Portugal wanders his way over to England’s desk, watching him hold open a book with one hand as he scribbles furiously into a notebook with the other. Stacked around him are little towers of other tomes and papers, some of which look like they could be from the 20th century or later — most of which don’t.
Portugal lifts one with a finger to look at the spine. “Are these all Voltaire?”
“Yes.” England answers shortly, then shushes him when Portugal opens his mouth to ask his next question. Portugal obediently closes his mouth and waits, amused, as England pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces at the ceiling like it has offended him. After a moment, England scrawls something on his paper again, then clicks his tongue and tosses his pen onto the table. Portugal takes that to mean he can talk, and asks, “Why Voltaire?” Then, teasingly: “I thought you didn’t read French.”
England looks up to give him a baleful stare from where he has begun rifling through his piles. “Its research. I’m trying to win an argument against Francis. We’ve also got one going on about integration, but he's clearly wrong about that so I’m focusing on Voltaire right now.” He pulls out Traité sur la tolérance and flips to a page he’s bookmarked with a pink sticky note.
Portugal grins. “I see you two are still very much in love.”
“Yes, I am going to crush him.”
“That’s not what I said,” Portugal laughs. He shifts a couple books onto one arm and replaces it with his neatly wrapped offering. “Well, take a break to eat first. Can’t wage war on an empty stomach.”
England looks up, then at what Portugal’s placed on his desk. He frowns. “What is that.”
“A bento!” Portugal taps the top of the fabric wrapped box with a finger. “I bought the fabric and the box last time I went to Tokyo. Isn’t it adorable?”
The fabric is decorated with red and white camellias and a white snake. It is pretty, England admits to himself. If incredibly embarrassing. The thought of anyone finding out that Portugal had made him a packed lunch makes England want to bludgeon himself to death with his hardcover copy of the Principia.
Portugal is smirking at him. The bastard knows.
England sighs and closes his notebook. “What is it?” he asks.
“Squid ink pasta! I got the recipe from Romano, thought I’d try it out. Have some.” His eyes betray the hope he deliberately left out of his tone.
“I’ll eat after I finish this.”
Portugal immediately frowns at him. “You need to eat.”
“Did you have breakfast?”
A slightly guilty silence. “I had tea.”
Portugal looks at him, and England hates him. Hates that he can go from mocking to pleading to admonishing in half a breath. Hates that he made squid ink pasta, like that’s a normal thing to have for lunch at work. Hates that he’s actually hungry.
Hates that the camellias on the box are really damn pretty.
