the two of them into one single body.

"Take you somewhere?" England grumbled sleepily. "You never want to go anywhere. And there's nowhere to go in this backwoods mud hole. Just go back to sleep."

"But Arthur, the baby and I want to go out," France went on, reverting back to rubbing England's chest and reframing from kissing his face... for the time being. "I have a wonderful idea: let us go on a picnic! I know the perfect spot where we could be all alone."

If he had been more awake and thus more aware of his own actions, England probably would have stopped himself from placing his hand on the back of France's head and running his fingers through his blond hair in soothing strokes. He may have even noticed the distinct note of something suggestive about France's words, but he was far too tired to have been aware of any of those things because France and the baby had kept him up all night with their combined shifting and kicking. "That sounds fine, Francis," he half said, half yawned while his fingers still combed through France's hair.

France all but hummed with delight and later on England would have trouble determining whether it was because of England's actions or because he had fallen right into France's trap. "I knew you would love it," France chirped. He awkwardly lifted himself off of England's chest and placed a quick kiss to his slack lips. "I will go pack us something to eat and we shall leave right away."

England wanted to protest, but he was simply too tired and as soon as France wiggled his way out of bed, he took advantage of the available space by rolling over and drifting back to sleep.

---

"Alright Frog, just where are you leading me?" England grumbled as he wiped at the sweat dripping down his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a sweltering morning in late June and England couldn't fathom what had possessed France to call the day "nice." Yet here they were trudging through the woods towards some unknown destination and England was starting to get the feeling that France was leading him to some isolated location in order to murder him without any witnesses. "We've been out here all morning and need I remind you that neither one of us has had a bite to eat yet?"

France, however, despite his troublesome girth seemed almost oblivious to the contemptuous weather and trekked on towards his illusive "perfect spot" as if they weren't now at least a good kilometer away from the settlement. "Do not worry Arthur, cher, it is not much further now," France assured him for what seemed like the dozenth time.

England rolled his eyes at the words. He didn't like this one bit.

He watched as France stumbled, having tripped over what seemed to be a rock protruding from the ground, and England was quick to reach out a hand to steady him. "Easy now," England said, his hand staying firm on its place at France's elbow as they continued on in a slower pace. "You need to watch where you're stepping. If you fall..."

"You will catch me?" France supplied as a pleasant smile spread across his face. Somehow he managed to adjust things so that England's hand was no longer gripping his elbow, but his own palm and their fingers were soon twined together.

England felt the warmth spread into his cheeks as he tried his best to keep his gaze towards the ground, which caused him to miss the twinkle in France's blue eyes when he did not pull his hand away.

"Alright France, I think we should stop here," England announced as he deposited the basket he had been carrying on the grass below him. He felt certain this spot would be good enough. The ground was green and even, the low hanging tree branches offered them plenty of shade, and there was no one around to bother them.

"Yes, I agree."

England didn't register that France had pushed him until he felt his back make contact with the grass that was still wet with morning dew. His head swam from the impact, yet before he could manage to straighten himself, France was on top of him, pinning him to the ground and quite literally knocking the wind out of him thanks in large part to his massive stomach crushing down on England's chest.

"France, what the devil-" He didn't get much farther than that as he suddenly found another pair of lips being slammed against his own in a desperate, crushing kiss.

The first thought that came to his head was that having France on top of him like this was far more uncomfortable than having the man pressing himself flush against him in the middle of the night. There was a root digging into his back, a rock far too close to his head, and thanks to France's lips crushing his mouth and his stomach plowing into England's abdomen, he felt quite confident in saying that he was probably turning blue. Yet before England could black out due to lack of air, France pulled away from him, no doubt in order to catch his own breath.

"Have you gone absolutely mad?" England barked as he desperately attempted to wiggle out from underneath France's bulky frame. "Get off of me!"

To his surprise, France complied, rolling off of him with a huff and a look of dismay (yet there was still a distinct spark in those blue eyes). "You are right, this is not going to work," he sighed, or rather, panted. Relief washed over England for just a moment, before being quickly brushed aside when an idea seemed to form in France's head. "I know, perhaps this will go better with me lying on my back. You will have to do most of the work, I am afraid, but-"

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?" England cut in, putting an end to France's train of thought. "I'm not going to have sex with you!"

A look of utter shock and confusion quickly spread across France's face and the twinkle in his eyes swiftly disappeared like a candle being blown out by a gust of wind. "W-what?"

"I don't want to have sex with you," England repeated firmly.

He wasn't at all surprised when tears started to spring to France's eyes, but England had seen enough of his genuine sobs and fake tears over the past month to have become quite immune to it all. "You lied to me," France sobbed. "You said I was beautiful and you lied. You think I am disgusting!"

"That's not what I said," England chided. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

"And you touched my hair," France went on morosely, "and you kissed my belly, and you held my hand, and you called me 'Francis,' but... but..."

France's words soon dissolved into nothing more than incoherent blubbering and England had to fight to tune it out. He was determined to stand firm on his position, because the thought of having sex with France in his current state made England's blood run cold. England may have been ignorant about pregnancy, but he felt quite confident in his theory that if the baby could tell when he was speaking then it would be able to tell when he was violating his "mother" and England couldn't stomach the idea.

Yet staying silent and determined not to have sex with France did nothing to help his situation as France only continued to whimper and whine beside him, his howling sobs growing louder with each passing second. It's fake, it's fake, it's fake! he told himself, but France would not allow himself to be ignored.

"Dammit, France, stop that crying! You sound like a wounded animal when you cry!" If anything the comment only served to worsen the situation and France soon exploded into a series of shrill sobs that made England's ears hurt and his stomach ache. "Oh be an adult for once!" he chided. "Besides, you've obviously misunderstood me again. When I said I didn't want to have sex with you I meant... I didn't want to have sex with you... out here."

His fumbled words were just enough to silence France as his blubbering soon quieted into a simple whimper as he gazed at England with hope shimmering in his watery blue eyes. "W-what?" he asked with a soft sniff.

England blushed as his heart began to beat wildly in his chest. It took everything he had in him to not go back on what he had said. "I... I'm not going to violate you out here in the woods like some sort of wild beast," he explained awkwardly. "After all, we've a perfectly suitable bed back at the cabin."

France's eyes lit up brighter than he had seen in quite some time and England prayed that the vague indication of the possibility of sex would be enough to hold him over. He was wrong.

"You are absolutely right. Let us head home right away."

England cringed as France grasped his hand and began tugging at it as he struggled to stand. It was hard to say what was more unsettling, France's determination or the fact that he had just referred to the cabin as their home.

"N-not just yet," he said. "It's still early and we haven't even had breakfast yet." England crawled over to the basket that was laying a distance away from them and grabbed some bread and a bit of jam to smear on it. "You must be hungry," he said as he offered him the hunk of bread covered in fresh preserves.

France pinned the offered food with a look of distain. Clearly it was not what he was hungry for. "I do not eat before sex," he huffed. "It makes you cramp."

England rolled his eyes at France's comment. He would have called it a joke if it were not for the flat tone and equally serious expression France was sporting. "Oh come now, France. You need to eat something. Do I need to remind you that you are carrying a baby?"

"So you admit that you think I am a fat, hideous beast?" he sniffed, reluctantly accepting the food before nibbling at it sullenly.

"I'm not saying that at all," England argued. "I'm saying..." He sighed as he reconsidered his words. The last thing he wanted was to say something stupid and start another fight.  He decided instead to grab some bread for himself and stuff it into his mouth. The idea of avoiding a fight with France seemed strange, almost cowardly, but considering that the alternative was the threat of more tears, England decided it was best to take the easy way out.

The two ate in silence, chewing down every bit of food until the basket was empty. England expected France to start forcing him to his feet and demand that they head back straight away, but instead he found the other man scooting closer to him until they were sitting side by side on the warm grass. He stiffened when France heaved a content sigh and rested his head on England's shoulder.

"I love it here," France confessed as he admired the scenery. "So peaceful and warm."

"During the summer," England reminded. "It's bloody freezing in the winter."

"Ah oui, that is true." France shifted at his side, resting more of his weight against England's body. He lifted his hand to rest on top the swell of his stomach and England soon found himself doing the same. "Sometimes I think I could stay here forever," France went on, drawing lazy circles against his swollen abdomen. "But then I remember that it cannot be. Still, the thought of leaving makes me so sad."

England felt his ears perk up at the comment and it hit him for the first time since he had found out that France was telling the truth about the baby that they both would have to return to their respective countries someday. "You're going to take the baby with you when you leave?" he asked carefully.

"Of course. I will take her home with me when the time is right."

"Back to France." The words were spoken in a pained whisper, because it wasn't until that very moment that England realized he may soon be separated from his own child and the very idea chilled his heart.

"You could always come visit us," France assured him, placing his own hand on top of England's and offering a comforting pat. "We will only be across the Channel after all."

He nodded, the gesture causing the tightness growing in his throat to sting painfully, because that just wasn't good enough. Somehow the idea of being only a part time father to his child seemed just as bad as not being a father at all.

They sat there for a few minutes more before finally deciding to retreat back to the village. The walk back was marked by a pointed silence, because while France was now thrumming with even more gleeful excitement than he had been on their previous walk, England was now weighed down by troubling thoughts.

He wished to travel back just an hour ago when the biggest problem he had faced was the prospect of having sex with a very pregnant France. Now he had to wrestle with the idea of abandoning his child yet again. It was bad enough the first time when he had almost convinced himself that the baby didn't even exist. Now that he knew that it was a living breathing thing with his blood pumping through its veins... His heart ached with every step he took and he cursed France for not feeling one bit of remorse for his situation.

England barely registered when they arrived back at the cabin. The fact didn't really strike him until the door was closed and England soon found his back pressed up against it. France's lips were on his in an instant, pressed so firmly and desperately that England could practically taste his want.

"Arthur," France moaned against his mouth. His hands were roaming against England's fully clothed form, far too much excitement churning in his finger tips to even begin the undressing process. "Arthur. Kiss me. Touch me."

He frowned as he grabbed the man's wrists and pulled his hands off of him, an act that took more effort than he would like to admit. "France," he began in a firm, serious voice. "I... I can't do this now."

He wasn't looking at France because his eyes were planted firmly on the wooden floor beneath their feet, but he could sense the disappointment on his face as clear as day. "But you said-"

"I know what I said," he grumbled. "But I can't... Maybe later."

The slap came so suddenly that the mere shock of it was enough to quite literally knock England off of his feet (or so he told himself). The world spun, white spots danced in front of his eyes, and it took England a good minute to regain his senses enough to actually focus. He turned to look up at France who was currently glaring down at him with enough venom to make England's heart shrivel at the sight.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" England barked, cradling his swollen cheek in his hand. The wound stung, throbbing in response to the touch, but it hurt too badly for England to ignore. "Are you so desperate for me to sleep with you that you'd actually beat me into submission?"

A string of French curses spilled from France's lips as his blue eyes flashed red at the question. England couldn't remember seeing the man look so livid and he actually found himself flinching away when France took a step towards him. "Later, later, later! It is always later with you. Coward! When will you act now?"

"Well this isn't exactly encouraging," England pointed out bitterly. "And why the bloody hell should I want to have sex with you now anyway? After what you told me... Do you really expect me to break my back providing for you and the baby and then just sit back and watch as you take him away from me?"

England expected a look of shock or understanding to appear on France's face, but instead he watched as the man shook his head and grumbled frustrated words to himself. "If I did not have such a hard time bending I would pick you up just to slap you again," France groaned. "You are the stupidest man I have ever met! Do I really have to spell everything out for you?"

"What do you...?"

"I do not want to take the baby away from you, imbecile!" he snapped. "I was trying to tell you that I want to live with you, here, so we can raise the baby together!"

It was unfortunate that the only thing that he managed to say in that moment was a weak "Oh," because somehow that single word infuriated France even more and the man lashed out by giving England a sharp kick to the shin. "Dammit, France, stop hitting me!" he barked as he scrambled back to his feet. "And if that's what you wanted then why didn't you just say so?"

"Because I wanted you to ask me, oaf!" France snapped. As soon as England was standing on his own two feet again France gave his other cheek a quick slap.

"Stop it!" England ordered. His hand acted on its own and delivered a powerful punch to France's face. He paled when France reeled back from the blow, cradling his nose in startled pain. England knew that he had only struck the man because it was routine for them to trade blows, but the idea that he had just hit someone carrying a baby made his stomach turn. "France, I-"

He didn't even get a chance to finish the thought when France decided to punch him in turn. "Get out of my house!" France ordered as he shoved England towards the door. "Never come back here! I did not want to sleep with you anyway. You are a terrible lover and I would rather become a monk than ever have sex with you again!"

England didn't wait for France to shove him again, or perhaps even throw him out the window, before he quickly scrambled out the door just as a series of loud crashes began to fill the air.

---

England must have walked around the settlement a hundred times by the time the afternoon had begun to slip away. His face still hurt, but the swelling had gone down. He didn't mind too much since he knew that the bruises would fade within a day or two, but the fact that France had turned to violence like that troubled him. He had grown so accustomed to the man being nothing more than a blubbering mess over the past few weeks that he had forgotten about his violent side. In a strange way it almost felt good to exchange blows with France again, but at the same time England knew it was just a quick glimpse at a much bigger problem looming over their heads.

I should apologize, he told himself and that thought alone was enough to make his skin crawl.

What were they becoming? How did he come to a place where he was actually willing to admit to being at fault to France (even if he still felt very much in the right)? He reasoned that it was because France held so much leverage over him. The man was, after all, carrying his baby and he could very easily take the child away from him if he felt vindictive enough and given this latest outburst it was very possible that England had just pushed him to that point.

He sighed as he glanced over the rows of little wooden houses and towards the southern horizon. It would have been so easy for him to simply wash his hands of this whole situation and head back to Jamestown where he belonged, but something was keeping him rooted here.

"Hey. English."

England frowned, turning around to see a dark haired Frenchman standing behind him. The man was a bit taller than he was, with lines along his face and streaks of white in his hair and England soon recognized the man as the carpenter he had purchased the chair from. He was carrying what appeared to be a wooden cage in his arms and was only able to use his body language to signal for England to come closer.

"Are you talking to me, friend?" he asked as he approached the man.

"See any other English around?" the carpenter asked in a heavy French accent and the question only made England feel even more like bolting. "This is for you," he said, motioning towards the wooden object in his arms.

England's frown deepened as the man deposited the bulk in his arms and England couldn't quite figure out whether he was supposed to feel grateful or insulted. "Grand. I've always wanted a crate."

"It is... how do you say? ... a place for the baby to sleep," the man explained carefully.

"A cradle?" England supplied.

"Oui. A cradle. "

He felt the color drain from his skin as his green eyes took in the hunk of wood that now clearly looked like a cradle in his eyes. "H-how?"

"I assumed you and your wife may want this," he told him. "I was surprised when you did not ask me to make one so I did anyway."

"My... my wife?"

"The pretty blonde woman," the carpenter went on. "We were all relieved when you showed up. We thought she was embarrassed about carrying a bastard. It is good to see that she was just hiding an English husband. It is better than no husband, yes?"

England didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the other man's words. The carpenter thought France was a woman. The entire town, it seemed, thought they were married. He reasoned that it was far better than having them know the truth, but the idea that people saw them in such a manner made his stomach feel cold.

"Well, um, I'm afraid I can't pay you," he began, but the carpenter cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"A gift then," the man said. England thought that the conversation would end there, but he could tell from the way the man scrunched his eyes and studied his bruised cheeks that it was just beginning. "What happened to your face?"

He blushed, shifting awkwardly under the scrutiny. "I... well..."

"You had fight with the wife?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face. The carpenter hummed as a far off look settled on his features and England imagined that the man was recalling a hundred or so similar occurrences of his own. "I know all about that. Back home, I have a wife. We have four children. I can tell you first hand, they get crazy when they are pregnant."

England gave an awkward chuckle at that comment. "Yes, well..."

"I will do you a favor English," the carpenter began as he slung a far too friendly arm across England's shoulder. "Since you are young, I will teach you about women."

"Well I don't really-"

"First," the man interrupted, having clearly drifted off into a world of his own. "You must remember that when they are pregnant, they are crazy. Everything you say is wrong and everything they say is right, so you have to always apologize."

"I'm not apologizing to that bitch!" he snapped, the word rolling off of his tongue with surprising ease. "I was right."

The man gave him a condescending chuckle coupled with an insincere pat on the back that made England want to choke him. "Yes, yes, you were right," he sighed. "But for now you must be wrong or else you will be out in the cold tonight. Second, and this is important for always, never apologize empty handed. Just over the hill in the west is a field of wild flowers."

"Flowers?" England repeated skeptically.

"Flowers, English," the carpenter confirmed. "All women love flowers."

To his shame England actually found himself nodding along and it took him an embarrassing amount of time to remember that France was most certainly not a woman.

"Now, when you go home you will look your lovely wife in her eyes and say... what is her name?"

"Uh, Francis," England supplied, grateful that France's human was so androgynous.

The carpenter nodded in approval. "You will look her in the eyes and say 'Francis, I love you and I am sorry.' She will be all yours then. Simple, yes?"

England blanched at the very idea of telling France he loved him. Apologizing would be bad enough, but a fake confession of love was just a step over the line. "I don't think I can do that," he grumbled.

"You English," the carpenter huffed with a roll of his eyes. "You are all too reserved for your own good. You have no passion in your soul! But if you want to win Francis back, you must speak from your heart." The carpenter emphasized his point by slamming his massive palm against England's chest and the fight against the urge to kill the frog was almost too much for him. "Go young English. Go win your Francis back."

"Um, alright," he muttered, detangling himself from the man's grasp. "Thank you for the cradle. And the advice... I suppose."

---

Sneaking back inside was difficult, especially when his arms were full, but England managed to force his way back into the cabin without making too much noise. The sun had already set by the time he returned and he was pleased to find that France had gotten the fire started without him. Tip toeing across the creaky wooden floor boards, England quietly made his way towards the back room where he found France lying in bed fast asleep. That was no real surprise, because France was always asleep, but what did surprise him was the ugly black bruise that had spread across France's puffy face.

It was strange that his heart actually ached at the sight when his own face was covered in twice as many bruises. What's more, he could count on his hands and feet worse things that he had done to France in the past, but tonight... tonight he felt like an ass.

He swallowed the sigh welling up in his throat as he gently put the cradle down on one end of the room, before grabbing the bouquet of flowers he had picked and heading over to the bed. England swore that if this didn't work he was going to beat the tar out of that meddlesome frog carpenter.

"France?" he whispered, nudging the man's shoulder gently. "France, wake up."

A soft moan escaped his lips as France rolled onto his back and blinked up at England. For a moment his blue eyes sparkled with delight at the sight of him, but it lasted only a moment as indignant anger quickly returned to his gaze. "It is you," he sneered sleepily. "Go away. I told you never to come back."

"I know, but..." England stopped himself there as he recalled the carpenter's advice. He cleared his throat as he slowly knelt down beside France's bed. He watched as France's eyes widened at the sight of the bouquet and England was just grateful to have his attention. "France, I..." The words caught in his throat, stabbing at his mouth as he fought to push them out, but it was like spitting up shards of glass. "I... I'm sorry, Francis. I was wrong."

"Oh Arthur!" France swooned, sitting up with more speed than England had seen in weeks and wrapping his arms tightly around England's neck. A warm, wetness soon greeted his shoulder as France buried his face against him, sobbing and panting into his side. "Oh Arthur, Arthur," he chanted, his words quivering with every breath. He watched as France pulled away from him, tears dripping down his cheeks and eyes brimming with something England couldn't quite name. "Look at your face," he crooned regretfully. "How could I have done that to you?"

England flinched as France gently brushed his finger tips against his cheeks and the gesture was enough to cause fresh tears to spring to France's eyes. "I got in a good shot of my own," England noted, gesturing towards France's swollen nose. "I'm sorry I hit you. It was terrible of me to do that to you... given your condition."

"I should apologize too," France sniffed sheepishly. "I was angry. I went too far. I am sorry."

England felt a bit thrown off by the sincerity of France's unexpected apology. Perhaps the carpenter's theory about flowers applied to nations as well. "Well, I'm glad to hear it."

"Arthur," France began slowly, loosening his grasp on England's neck. "There is something else I should say." England watched as France shifted, offering him room to sit on the bed. England did as he was directed, moving from his crouched position and proceeding to park himself across from France. He waited as France sighed, taking a long slow breath before speaking again. "You do not have to live with me. You do not even have to sleep with me. I just..." His voice trailed off, but the hands on England's shoulders tightened as if desperate to hang on to something. "I was seeing things. I understand that I am ugly and a burden and that you hate me and always will. I understand that you are only here because you feel sorry for me and want our baby." Thick tears fell from France's eyes and England could practically hear the man's heart breaking as he spoke. "That is fine. We can work something out where you will be happy and never have to see me again."

England felt strange inside as he fought back against the sudden urge to say words that he didn't quite understand, words that were too heavy and real for his tongue. He chose instead to gently brush the tears off of France's cheeks before gingerly pressing their lips together. England wasn't used to such soft kisses, but he could tell by the way that France moaned into it that he appreciate the gesture.

"Crybaby," he teased once they had parted. "You just love to over react to everything, don't you?"

"Arthur?"

"I think we'll need to start thinking seriously about building a new house," England went on, looking around the room with a critical eye. "This little shack is far too small for three people. And we'll need more land too. Perhaps we can build something a bit south of here... maybe just north of my settlement."

France sobbed as he leaned in to press watery kisses against England's lips, his chin, his cheeks, and every inch of his face that he could get to. "Arthur, I..."

"Wait a minute," he cut in, standing and heading towards the other side of the room.

"What are you doing?" France asked, blinking away the tears that had been clouding his vision.

"Moving this damn bird cage," England announced as he grabbed the metal wires roughly, the suddenness of the gesture sending Pierre fluttering about frantically in his cage. "I'm not going to sit here and have this bloody thing watch us while we're intimate."

"Oh, but Arthur, Pierre loves to watch," France pouted.

England allowed himself a few indignant sputters before finally moving the cage out of the room.