#aph engbel

[christopherballot]

hi guys did you know that engbel is peak and i cant stop thinking about them

i put so much effort into making england as ugly as possible without thinking i’d blur it anyway 💔💔 oh well

[fizzycherrycola]

EngBelg and/or SpaBelg for your ship grading?

A/B for both of them!! ✨

Belgium is a wonderful, bubbly, fun and intelligent woman. A massively underrated character! The headquarters of the EU is in Brussels and that's no accident; she's been through two World Wars and came out the other side more resilient. She adapted! Other traits: she can drink everyone else in Europe under the table, she has a loving + HEALTHY relationship with her family (even if they had rough patches in the past), and she brightens up every pairing that she's a part of. And by the way, HAVE YOU SEEN her baking skills?? NGL, when I was younger, I often dreamed about dating a lady like her... So for me, automatically any pairing with Belgium gets at least a C or higher!

From a dynamic standpoint: I've written both of these pairings in fanfics, and while they turned out super different, some key takeaways were that SpaBelg leans more open, silly, and cute (for me). Whereas EngBelg feels more reserved, but no less deeply loving. These are just the vibes I got when I wrote them.

There's also a historical basis for these ships, and I adore my history classes.

For SpaBelg, I've read other fic authors who took this pair very seriously and explored the history of the Spanish Netherlands. My knowledge is woefully lacking in this area, so I won't embarrass myself by yammering about things I haven't researched.

HOWEVER. I personally HC England and Belgium's relationship beginning in the 1860's, after "The Luxembourg Crisis". This was a diplomatic dispute over the political status of Luxembourg that almost led to war, but was peacefully resolved by the Treaty of London. The UK was happy to host the talks as they feared that the absorption of Luxembourg by another power would weaken its strategic ally on the continent: Belgium. So these two were already on amicable terms by that point! It's also VERY appealing when a potential romantic partner shows they will defend your family. And from a practical sense, this just showed them both that, hey, it's in our best interests to stick together! Alliance... consummated!

Anyways I wish these pairings were more popular. Thank you for letting me rave about them. 💜

[oumaheroes]

Coffee & Cobblestones

Some engbel that no one asked for but which fulfils my self indulgent wishes. For @maelerie ❤

Summary: England and Belgium enjoy a chilly walk about town.

.....

'How long do we have have left out here?'

England sighed through his nose and discreetly glanced down to his watch, arm immediately moving behind his back once more, 'An hour and a half till we go in for lunch.'

'Ugh.'

'Come now, Marie. You're not that old, what's a little walking compared to what we've had to do before.'

'You're not in heels.'

'I have been before.'

'Not stilettos.'

'God no.'

'And you're not now.'

England sighed, 'Alright, fine. Although, you didn't have to wear them today either.'

'How else will I be able to see anything? That one security giant your PM like blocks my view whenever we stand for photos otherwise.'

England snorted and covered the sound by clearing his throat. Ahead with Belgium's President, his Prime Minister looked backwards with a curious raised eyebrow. The speaker they were currently listening to continued their droning speech about the Roman wall they were supposed to be admiring and she returned her attention to them, letting her nation be.

'Besides,' Belgium continued in a whisper, 'I entirely forgot we were going down these roads for so long; the cobbles.'

'Not your greatest idea, admittedly.'

A few very long minutes later, wherein Belgium continuously shifted her weight from foot to foot to ease the pinching, the speaker finished and then it was time to move on. England offered her his elbow which Belgium gratefully took and the group set off, this time bound towards the centre of town.

Belgium pulled down England's sleeve to cover him better and he tutted as she brushed against his skin, taking her hand to rub it quickly between his gloved own, 'Your hands are freezing.'

'I didn't think it would turn this cold.'

'It's November. What on earth were you hoping for?'

'Optimism, apparently.'

England dropped her hand to take off his gloves, gesturing for her to take them, 'I need these ones back this time. They're Rhys'.'

Belgium smiled and slipped them on, 'Does he know that you have them?'

'He won't need to if you give them back.'

She flexed her hand, the very tips of the large gloves empty on her fingers, and took hold of his arm once again, 'Stolen goods, hmm? How like you.'

'Found,' England emphasised, 'haphazardly abandoned on my sofa, in fact. And are well looked after until their happy return.'

'Which will be?'

'Currently undecided.'

Belgium laughed.

The group continued onwards along the old wall, roads cleared and security checked for their progress. Belgium glanced up at the crumbling brick and England followed her gaze upwards.

'Rome hated that wall,' she said, 'Or, maybe not hated. But he didn't like it. "Too blocky", he'd said when he saw it finished.'

England nodded consideringly, 'I can see him saying that. That original Mediterranean flair.'

'It's funny isn't it. Something built on a whim, or with little consideration to asthetic, and now it's held up as a marvel in memory of a history just because it's survived. Pieces of our culture that maybe held no real part in it now looked upon with romanticised wonder, or picked apart for meaning.'

England made a noise that Belgium couldn't decide whether was agreement, or just to show he'd heard her.

'He'd have hated that. All of his great buildings that he left with me and people are just as interested in this terrible old wall.'

'It is a decent wall.'

'It is nothing more than old brick.' England said nothing and Belgium gave his arm a gentle tug to keep him moving, 'Do you remember much of him?'

'Rome?' A small crease appeared in between his eyebrows, 'Sometimes too much. But the older I get and the more I think of it, the more I feel like I never really knew him at all.'

'I don't think we were meant to.'

England gave a dry laugh, a small exhalation that sounded slightly bitter, 'It depends on who you were. Or, what he thought you could be.'

Belgium stayed silent. Her own feelings and memories of Rome were strange and subject to change. Oftentimes that part of her life was vague and hard to recall, although memories would occasionally hit her with a brilliant vibrancy that knocked her right back. The smells of his homes, woody incense and fish oil. The taste of certain figs if she bought them from a particular shop in Italy. The catch of light on a broach in candle light, the glint of metal in the sun. She would dream about being swung to sit on Rome's shoulders, then her body pressed against doors and tense with fear as he raged and crashed on the other side.

She wanted to ask more of what England remembered of that time. Whether he too knew Rome as two different men with one name. But their childhoods were long ago, distant things, a life that was intimate and raw before nationhood truly took them. They were all large eyes and souls of wet clay then, nothing more than potential and the bitter deathtoll to those who came before.

The hurts of a lonely youth imprinted upon them all, and Arthur never liked to share those particular ghosts.

Belgium took hold of his hand and entwined them together, smoothing her gloved thumb over his bare skin.

'Speaking of who we think we should be, do you think yourself a scoundrel?'

England looked confused, 'What?'

'Let's escape,' she said, giving his hand a squeeze, 'a nice coffee somewhere sounds a lot more fun than sticking about here looking at old stones.'

England blinked and then a slow smile grew across his face, crooked with the hint of teeth, 'Only if you promise not to try and seduce me with talk of Roman architecture.'

'Ah! How on earth did you know?'

'Familiarity with your methods.'

'I wouldn't dream of it, darling. How about the role of cobbles in influencing modern footwear instead?'

England bent and kissed her cheek, 'That will have to do.'

....

AN:

England has worn heels before. They were men's fashion before women and were once all the fashionable rage.

Is this my way of paying homage to the great fic 'love amongst the ruins' in a teeny tiny way?

Yes.

[maelerie]

Summary: It's the sight of her dainty hand casually resting atop the Spanish Empire's arm that makes England’s blood boil.

"Careful, Angleterre. Spain as he is now is not someone you want as your enemy."

England roughly shrugged France's hand away and gritted his teeth. "There is a difference between conquering child-colonies and battling a seasoned nation like myself, Frog."

"Marie is almost as old as you," France pointed out, "and as experienced in the ways of the world. As is her brother. And yet, they had not the strength nor the means to stop Spain from collecting them into his empire."

England was about to snap at France's words when he saw Belgae dusting of Spain's doublet, trailing the palms of her hands down his chest and laying them to rest there for far longer then propriety would allow. His snark reply died on the tip of his tongue, seeing green now instead of red.

"She doesn't seem to mind belonging to him, does she?"

France chuckled. "You are so easily fooled, Angleterre. As, no doubt, most men would be. She's merely playing the part of subordinate nation. She may not have the physical strength, but chère Marie has her wits and her charms to get what she wants."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem pleased with yourself when you say that."

"Well, I might have taught her a trick or two," France said cheerfully.

Chapters: 2/? Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Belgium/England, Belgium/Spain Characters: England, France, Belgium, Spain, Austria Additional Tags: Historical Hetalia, 16th Century CE, Elizabethan, The Habsburg Empire, Friendship, Alliances, Pining, Fluff and Angst, Tension, Grumpy England, Sly Belgium, France Being France, Conquistador Spain, Stuck-up Austria, Childhood Friends, Crushes, Internal Conflict

[saltyaphaesthetics-blog]

APH England + Belgium & Dusk.

[aphaestheticsforyou]

|EngBel Aesthetic|

[aphreblogs]

@maelerie​ aaaaaahhh ur so sweet!!! 💕 i'm still playing with how i want bella's face to look, but here's an edwardian doodle for u :-)

[heta-fraulein]

Pairing: England/Belarus - Engbela

The teacup is placed on the table lightly, the caption contrasting with the stone cold expression of it’s owner. There’s a slight raise of her eyebrows at the newcomer, albeit from his position it wouldn’t have been visible.

There was no need to guess as Arthur had observed her for far long for needing to think when it comes to her, even if her eyes forever seemed to be enclosed in a mystery of her own, he had long since drawn her curtains up.

She takes a sharp breath, hands folded neatly on her lap, shoulders squared and a narrowing of her eyes. Heartbeat accelerated, a hint of curiosity can’t help but linger in her mind,

“Could you not breath down my neck every second of the day, Arthur?”

He had always admired the way his name rolled off her tongue, in a rough and chopped up manner as she only bothered to question him when he was being a menace to society and her existence.

“I am not”, he simply states so. Which was the truth really, if anything Natalya had been the one dragging the both of them from place to place and country to country for the past few days, and he had kindly obeyed.

A sigh of irritation and finally she shoots a glare towards him, beside her, a loving companion who was also a cat gives a glare of her own. “I mean literally, stop breathing down my neck, it’s annoying and frankly, creepy”,

Arthur gives a thoughtful expression for a moment, smoothing out his neat suit and tilting his head. He gives a desperate sigh which she rolled her eyes at,

“But I just can’t help myself when your blood calls out to me”, he says calmly.

“My blood’s rotten and so is your core”, gritting her teeth, there’s a flurry and a glint of metal as Arthur narrowly avoids the dagger aimed for his chest,

As he was a mad lad and a man with great reflexes, he catches her wrist in a tight grip and gives a tight grin, a furrow of his eyebrow and his sharp fangs visible more clearly now.

Natalya’s hand burns and a purple glow envelopes the dagger, it’s mesmerizing and pretty to watch, similar to her eyes which Arthur could stare at all day.

“Must we do this again?”, Arthur’s voice is a whisper as he leans towards her face. “The neighbors will hear us”,

The lady rolls her eyes at the statement and raises her brow, “and you didn’t worry about the before?, shouldn’t you have learned to behave centuries ago?”,

His grin is unwavering as he clicks his tongue, dangerously wide eyed, “the past centuries haven’t changed much”,

She wrinkled her nose, the purple glow slipping off her hair as raindrops, although it quickly turns into small waves of flame. It won’t hurt them or him, only if she would have wanted too.

“They would still burn a witch on the stake”, the grin is replaced with a sly smile and she huffs, the dagger moved away from his chest. She must have been reminded of her sister, although she was a faerie and not a witch, two different things. And no she wasn’t dead.

“And I would still, pierce this iron dagger through your chest watching as your flesh melts and hum along to your screams”,

“Well, that isn’t edgy at all”, it’s now his turn to roll his eyes, taking a seat across from her as they proceed to grasp their cups refilled by a magical kettle floating over the table.

“And your fangs are sooo cool and original?”,

“They could tear apart a bitch, I tell you”.

Natalya gives a light grin at the comment and braces herself for whatever the reason was for him to arrive here during her tea time.

“Oh, if we must move again, must we take that cat with us?”,

The cat pauses from the process of licking its tummy, it’s green eyes glowing dangerously under the sunlight.

A frown graces her lips, “Yes, muffins shall come with us wherever we may go”, he groans at the response and swears the cat gives him a mocking expression.

“Muffins?, that old lady”, the cat almost seems offended,”is immortal, can float and has claws that could disfigure a person for life”.

Natalya sips her tea without any worry, there’s a knock at the door and the both of them stare at each other for a while.

“Seems like Jones have found us”, he states amusingly and Natalya snorts.

.

.

.

“Great, they have ran away again”,

There’s a disdain in Matthews tone, the room they were standing in is now bare with no trace of someone else living there.

The neighbors were creeped out to say the least and no threatening could get anything out of them.

Alfred narrows his eyes at the window, wide open and the curtains flailing around. He clenched his gun tightly, gritting his teeth as a hand is placed on his shoulder.

“There, there it will be fine”,

Footsteps echoes in the room and Alistair takes out a cigar, lightning it up. A careless, dangerous grin forms on his lips, eyes shimmering green, but obviously the two human mortals do not notice so. Who knew he could manipulate a horde of hunters? This was far too easy.

“We will get them just in time”, he can feel the anger brimming off Alfred and can’t help but feed off the negative energy. Matthew’s sweet disdain and a hint of anxiety has always been soothing.

He watches the smoke from his cigar move gracefully and listens to Matthew talk with Lars about dragon-sightings near the area, which has never been heard for centuries by the woodland ‘aka mythical’ creatures.

Arthur’s memories flashes through his mind, and as always the desire for revenge the boy has had for the one thing that took his humanity away.

He sighs. Even without the hunters, he would still find a way to stop Arthur before he does something regrettable for the creatures that shouldn’t be revealed about to anyone.

‘I will show him’,

‘After all, I raised the damn brat’.

[rein-ette]

A Selection of England’s Relationships Throughout History

Holy this took me a long time BUT Hetalias back so gotta celebrate ♥️

Obviously these are my personal interpretations of iggy and co. — I would definitely love to hear feedback from anyone who agrees/disagrees or finds any historical inaccuracies.

Also I forgot to mention in the actual legend but the line thickness indicates the major relationship during England’s life at that time or the one he was the most invested in/committed to.

More Special Notes/Thoughts Under the Cut!

I use ship names throughout these notes only to denote a relationship between a nation and England, not necessarily a romantic one.

From a outsider point of view England’s relationship with Port and France are almost the inverse of each other, with one relationship growing stronger when the other weakens and vice versa, but actually from England’s point of view he’s just loved both of them, like, forever. For most of his life Portugal’s political agenda just happened to align better with his, so naturally more time was invested there. But I don’t think that made his feelings for Francis any less profound or intense during that time, and vice versa when he was dating France in the 20th century. Nowadays he’s allowed to do whatever he wants.

Also you actually draw the lines you really realize how long England’s been obsessed with those two amdkfjsjbdjdd

Nedeng and Engbel are so under-appreciated even though they’ve also shared the channel for like, forever? Ned had a reAl intense rivalry going on with England in the 16 and 1700s that could give Spain a run for his money — but to me the difference between SpUK and Nedeng is that the latter is actually has a more mutual respect/kinship undertone that Spain can’t share with England. Those two were born into similar conditions (dirt poor), have somewhat similar mindsets towards success (requires ruthless pragmatism and self discipline), both hate Spain and kinda France, and both like the ocean and the thrill of the more dangerous, darker aspects of life. That’s the foundation for a pretty darn strong friendship, despite the little tiffs in the middle.

I like to think Bel had a huge crush on England during the Napoleonic Wars and into the 19th century. I mean, if there’s ever time to fall in love with England, it’s during the Victorian era. Plus I think a relationship like that would balance out well the image of England as “undesirable” and “unattractive” and Bel as just the little sister foil to Ned. She has needs and wants too, and if she wants the worlds most powerful empire you best believe she’ll have him 👀. Now Eng and Bel are friends with occasional benefits.

I also think the idea that England was isolated and had no deep friendships/relationships beyond whoever he’s shipped with is inaccurate. Arthur’s definitely an intensely private and independent person, and he himself does fall into the trap of believing no one cares about him and that everyone who does try to get close wants him for something. But historically there are many nations who admired and liked him. Much of Prussian aristocracy, for example, could be categorized into “Anglophiles” or “Francophiles” and while Prussia himself is best friends with Francis, it makes sense for him to also be really close with England. In fact, historian Barbara Tuchman described the German ambassador to Britain in 1914 as being torn apart by the thought of conflict between “the country of his birth and the country of his heart.” The German people probably would not have felt as strongly, but I also see Prussia as more closely linked with the military/aristocratic class than the common people after Unification, especially since most of Germany as we know it today was decidedly not Prussian. Essentially Pruk like Nedeng is another pair that share some pretty powerful core values, including a strong, sometimes overwhelming sense of responsibility and loyalty to those they see as “entrusted” to them.

While talking about Germany, we’re actually all sleeping on England x Hanover. This was England’s longest official marriage (the Anglo-Portuguese alliance was mostly about informal commitments) and the Hanoverian House produced Iggys beloved Queen Victoria. I have to do more research here to better characterize Hanover, but I do think this relationship would have had a measurable impact on Arthur, even if it wasn’t romantic in nature (which it probably wasn’t, as the power imbalance between England as an empire and Hanover as a German province was just too great)

Asakiku is another fascinating relationship, not least because cross culture Europe x Asia relations are scarcely explored. Asakiku has so much potential for straight fluff and Arthur and Kiki just vibing about literature and music and the meaning of life, but also lends itself to analysis of more serious questions: how racism might affect nation’s personal relationships, or how nations view human rights abuses, expansionist war and those who perpetrate them, including themselves. Of course these are topics that Arthur could discuss with others like Francis or Prussia, but I think he wouldn’t be as vulnerable, calm, or reflective with anyone but Kiku — ironically because Japan and England’s politics, culture, and history are more distant.

Finally, SpUK and USUK. I feel kinda bad for tagging these cuz a lot of people love these pairings, but while I think Al and Toni both play huge roles in Arthur’s life, it’s not really romantic in nature. Besides Port and Francis Arthur’s known Toni the longest, and they make a great pair because on some levels they get each other, but on others they contrast hard (optimist vs pessimist, faith vs reason, belief in fate vs belief in agency etc.) That makes them great foils for each other but not really great long-term lovers. As for USUK I see it mostly as platonic — there may be no one in this world Artie loves more than the Al, but love can be powerful without being romantic. I do think they tried it out in the 60s during the British Invasion (see The Chosen End series) but ultimately they also have irreconcilable differences in worldview that mean they can’t really be what the other needs in a lover.

[morgandrawssstuff]

Joined in with the ‘go for it Nakamura!’ trend on twitter and instagram rn!!! Since there’s barely any new content for EngBel, I decided to go make my own food instead </3

[kaimaciel]

The Problem Shipping England (Hetalia)

[fizzycherrycola]

EngBel 1860′s

A big thank-you to @maelerie​ for the dialogue prompt, which was: “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Warnings: Some Victorian attitudes, but not too much

Lions Dancing

Berne, Switzerland; 26 September 1867

Oh, it was so late to be eating, but poor Belgium couldn’t help herself!

Down goes another nibble of camembert, deliciously creamy, but it’s hardly enough. Sighing, she gazes upon the beautiful, yet paltry spread of morsels decorating the buffet table. A few handfuls of fancy cheese, grapes, berries, a bit of bread and butter, salad greens, and an empty tray that used to hold some tiny cakes.

“Where is the proper food?” she moans.

“Did you not eat dinner?” England asks.

Pouting, Belgium wraps her arms around his elbow. “I did, but I’d heard that we were being served food, so I only ate a little.” A flank of roast beef, a bowl of steaming stew, and a good portion of potatoes would be so wonderful right now. Her mouth waters, imagination running wild and not helping her situation at all. Forgetting herself, she leans against England and the wool twill of his evening suit brushes her cheek.

He murmurs a note of affirmation and straightens his posture, resting a gloved hand over hers. It’s warm. She glances up to meet his evergreen eyes, gentle and unsure, before he looks away. Belgium, never one to squander an opportunity, takes in his handsome presentation.

Shortbread blonde hair combed to the side and freshly trimmed, a cluster of freckles across his cheekbones, and a pair of striking brows to crown a visage that is so authentically England. Despite how often she hears her peers sneering at his expense, whispered since he became an empire, she never understood how some could call him hideous. Perhaps standards ought to change, to grant Italy and France a break from being the forever pinnacles of European beauty. Not to minimise their features, of course, but.... Hang on. Is England wearing a scent?

A trio of German states greet them with a bow and Belgium quickly pulls out of her thoughts to return the gesture. When they depart, England’s mouth is twisted into a soft frown.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asks.

“Oh!” Belgium exclaims. “Yes, I would. Do you know where the drinks are?”

“Just over by the antechamber.”

Her delight deflates. The antechamber isn’t far, but the manor is very crowded. Passing through a doorway almost becomes like a queue.  

“All right, let’s get to it.” She begins shuffling between the flocks of visitors when England lightly grasps her arm.

“Oh, I thought...” he fumbles. “If you’re still hungry you can keep eating and I’ll fetch it for you.”

Belgium perks up. “You will?”

England balks. “Of course, I will. It’s only proper for a gentleman to serve his....” He stalls. “To serve the lady in his company. It’s good etiquette. Not that I’d object if you'd prefer to get it yourself, but, erm....”

“I’d like a beer, please,” she says with a smile. “And if they don’t have it, I wouldn’t be daunted by something stronger.”

Nodding, he takes his leave, and Belgium takes a moment to admire his retreating form. Once he’s out of sight, she places a few berries in her napkin and watches the dancing.

A cluster of people are twirling in tune to a string quartet, filling the room’s centre with big skirts and bare shoulders, an array of colours and patterns from across Europe and the Ottoman Empire. The dances are, thankfully, very simple and well-known, not like the ridiculous leaping shows that leave her exhausted and wanting to toss her Pinet boots into a river. Tonight will be long, as most balls often are, with gas lamps burning away the darkness and ceiling chandeliers twinkling like stars. With a dash of luck, and providing she play her cards right, the evening might also be, dare she hope, a passionate one.

Gnawing her lip between bites of a strawberry, Belgium weighs her options. Might there be a secluded corner in this castle-turned-manor? Surely there’s at least one. If so, she should find it before Bohemia drags her into an endless train of gossip.

“Belgium, is that you?”

No! But wait, that isn’t Bohemia’s voice. Squeezing past the audience circle comes a young face that makes Belgium’s heart soar.

“Lux!” she cries. Immediately reaching out, she wraps her younger brother in a warm hug, ignoring his groan of protest. “I had no idea you were coming. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was a last-minute decision,” Luxembourg admits. He feels thin, under his dainty frockcoat, but he’s always been rather scrawny. “When I saw Ned packing his suitcase for the trip, I suddenly wanted to join in. I can’t say what came over me.”

She plants a kiss on his buttermilk hair and they part. “Well, I’m so glad you did! It’s good to see you.”

He smiles, all tired eyes and pale skin. “You as well.”

“Oh, Lux. You still look weary; haven’t you been sleeping?”

Luxembourg sighs, small shoulders heavy with stress. “I’m better than I was a few months ago. Readjusting to a normal life has taken longer than I’d hoped. I’m not ashamed to admit that France and Prussia gave me quite a scare. For a while, I even thought that....”

“I know.” He need not say it; everyone feared that there might have been a war. “But in the end, everything sorted itself out. You needn’t worry about them anymore; you’re safe now.”

“You’re right.” He offers a shrug and a flimsy grin that betrays he may not believe his own words.  

What a messy affair it was. It’d be false to say that she held no resentment towards Netherlands for his part in the disaster. But truthfully, in a world of sprawling empires, any step taken has the potential for friction or crisis. “Don’t push yourself too hard,” she adds. “And if you ever need anything at all, you can always call on me. That’s what big sisters are for.”

Luxembourg quirks an eyebrow. “Anything at all?”

“Anything.”

“Then, how about a dance?”

Her chest glows and she beams at him. “Lux! What a nice request; when did you become so sweet? Well, I’d love to, but at the moment, I’m waiting for England to return.”

“Ah, right. You have to dance with your beloved first.”

Belgium’s jaw drops. “What?”

Her brother laughs, a high, healthy sound. “Oh, come on. You can’t pretend it isn’t obvious. Everyone sees how you longingly gaze at each other.”

Heat blooms under her cheeks and she flicks him. “Hush, you! Don't poke fun at me.”

Luxembourg, the menace, is still grinning. “Impossible. As your brother, it’s my job to poke fun at you.”

She sighs. “Always with the japes.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” says England, and Belgium is thrown off-balance.

He blinks, glancing curiously between the siblings with two brandies in hand.  

“England,” Luxembourg greets. “It’s good to see you again.”  

“Luxembourg,” England says with a short nod. “The pleasure is mine.”  

“We were just discussing japes.”

“Is that so?”

Belgium accepts her glass and has a hearty swig.

“Yes,” Luxembourg continues. “But actually, now that you’re here, there’s something I’d like to say.”

England tilts his head and Belgium tenses, casting a look at her brother. Before she can interject, Luxembourg performs a bow. “Thank you for your assistance. I didn’t have the chance to express my gratitude in London, some months ago, but I was, and still am, deeply appreciative of what you did for myself and my people.”

Surprise holds her breath for a moment, before relief floods down her neck, and she muffles an exhale around her glass.

Brows raised, England pauses. “Oh. Well, I can't take all the credit. The conference was held at Russia’s suggestion.”  

“You did host it, though. And you helped the discussions along.”

A spark seems to light in England and he grins, chest swelling. “Hmm, I suppose that’s true,” he hums. “However, I was perfectly satisfied to play host if it meant avoiding an unnecessary war. Another squabble is the last thing Europe needs and such a thing might've put you and your sister in harm’s way and I couldn’t allow....” His words peter out as realisation dawns on his face. Belatedly, he turns away to cough. “Think nothing of it.”

His unfinished statement doesn’t go unnoticed, and like a cup of sorbet in summer, Belgium melts. Admittedly, it was some time before she learned to see past England’s mask, how he hides deeper emotions behind pleasantries. Far from being a bother, the display is... strangely endearing. A tough exterior covering a soft centre; a toasty crème brûlée.  

Blast, now she’s gone and made herself hungry again.

Luxembourg smirks. “I think I’ll have one of those brandies,” he says, pointing to the doorway. “The drinks are in the antechamber, right?”  

Belgium flinches. “You’re leaving?”

“Just to get a drink.” He casually bumps her elbow. “I’ll be nearby.”

Instinctively, she squeezes his hand. “All right, then. I’ll catch up with you soon. Don’t let Ned leave early.”

Luxembourg chuckles. “I won’t, I promise. Enjoy the ball, Belgium.”

He departs, stalwart and skinny, too young and too mature. But just as he’s slipping between a set of packed tables, cluttered with empty plates and lounging patrons, a thought strikes her.  

“Ah, Lux,” she calls. “By the way, if you see Switzerland, could you kindly ask if he has a little more food?”

He rolls his eyes, and with a wave, Luxembourg disappears into the crowd.

Belgium feels a gaze on her, ticklish on the hairs of her neck, and she glances at England. He looks away, nursing his booze, while the background din of ballroom chatter prevents total silence from settling in. Swirling her amber elixir, catching reflections of the hall, the dancing pairs, and his profile rippling around the rim of her glass, she fidgets. It’s suddenly very hot in this elegant manor.  

What should she do? They’ve been dancing around this, whatever it may be, for too long. So many balls behind them, waltzes, galops, and polkas, but only fair goodbyes at the end of each night. Well, enough is enough. No more nonsense!

She drains her cup, burning honey and liquid confidence down her throat, preparing to do something wildly improper: to ask him to dance. It shouldn’t cause too much of a scandal, should it? And if it does, it’ll certainly be overshadowed by the gossip surrounding Hungary and her decision to wear trousers this evening.  

But England speaks up first. “May I have the next dance?”

Belgium blinks. “You may,” she says, wind taken out of her sails.

Immediately, England finishes his drink, necktie and collar bobbing as he swallows. He takes her palm and, at the dwindling of the string quartet, coupled with mild applause, they head to the floor.

There is a pause, then a cello croons and a waltz begins. They dance, as they have many times before, to the charming serenade of singing violins. And England is definitely wearing a scent; cedar wood folded in with a wash of lavender and other enchanting florals that transport Belgium to a glasshouse garden kept tidy and warm.

“You know,” she comments, “I believe you used to hate dancing.”

“That was true about a century ago,” he says on the turn.

“What’s changed in that time?”

“I suppose, the circumstances of the activity.”

They weave between couples, spinning through blurs of satin and taffeta. She stays closer to him than the steps require, thankful that she ditched her old hoop skirt in favour of a slim crinolette.  

“England?” Belgium murmurs, a swarm of butterflies in her belly.

“Yes?”

“I also wanted to thank you for how you helped my brother.”

His hand tightens around her palm. “...Of course.”

“You didn’t need to intervene, but you did, and I truly appreciate it.”

“Please, think nothing of it.”

She smiles. “How can I? It’s not just the courtesy you’ve shown him. You’re always kind to me as well.”

England’s brows arch a little, then smooth out. He doesn’t reply at first, but then his chest rises in a quiet breath.

“Always is a very long time.”

Belgium giggles. “You’re right. For us, ‘always’ is a very long time.” She considers this as he slides her into a twirl, away and back. “But lately, I think you have. Am I wrong?”

A spin, and she returns to his hold, near enough to hear him whisper. “...Perhaps, lately.”

These decades are strange, when words are so restricted and emotions must be revealed so carefully. In some ways, it’s easy to become caught up in social customs, the limiting formalities that change with time. He was more open when he was younger; they both were.

“Lately, I’ve... I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” She averts her gaze, throat suddenly tight as she dips into uncharted waters. “Tonight, and other nights, you’ve gone out of your way to ensure it appears accidental. But I don’t mean to accuse you of any wrongdoing, because you haven’t done anything wrong at all, it’s only that... I’ve sometimes wondered if... if you harbour any feelings for me.”

His steps falter, timing off, until he corrects it. “Harbour feelings?”

Her fingers tense, curling over his shoulder. “Am I mistaken?” She swallows, her words only a whisper louder than the song. “If I am, please tell me. I’ve no desire to be foolish. Please, tell me and I won’t bring it up again. I swear.” But she isn’t wrong, she’s sure she isn’t wrong.

England says nothing. The string instruments slow and hush. Belgium’s heart is hammering as their bodies still and the music ends, applause swelling up from the onlookers. Face warm, she glances up, hiding behind her lashes, and he’s staring back – openly, with gorgeous, hair-raising seriousness. His eyes dart over her, searching, and she trembles, a tremor that begins in her lips and ripples down into her chest.  

Gently, England’s hand presses on her back and the shiver quiets. She leans impossibly closer to him, their torsos flush, and--

“Belgium!”

Belgium jumps with a squeak.  

The voice calls her again and she wildly scans the room. From the audience circle, it’s Lux, waving like an idiot. “Sorry!” he shouts, pointing to the buffet. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but more food has been brought out.”

“O-Oh,” Belgium mumbles. She hesitates, utterly lost, looking between her brother and England.

“They have potatoes and lamb!”  

“Yes! Thank you, Lux! I’ll be right there.”  

Belgium moans. He did that on purpose, the menace! And even if he didn’t, what does it matter? The moment is ruined!  

Shoulders high and tight, she steps back, wishing for the immaculate, cherry-wood floor to swallow her whole. When it doesn’t, she forces a painful smile. “I’m sorry, that was too bold, wasn’t it? You don’t need to answer. Just um... forget I said anything.” Fizzling with anxiety, she tugs England by the wrist and nods to the buffet. “I should’ve had more food before downing that brandy! That was silly of me. Um... why don’t we get something to eat?”  

Her pull meets resistance, though. England is rooted to the spot, mouth shaping around silent syllables, as if trying to find the right words.  

“Occasionally, I suppose you might be bold, but... I wouldn’t think to call you foolish.” He shifts, taking her hand, a gloved thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Belgium halts, mind stuck like a broken carriage wheel, and there’s a touch of pink to England’s cheeks, his expression painted with worry. It’s another second or two before the wheel clicks together.  

“Oh,” she breathes. “Then, you...?” England’s lips thin and the colour spills across the rest of his face. Belgium buckles. Her body, dress and all, vacates the earth and is replaced by fluffy, hand-spun clouds. She’s floating, adrift in dreamland and over the moon. “Food... we should... before it’s gone.”

England clears his throat. “Right, yes.”

“And then, um... would you mind if we found somewhere quieter to eat?”

“If you’d prefer.”

She rushes closer. “But would you like to?”

He balks, eyes as wide as saucers, rouge creeping down his neck. “I wouldn’t mind. Um, yes. We could... certainly do that.”

A full-body tingle soars to Belgium’s ears and she wraps both arms around his elbow, feeling very much like a tangled-up yarn ball of a thousand happy feelings. And slightly parched. They should get drinks to pair with their food.

They lean together, shuffling at a snail’s pace to the buffet, ignorant to the rest of the ballroom, and not taking their eyes off one another for quite a long time.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

The Luxembourg Crisis was a diplomatic dispute in 1867 between France and Prussia over the political status of Luxembourg. The confrontation almost led to war between the two parties, but was peacefully resolved by the Treaty of London. The UK was happy to host the talks as they feared that the absorption of Luxembourg by either power would weaken Belgium, its strategic ally on the continent.

It’s an obscure canon Hetalia fact that Luxembourg likes to prank his sister.

Pinet boots were a specific style of high-heeled shoes that were popular in the 1860s.

Trousers on women? Yes! Some women did wear them back then, but it was very rare. And any women who did, were absolutely doing it as a fashion statement against restrictive hoop skirts.

The crinolette was a transitional garment bridging the gap between the cage crinoline (hoop skirt) and the bustle. It was fashionable from 1867 through to the mid-1870s.

Victorian attitudes on romance were exhausting. Expressing interest in someone, if done improperly, could get you labelled as a devilish flirt with “poor morals”. And women weren’t permitted to make the first move, as Belgium does when she asks if England likes her. She’s being very bold, but you know what? Good for her!

Did you know? Belgium and England share the lion as their national animals. With that in mind, I chose to imagine a pair of lions dancing when writing this story. Hence, the title.

[hetalia-content-creators]

NAME: @maelerie ROLES: Fanfiction BLOG TYPE: Multifandom WARNINGS: Rarely, but if there are they are tagged accordingly

[oumaheroes]

Timeless

Summary: “Belgium tugged on his arm as the music softened, bringing him back to the well disguised present, ‘Do you still remember how to waltz?’ ‘I am offended that you need to ask the question, madam.’”

Word Count: 1365

Characters: England, Belgium (engbel)

-----------------------------

‘So,’ Belgium tipped her head to look up at England under her eyelashes, ‘What do you think?’

‘Of this?’ He gestured with his head to the gaudily decorated ballroom around them, crystal and glass catching the candle light to make the whole place glitter, ‘Hideous.’

Belgium laughed, ‘Do you know, I thought you would say that.’

‘Did you?’

‘Oh yes,’ She grinned, linking her arm through his and staring back out at the dancers, ‘Very much not your style.’

‘Anything French is far from my style.’

‘Stop it,’ she swatted him gently on the chest with her fan, ‘You have to at least admit that France worked hard to put this all together.’

England matched her to look over across the ballroom, taking in all of the meticulous detail of the room’s decorations. Everything had been gathered from the same late decade in the 18th century to be as historically accurate as possible and England felt as though he’d stepped back through time, despite the weight of his mobile phone in his trouser pocket, ‘He certainly spent far too much time on it for a weekend summer party.’

‘I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get from you.’

‘Better than nothing. I also dressed appropriately, didn’t I?’ He gestured down at himself, cream waistcoat and dark green coat, finely trimmed and cut accordingly along with excessively buckled shoes.

‘Indeed,’ She grinned up at him prettily, ‘Not entirely accurate though, you don’t have a wig.’

‘I have a hat. I made the wig fashion mistake once and I swore never to again, if the frog wants to complain let him do so whilst moulting. Besides, I’m not the only one who isn’t quite right.’

‘No,’ Belgium rolled her eyes and opened her fan to whisper behind it, ‘Did you notice? Poor Ukraine has her stomacher and petticoats from at least three decades before.’

‘The utter gall of some people.’

‘For shame.’ Belgium nodded sagely before breaking to give a light laugh, ‘Oh, but it’s fun though. Nice for everyone to dress up again. These sorts of get togethers were always much more of an event in previous decades than they are now and we rarely do them anymore.’

England huffed, ‘Far too much of an event entirely if you ask me.’

‘Well, you would say that. You cannot lie to me though, dear. I know that you like parties despite what you say and that you’re fond of the 19th century look.’

‘It was elegant,’ England defended immediately, ‘None of this frill and lace nonsense but a lot more refined and dare I say colourful than most of the stuff today.’

‘I oddly do miss corsets,’ she patted her chest, fingers gently brushing the delicate lace trim around her collar, ‘They gave a lot more support.’

‘That I can’t attest to.’

‘You certainly saw a fair share,’ she gave him a warm wink, arm tightening in his.

They watched the dancers for a while in silence, England unconsciously tapping his foot along in time. The smell of fresh flowers in tall vases, melting wax, and the heat of people was heavy, and he could feel the effect mix with the wine he’d drunk earlier to leave him slightly lightheaded. It was not hard to imagine that if he walked out into the night right now, he’d find a carriage waiting for him, ready to take him another candlelit room or to a dock by the open sea. The creak of tall wooden ships under a bursting night sky of stars, roads to a not-yet crumbling ruin of a house bumpy and winding through ancient woods now lost to housing estates.

They were in France, in the south but it made no difference. The past had been bundled up and held tight in this one evening and England couldn’t help but travel to a version of himself he’d almost forgotten.

Belgium tugged on his arm as the music softened, bringing him back to the well disguised present, ‘Do you still remember how to waltz?’

‘I am offended that you need to ask the question, madam.’

‘Well,’ Belgium casually waved her hand outwards towards the dancers, ‘Australia seems a bit… now, how do I say this without accusing you of child neglect?’

England laughed, catching sight of what she was referring to immediately. Australia, with all the grace of a bull in a chin shop, was happily twirling Vietnam about the dance floor in a vague rendition of a waltz. Vietnam looked to be enjoying herself, bearing with the treatment extremely gracefully whilst Wy looked on aghast from their table, ‘I can assure you I taught him much better than that.’

‘I have yet to see proof.’

‘You are goading me, Marie.’

‘Are you goadable?’

‘That’s not a word.’

Belgium gave a very unladylike snort, ‘If you understood it then it served its function.’

‘I cannot argue with that,’ England gave a short bow and held out his hand, ‘Shall we then?’

‘We shall,’ stepping out to the start of a new dance, England placed his hand on the small of Belgium’s back, pulling her close to him and Belgium bumped him with her hip, ‘If you’re good, I might keep you for the rest of the evening.’

England led them off in time to the step of the music, spinning them into the first turn, ‘Alas, I have promised myself to another.’ Belgium had done up her hair in the tight pin curls of the age, most swept back and tucked under a hairpiece and leaving only a few remaining about her face. It made her look younger, nostalgic and new all at once.

‘Oh?’ She raised an eyebrow, gripping his other hand holding hers, ‘And who is my rival of your affections today?’

‘I have given my word to Wy,’ England pushed them as fast as they could go whilst remaining in time to the score, weaving in and out of the other pairs easily. He missed dancing, not the sort of thing that America expected him to do in clubs or bars, or at music events but real dancing, with intricate steps and a conversation held secret in the middle, ‘She lamented to me about Australia in the car ride over and I told her I would fill her dance card to save her from the shame of being stepped on.’

‘He’s not that bad,’ Belgium looked about them, catching Australia’s eye and shooting him a grin as they passed, ‘just enthusiastic. And he wasn’t born yet when we did all this, you can hardly blame him.’

‘Oh, I know. He’s a lot better than he used to be, too. Sadly for him, however, Wy has been watching Bridgerton and now has expectations’.

‘Ah, I see,’ Belgium gave a dramatic sigh, ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do. I’m sure France will be free at points.’

England span them unexpectedly, pressing them closer together to keep her upright and she made small noise of surprise, ‘I’m sure Canada or New Zealand will be happy to take my place for her if you ever feel yourself leaning towards such desperate measures.’

‘You’d break a young girl’s heart, for me?’

‘Wy has been raised to be honourable, she’ll forgive me when she knows what I’d be saving you from.’

‘Honourable? It’s most certainly not you raising her then, is it.’

‘I don’t remember you being so overt with your insults in the 18th Century.’

‘My apologies, I’m out of practise in sly bullshitting.’ She cleared her throat and tried again, ‘Tell her that she has my thanks for being so gracious and that her proper breeding must be all her own doing. How about that?’

‘Perfect. I shall make sure to tell her.’ The dance ended and they slowly moved apart, England kissing her offered hand, ‘You look beautiful, by the way.’

‘Stop it you, you have plenty of time left of the night to charm me.’

‘I thought I’d start early.’

Belgium gave him a searching look, a smile creeping easily into the corners of her mouth, ‘Another dance?’

England glanced over to Wy and saw Wales offering her his hand, ‘Go on then.’

-----------------------------

AN:

There is a horrifying lack of engbel in this fandom and I couldn’t help but submit my own small contribution to fix that. This is entirely unresearched and self-indulgent, don’t look at me

[maelerie]

Summary: In the aftermath of what would be known as the Second Battle of Ypres, Belgium finishes up her shift at the Field Hospital and retires to her tent. Her mind a whirlwind of emotions, exhaustion and strain, she does not realize that she is not alone when she ducks under the tent flap.

Author’s Note: This fic has been long in the works but I wanted to finish it for day 4 (prompt: historical) of @hwsrarepairweek2022​ and I believe I managed to do so in the nick of time. I'm really happy that I wrote this. EngBel is one of my ultimate otp's and the idea of them during WW1 gives me feels! 

Relationships: Belgium/England Rating: Mature Word count: 4.854

─ Flanders, May 1915 ─

The last rush of wounded men had finally ground to a laboured halt.

In the dark Belgium could see the taillights of the ambulance that had brought the last of the wounded in, growing ever smaller until it turned a corner somewhere on the uneven dirt road that led to the front.

Orderlies and nurses walked in and out of hospital tents, occupied and unoccupied stretchers between them.

The agonised cries that had pierced the night ─and the many nights before it─ had been replaced by a monotonous cacophony of more familiar and less dreadful noises. It made Belgium release a breath she had been holding since the first day the column of ambulances had swept round the drive and lined up one behind the other. Their bleeding loads hurried out of the vehicles so they could turn around to race back to the Front and receive more of the same shattered cargo.

Belgium closed her eyes and relaxed her brow, willing the headache she had been feeling for days on end to subside.

“Marie?”

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[fiore-rosewood9]