I know I probably should have spent these past couple hours finishing up the new chapter of my continuous story, but I really just needed to finish this... So I apologize in advance to those who have been waiting for a new chapter of SS&VD but found this instead.

Anyway, back to business. In case you didn't get the title, it's referring to the colors of both the British and French flags. I thought it was clever... or at least, I hope it was. I haven't even seen any other Hetalia fics based in Paint it, White... And if you don't know what that is, it's the Hetalia movie. It's also the best movie ever, so I suggest you find it on Youtube and watch it.

Also, this is obviously FrUK, and I know there's a lot of conflict there. If you hate this pairing, just don't read it. And even if you just don't care for it but you read it anyway, don't review telling me that USUK is better. I actually first got the idea for this from the scene near the end when the Allies and Axis Powers are all sitting around the campfire, in which I noticed that France and England were sitting together and not fighting at all. I mean, they had practically been at each other's throats throughout the rest of the movie, but once they jumped out of the spaceship, they didn't fight anymore. They were sitting rather close on the log, too... Enough to nearly be holding hands, and completely casually. Plus, when France suggests that the Pictonians had probably been amazed by Italy's facial expressions, England is the first one to agree. The first one! At that point, it was obvious to me that something must have happened... So I wrote this.

Oh, and I wrote this in 3rd person Limited from England's POV, so I hope no one minds.

Okay, I'm sorry for the ridiculously long A/N. But I had to explain my reasons for this. Now, just read and (hopefully) enjoy! :D

But in their heart of hearts, they love each other. Sexually.

Bloody hell, why did that have to be ringing through his head right now?

Well, probably because he was half-lying on top of the other man that Pictonian computer-thing had been referring to about an hour ago. But… had it even been an hour ago? How long had it been since they'd fallen through the trap in the file room?—since they'd failed to trick the Pictonians with cultural entertainment (the reason for which he chose to forget was his own fault)?—since they'd jumped out of the spaceship?

England was disoriented and couldn't be sure, but it definitely didn't feel like he and France had only just landed on earth. It was more than likely that they had landed and passed out with the impact and that he was only now regaining consciousness. It also felt strange to feel this weak from physical impact rather than by political weakness or civil war, since he was a nation—but he supposed that the fact that the majority of humans no longer had minds or faces of their own, all the nations had become a lot more human.

But that didn't have the chance to scare him just yet, because he was suddenly more aware of the world around his still body than before—and he was suddenly conscious enough to truly register that France was under him.

And that France still wasn't moving.

And that the part of France's back he was lying on top of felt oddly wet, though nothing around them was even slightly moist….

Oh no. No, Lord, no.

What had been extreme fatigue in his whole body moments before was suddenly forced into action and almost full consciousness by a spark of panic. Forgetting that they were still nations (and that he would be able to feel the difference if they truly had all the vulnerabilities of normal humans, just as he had years ago in the haunted-house incident), forgetting that he normally hated (or pretended to hate?) this man—forgetting everything else, England pushed himself off the ground and away from France.

He didn't feel any pain in his stomach (though that might have been because a stronger feeling was overwhelming him at the moment), but he still had to check and feel if he was the one with a wound there. A quick movement of his left hand to his abdominal region and clutch told him that he wasn't. And then a simple flicker of his eyes to France's back told him that it definitely was blood—a lot of it—and that the wound was rather long. Diagonal, most of the way across his back.

"Ah—" England was already in a horrible panic, trying to figure out which to do first—wake France up, or heal him? Except his instincts told him to do neither just yet, and the first two fingers of his left hand were lifting up France's hair and pressing against his neck before he realized what he was doing. He felt annoyed with himself, as it really wasn't possible for him to be dead, but at the same time was immensely relieved that he was able to confirm this when he felt the pulse.

England had never been all that good with healing—it was the one type of magic he probably used the least, if only because it was hardly ever necessary with other countries. Most of the spells he ever used were curses or protective spells (not that the Patronus Charm was going to do him any good here, since he hadn't seen a dementor away from Azkaban since 1998); and since he usually didn't come into much contact with normal humans, it wasn't ever necessary. Which was why he felt nervous about trying it—but he only allowed himself to hesitate for a coup le seconds before carefully pulling up France's shirt (both of them: the pink one and white undershirt) so he was able to see the whole wound, and then moving his hands to the beginning of it, right at his right shoulder.

It felt odd to be doing this sort of magic, and even odder not to be wearing a cloak or having made a symbol on the ground, but England did manage it. Blue light emanated from his palm and got to work on sealing the layer of muscle and skin that had been ripped through on France, and, strangely enough, it was working faster and better than he'd expected. Possibly because he was trying harder with this than he could remember doing with anything since the Hundred Years' War.

And this was for a different reason. Not that he knew what it was, or would have admitted it if he did.

"Ah—Angleterre…?" came France's rather weak voice, along with his back muscles twitching under England's hands as he tried to turn over.

Damn, he's awake…. England hadn't wanted him to be awake through this. They were clearly more human than usual now, and therefore more susceptible to pain—what?—no, I just wanted the Frog to stay asleep as long as possible so I wouldn't have to deal with him talking…, he argued with himself.

But that internal argument was weak, and it toppled to the ground a second later when, before England had been able to say anything, France gave up any attempt to move and said, "Mon dieu—" He cut himself off and seemed to be pushing his face further into the grass to muffle his short cry of pain. His voice just then had been unlike any way England had ever heard it—it was almost sad. No flamboyance, no flirtatiousness, no volume… just a rasp. Alright, it was sad. But he wasn't going to allow himself to think that thought more than once.

With France's immediate groan of pain to follow, England felt his panic rise. "I—I know," he said, almost feeling his voice crack as he looked from the other nation's face, half-hidden by his hair, to the wound on his back. "Just hold on…."

There was another groan of pain as a small section of the wound fully knitted itself back together (and another horribly unpleasant sensation running through England's chest). France started to say weakly, "What…," likely wanting to finish it with "ze 'ell 'appened?" but ended up nodding very slightly as though to say he would obey.

Every few seconds while England was healing the wound, he would hear a groan from France—but they became more and more stifled, as though he was trying to hide his pain from him. Within a couple minutes, England's hands had made it to the other end of the wound, and it was closing… and it was done. There was nothing else but a bit of excess blood, which didn't really matter and so he didn't bother trying to clear it away. Especially not after having used all that energy on the wound.

Immediately after finishing, he pulled France's shirt back down with a jerk and then shifted a foot to the left so that he could lean over and see his face.

"You—alright? Are you alright?" said England urgently, lifting the hair (ugh, it's still too damn long) out of France's face.

The other nation's face looked oddly distant, as though still in pain, for a second; but then he roved his eyes up to meet England's and lowered his eyelids, smirking in the way he always did. It was annoying as always, but at the same time extremely relieving.

"I am now," he said, his voice also now back to normal. "Merci, mon cher." Then, without sitting up first or rolling over to his side or even lifting his cheek off of the ground (or moving anything but his left arm, really), he grabbed England's hand and pulled it towards his face so he could press his lips to it.

A second too late, England managed to jerk his hand away and frown, letting out a soft groan of annoyance: He was angry both at France for choosing to thank him in such a way, and at the electrical shock that had been sent up his arm by that kiss.

France, as expected, reacted only by smirking more widely and with a soft laugh of "Onhonhonhonhon…"

England rolled his eyes and frowned more deeply. "Well, now that you're done molesting me—"

"Molesting you, Angleterre?" France practically shouted, pushing himself up to a halfway-sitting position. Now he was frowning—or pouting. You could never tell with him. "I merely kissed your 'and! Am I not allowed to be grateful? Besides… you are ze one blushing," he finished, smirking smugly again and now sitting up all the way.

"Am not, Frog!" protested England, feeling his face grow hotter. Really, it was half-true. But only because France was blushing too. And the bloody Frog was almost always blushing. "Now," he continued, brushing his arms off as an excuse to look away from the other nation, "that you're done—er, being—grateful… we should—"

And he was cut off again. Wanker.

"Wait…," said France quietly, somewhat returning to the sort of voice he'd had before… the distant-sounding one. He frowned in what looked like confusion and went on, "But 'ow—'ow is it even possible for me to 'ave gotten a wound like zat? And it shouldn't 'ave 'urt so much… we are nations! Wounds like zat usually 'eal almost instantly!"

Looking very confused and even frightened, France snapped his head around to look back at England, his hair whipping around rather fast with it. The look in his eyes was pleading…. Damn, I don't think I've ever seen him like this before… well, not since he asked me to marry him because he was afraid of dying….

"Well, since most of earth has already been transformed into Pictonians and taken with them," England sighed in explanation, rubbing the back of his head, "we're probably becoming less and less like nations. We hardly have identities without our people…."

"But—you don't sink—" France looked even more scared now. "You don't sink we are already 'uman, do—?"

"No, I'm sure we're not. Actually, I don't think that would happen unless we ourselves got assimilated, which luckily didn't happen while we were on the spaceship—"

France's hands were suddenly on his shoulders, practically shaking him while the man spoke rapidly and appeared to nearly be in tears: "But 'ow long until zey find zis place, wherever it even is, 'ow long until we 'ave notsing left to do but fight and zen we lose because we are so terribly outnumbered—?"

England cut him off by promptly slapping him in the face. Not surprisingly, France with still holding his shoulders afterwards.

"Get a hold of yourself, Frog!" he said angrily, ready to smack him again if he needed to. "Didn't you say just earlier that you 'refuse to become as ugly as the rest of us'?"

France was rubbing the side of his face and pouting again—until he smirked and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Onhonhon, so you admit zat you are ugly, zen?"

"I'll punch that smirk off your face if you don't shut up, Frog." England glared at him. "If you could just be serious sometimes, maybe you wouldn't risk getting your pretty face bruised and bleeding! Just look at where we are—having just jumped out of a sodding spaceship, stranded, alone, in some—" He cut himself off with unlucky and anticlimactic timing to suddenly look around, which he was surprised he had not yet done. Huh. Where were they?

"Where actually are we, zough?" muttered France as he looked around as well, voicing England's thoughts. "It looks like some tropical forest…."

They seemed to be sitting in a small, grassy clearing surrounded by trees. Looking up, England saw that the tree branches were thick enough to nearly block out the dark sky completely. "Yes, probably…. And I think you must have gotten that gash from hitting one of those branches up there."

Looking up to where England was pointing, France unconsciously felt the rip in the back of his shirt and groaned uncomfortably. "Ooh—yeah, I sink I remember 'itting a branch now…. 'Ey," he said suddenly and loudly, whipping his head around to face him again, "'ow come you didn't get 'urt at all on ze way down? Did ze fairies protect you or sometsing?"

England was just about to blink casually and say "Probably" when he realized that the other nation was probably mocking him. So he frowned and pursed his lips.

"Hey, Frog, it's not my fault you draw trouble to yourself…."

"You certainly seemed quite anxious to fix it, zough." France said with a sort of humming in his voice, smirking. "You were worrying about me."

Oh. That's what he was getting at. "Don't fool yourself, I would never worry about a damn waste of land like you—"

"Zen why 'eal it at all? Why not just let me bleed out—?"

"Because, Frog," said England with an air of superiority, as though it should have been obvious, "only I'm allowed to deal you a wound like that. Not that it would last long in any normal situation…."

He seemed satisfied with that answer, as proven by his smug "Hm." But then he opened his mouth again, asking "'Ow long 'ave we been out, anyway? If it 'asn't been more zan a day, it can't 'ave been more zan an hour or so…. And where are ze ozzers?"

"Why do you expect me to answer all your bloody questions? I've only been awake about ten minutes longer than you have. But—do you think the other nations even landed in the same place? They could be miles from here, depending on when they jumped out…."

"Only one way to find out, isn't zair?" France said casually, starting to stand up and brush his clothes off.

For a moment, England just stared up at him, internally baffled. One second the Frog was nearly scared shitless, and the next he's being the mature one? Had he hit his head really hard on one of those branches? But he shrugged it off in the next moment and stood up as well—but then, unexpectedly, began to fall right back down again, his legs collapsing under him.

"Ah—!" England was cut off in mid-shout, and he miraculously didn't hit the ground. It took him a second to realize that it was because France had bent forward quickly and caught him around the waist. He felt oddly casual like that, like he had no problem with it… but another second and he was pushing France's arms away and muttering "Let go of me, Frog—"

Until he started to fall again. When he felt France's arms around his back this time, he made no attempt to get away. God, his legs didn't hurt, but they almost felt like they weren't even there….

"Can you not stand, Angleterre?" asked France, looking down at him, brow furrowed and a weird look in his eyes. Ha, who's worried now?

"I—I think healing that nasty wound of yours weakened me quite a bit," he admitted. His arms were now around France's neck to make it easier to stay up, and part of him didn't care what kind of position they were in. The rest of him was feigning discomfort, though.

"Do you need me to carry you?" France said, now sounding a lot less worried and a lot more perverted. The thing was, England wasn't sure whether the offer was sincere or not.

…Not that he would have accepted if he knew that it was.

"I'm not that weak, Frog," grumbled England, though hesitant to let go or push himself away from France… in case he might fall again. Yes, that was definitely the only reason he didn't want to let go.

When he did, though, he managed to stay standing—but only as long as he had a stance that spread out his legs a bit too far and was still holding onto France's arm. "It won't take long to just regain some of my strength…."

"Hm." France sounded amused. He started walking slowly in a seemingly random direction, allowing England to keep holding onto his arm. "Speaking of which, I am razzer hungry…. 'Ow long do you suppose until we get food?"

"Lord, you sound like America…," he muttered, vaguely wondering how America was fairing, if he had landed with anyone else, if he was panicking without having any hamburgers around (or if he somehow actually had some)…. "But you know, there's got to be some edible berries and fruit around, since it's a tropical forest—I could find some and make something for us—"

"Oh no…." At that, France turned around so fast that he nearly shook England off. "You are not making us anytsing—I'm not risking getting poisoned just because ze earth is mostly faceless blobs and we're likely to become one of zem too! I'd razzer become one of zose Pictonians!"

Feeling that as a personal blow (as he did with every other insult ever made about his cooking), England jerked his hand away from France's arm and leaned against a tree that was behind him for support before he argued: "Oh, don't act like you didn't contribute to us ending up here—you were the one who started the fight at the World Meeting, Frog, and so you're the reason we didn't solve things there and ended up getting on that ship—"

"I am ze one 'oo caused zis?" said France, sounding scandalized as his expression grew angrier and he stepped closer. "It is not my fault you got so butt-'urt about your precious little Doctor 'Oo and decided to fight wis me about it!"

"Doctor Who's a quality show and you know it, bastard!"

Above anything, that was what had sparked the adrenaline in England and gave him a lot of strength back, allowing him to launch himself forward and land a punch on the other nation's collarbone. Of course, it wasn't as hard of a hit as he could have made it… but when did he ever hit as hard as he could? When was it ever really his anger at France that made him want to punch him?

France didn't stagger backwards, but instead grabbed one of England's shoulders and moved his other hand toward his neck. He felt hands, slightly smaller than his own, on his own neck within seconds, which were also beating upon the sides of his head whenever they got the chance.

As two grown men, they could have easily killed each other if they had been normal humans. But they weren't normal humans, so, even now, they needn't worry about death. They also didn't have a very conventional relationship, whatever you wanted to call it, so they were never hitting hard enough for it to really hurt the other or even coming close to cutting off the other's air supply. It was really only the insults that were intended to do any damage to the other… which, even then, were quite petty and at this rate just for the sake of insulting each other.

But the two of them still managed to end up falling to the ground, hardly even feeling the dull thump of their bodies hitting it, still hitting each other and causing small lumps on each other's faces and heads while spewing out names and insults.

"It was your scones zat made zem 'ate us, and now we 'ave no chance of making peace, and—"

"At least if we all die, I won't have to ever look at your stupid Frog-face any longer—"

"—and ze world will not 'ave to live wis your 'orrendous eyebrows, eizzer!"

"Shut up, you bloody wanker!—my eyebrows aren't nearly as big as your country's body odor—!"

And then the rolling around on the forest floor and yelling and punching ceased, because both of their mouths and limbs were suddenly otherwise occupied: With every passing minute and insult, their faces had been getting gradually closer and closer until France finally closed the gap, almost involuntarily, before England could even draw breath after his sentence….

They had gone from half-heartedly beating each other up to passionately kissing in a matter of seconds. And of course France was the one on top…. That might have just worked out conveniently for him, but he probably wouldn't have initiated it unless he was in that position. Not that England cared… or even minded being dominated in this situation.

In fact, he found himself tangling his fingers in France's hair, pulling that stupid—oh, who was he kidding at this point—delicious face closer as he arched his neck to push his own face upward.

It should have felt odd to be doing this on a forest floor, but it really didn't to either of them. This sort of thing had been happening more and more often between them as of late… and if there really was a large chance that the Pictonians would find and assimilate them, then this might be their last chance. Their last chance to give it all they had, to have no regrets, even if they really wouldn't have a chance to let it become something more than kissing….

Besides, the ground was actually quite comfortable in this particular spot.

France's (not surprisingly) soft lips had had no trouble prying open England's mouth; he wouldn't have even needed to slide his tongue over the other's lips, for England was just as eager in his haze, just as passionate. And now everything was electric and fire and smoke and was absolutely throbbing with the pain of wanting so much and then having it. Hands were roaming everywhere, clutching at clothes and skin and hair, sliding and caressing and squeezing and groping… all but going inside each other's pants.

It felt as though, with each moan coming from both of them and each slide of France's skillful tongue across his, England's brain was slowly being fried. He felt almost utterly unaware of his surroundings any longer, and he couldn't think at all... And he didn't know about France, but it was rather easy for his brain to get fried when the minds of most of the citizens of his country weren't occupying it.

England felt France's heart beat extremely fast against his when their chests pressed together, the slightly larger nation lowering himself to be directly on top of him. Every ten seconds or so, when they had to breathe, they would do so with audibly increasing moans—especially when England raised his knee, forcing France's groin to press against his thigh (and vice versa), and he couldn't keep his hips from bucking upward.

And thus began the slow grinding, much of which involved England's hands finding France's arse and both squeezing it and constantly pulling it closer to him. They just couldn't get… close… enough…. But oh God that was just so good—enough that he really wouldn't have minded if France ripped all his clothes off and just took him right there….

Even while they were both giving this all the passion they had, though, there (unfortunately) had to be some sort of stopping point—a point where they would decide that they were going to get some actual important stuff done. That came in the form of France's right hand sliding up England's face and tangling in his short, choppy locks before he released his lips and tongue.

"Ah… Arthur…," France whispered in a strangled sort of moan, his mouth still very close to England's. He raised his face just a slight bit more so that he could press their noses together and stare, his eyelids lowered in lust, directly into the other's eyes.

So he uses my human name, was the only thought that England's mind could pull together in the state it was barely recovering from yet.

"Francis…," he whispered back weakly and without thinking, his arms moving away from his arse and up his back to pull him closer. It vaguely registered to him that that had been the first time he had called him anything but 'Frog' or 'bastard' or some other insult since they'd jumped off the spaceship.

For a few infinitesimal seconds, they both just kept their gazes latched onto each other's, not looking away or moving at all—but breathing heavily and loudly. But then, finally, France blinked slowly and lowered his head again, this time placing a relatively quick kiss against his jaw. And then a couple inches further along his jaw. And then one on his neck, which lasted slightly longer and caused England to bend his neck back a bit and sigh in pleasure.

He could never really tell what France's motives were for certain things, but England could guess that he was doing this because he feared having to face a possible future of being a faceless Pictonian and wanted to make what might have been the last of their time more than just passionate, lustful snogging.

Which, incidentally, was making England hate himself. He hated himself for enjoying this—well, he hated himself for enjoying what had been happening a minute before, but he hated himself even worse for enjoying this, the soft and tender and—dare he say it?—loving kisses.

Again, France's lips departed from England's skin and he moved his head—but this time back up to his lips, at which he took them in his own again. This time, however, it was light and slow and methodical and… soft. And somehow better and at the same time worse (in another self-loathing sense) than everything else…. He didn't think that France had kissed him this softly since… since the Opium Wars.

Returning the kiss hopefully just as softly, England closed his eyes again. With this, France was all but saying "Je t'aime…."

Well, there were actually a lot of things they were all but saying—

I don't want to get up.

Neither do I.

I will fight with you.

I will fight for you.

Je t'aime.

I love you.

But they soon let go again, and England forced himself to lean his head back and look just a bit away from France's eyes. As much as he'd have liked (and pretended not to) to just stay there, he had to be the mature one. This was a crisis situation that concerned the future of the earth, for God's sake….

"Perhaps we should… er, stop," he said a little awkwardly and still breathlessly, coughing in an attempt to get his voice to return to normal. "And try to find what's outside of this forest, and where the others are…."

And surprisingly, France was actually quite ready to sigh in agreement. "For once, you're right; we should…." England then scowled, but he wasn't given time to retort or to knee him in the jewels before France continued, "Zough I will be sorely disappointed if we never get 'ome and finish zat…."

As disappointed (more like pissed) as he would have been as well, England was suddenly very annoyed by France's perversion and the smirk he was given, and so he pounded a fist onto the other nation's hand, which he'd been using to support himself above him.

But France only grimaced for a brief second, and then swooped his head down to kiss England's cheek before pushing himself upward. At the same time, he took the man's hands and pulled him up with him: England let himself be pulled up and tried not to focus too much on the spot where he cheek was burning.

"No yells or odd noises yet…. I'd say zat is a good sign… 'opefully."

"Yeah, hopefully."

After brushing all the dirt and bits of plants and whatnot off of themselves, the two of them immediately started walking.

"'Old on… which way were we going before?" said France, stopping them before they were able to take more than a few steps.

"I—shit, I don't know…," said England, feeling himself starting to panic again as he glanced around. The forest was much darker than before. "Who knows how far we rolled around…?"

Truthfully, though, it had been worth it.

"Onhonhon, quite a bit…. But oh well, let's just go zis way, zen—"

France grabbed his hand and started to pull him to the left, but he resisted—"Hold on, no—we—"

"Per'aps you could listen to my suggestions for once, Angleterre," he harrumphed. "I am not—"

"No, you idiot, I definitely see some sort of light at that end…."

Looking to where England was pointing, France narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips into a pout. "…Fine," he said quickly, resenting being outsmarted even in this situation.

And he started following England (who was smirking triumphantly) toward what was hopefully a way out of this forest, still holding onto his hand. It didn't seem like either of them were going to let go… especially not when England unconsciously shifted his grip so that their fingers were intertwined and held on more tightly.

Because in their heart of hearts, they love each other. More than sexually.

To be honest, I think that was the best one-shot I've written yet. Anyway, PLEASE review and tell me what you thought! I'd really appreciate it! :D