So with my recent addiction (again) to Basement Jaxx, specifically to the song 'Raindrops', this came out. I should explain. Within this series or not, I'd imagine a love between France and England to be natural, passionate and raw in emotion, almost pagan-like. I get the same feeling from this song (and the music video).

thanks to my friend bibi for beta-ing :) - this now has a companion piece written by All Galiamatias! .net/s/6829555/1/bJust_b_bLike_b_bFire _b

France's kisses are just like raindrops.

Good solid rain

France's kisses are good solid raindrops. Firm, heavy, leaves a slight wetness to your lips.

It's a Tuesday, Thursday, the weekend. He holds England by the forearms, grounding himself and leans in while outside the frogs croak in joy. He's all confidence and skill, opening his mouth and making England uncomfortable with how much he wants it.

When France pulls away, England's lips stick to his, like they don't want to leave each other. Like he's just run through a rainstorm into shelter and his clothes are sticking to his body; it's the same feeling, only on his lips.

England punches France's shoulder and pushes away-

"Fuckin' tosser…"

-And stalks away without wiping the raindrop from his mouth.

Freezing rain

France's kisses are the freezing rain. Cold, biting, attacks your mouth.

It's Hastings, the American Revolution, a war all over again. He pushes England into the dirt, what feels like ice slicing into their faces when he grips the downtrodden face. He's all teeth and harsh words, unrelenting in violent power.

"It hurts, does it not?" he spits out, forcing England's lips into a pucker, "Yes? Hurts a lot, correct?"

Hands grasp feebly at France's tense fingers, too emotionally exhausted to punch, slap, do anything as France lunges forward like the piercing raindrops. He bites England's lips, his tongue, his mouth, his soul, even while he's crying himself.

Once England is breathless and his hands fall away and lands in the muddy ground, only then does the proud nation stand. He stares down over his nose at what he considers a pitiful display-

-And turns and leaves. These are the times France leaves first, like icy rain pouring needles into his heart.

Drizzle

Gaul's kisses are drizzle. Fleeting, barely there, makes your lips tingle.

It's sometime long ago, they're barely nations. He laughs that high titter that has convinced Britannia he is a girl and pecks him quickly on the lips, only slightly grazing. He's all cheek and mischief, retreating just as fast as he's attacked and Britannia flinches in surprise and causes the rabbit in his lap to bound off in fright.

A small hand comes up to brush his lips, like Britannia isn't sure that they've just been touched by the slightest of pecks. It's the beginning of rain, slight drizzle when you aren't even sure you've felt a drop.

He scowls in angry embarrassment and bows his head when Gaul giggles-

"I-Idiot… Now I have to find him again…"

-And scampers off the log and into the forest while still wondering if the sensation on his lips is real.

Rain in the distance

France's kisses are rain in the distance. Faraway, unreachable, fills you with a sense of strange longing.

It's then, it's now, it's somewhere between that. He's all charm and frivolity, flipping his hair and batting his eyelashes and touching arms. He's flirting with that pretty maid, the cute busboy, the burly delivery man.

Other nations.

"France sure is friendly, isn't he?" Spain once said.

"Haha! France just brought the most amazing birthday present, England!" America had also once exclaimed.

"Yes, France is quite a cooperative and valuable partner, when he tries to be serious." Germany had said recently.

And they're all idiots, England knows. They're all idiots for not realising how utterly depraved France is and how much he deserves a good beating, or at least a good taunting.

England's not an idiot. He won't let himself be charmed by France who isn't talking to him or flirting with him or even sparing him a glance. He won't let himself be affected by the sweet grey clouds over the hills.

No. England's not an idiot. The kisses France gives freely to other people are none of his business, he doesn't care.

Yet there's a storm in his own heart that beats with the thunder rumbling in the distance.

He can ignore it. It won't be hard to ignore it.

He's always ignored it before-

-Just like he's always ignored the faraway thunderstorms.

Mist

France's kisses are a mist. Light, saddening, lingers when you don't want it to.

It's Waterloo, it's Agincourt, it's another war. He's all weak smiles and angry gritted teeth. He's not fighting back; he's kicking and screaming; he's killing with his eyes.

A hand marred by war and time holds his throat down, England staring down at him with disgust. "Pitiful", he mutters and shoves his face into France's, sucking a bottom lip into his mouth and biting. Another torn hand buries itself into drooping locks, weighed down by the hovering vapour.

Soft lips try their best to kiss back against the violent teeth. They're cut and bruised, but still soft like they've always been.

France can't do anything but keep his lips to England's mouth, like the fine mist in the morning. The least he can do is convince himself it isn't one sided, that he has some control.

When England jerks back and bites his shoulder, he keeps his lips to the other's damp hair, clinging to it like the fine drops.

England doesn't like that France isn't fighting back like he knows he can. He'll leave here with no more wounds or bruises than before-

-Just the scar in his chest that hangs like the never ending mist.

Raindrops of a storm

France's kisses are the raindrops of a storm. Thick, wet, stays with you once they're gone.

It's a royal marriage, it's the Entente Cordiale, it's passion. He's over England, he's under England, he's touching him here and there and everywhere. There are hands in hair, on behinds, between legs and neither are sure which connects to this limb and it doesn't matter.

Tongues in mouths, France's in England's. Licking, stroking, exploring each other. England breaks away to mutter a 'wanker' but then he's back in France's mouth again. France retaliates with a muffled 'wanker' in his own language, but his rather enthusiastic partner seems hell bent on keeping their bodies mashed together while rain splats against the window panes.

Hair is pulled, love bites are made and bruises appear unintentionally for once. When they do pull away, they're not sure which is up and which is down. But that's fine, because there's saliva running down England's mouth and it makes France's lips quirk up in the beginnings of a smile.

England's trying to resist a stupid grin of his own.

"Plonker."

"Bless you."

And they continue like that for the night, like a storm leaving sensual raindrops against their bodies.

Just like raindrops

France's kisses are just like raindrops.

England is concerned with himself that he's managed to extensively compare France's kisses to raindrops, yet he can't compare France himself to anything.

He's tried. God he's tried, many times.

Every time he tries he gets nowhere and ends up with something silly like France's kisses being raindrops. They seem to have an effect on him, but he isn't too worried really. The English are known for going on about the weather anyway, right?

He wonders what France thinks his own kisses are like. Are they like the wind; cool and gentle, yet harsh and blustery? Perhaps they are like soil; rich and damp, yet dry and gritty.

In the trenches, in a conference room or between the sheets, he couldn't remember exactly where… but France had once said his kisses always 'burned'.

"England, England." France is at his door, knocking like the hotel is swallowed in flames. He furrows his untrimmed brows because he knows France is trying to piss him off and if he so chanced a peek through the peep-hole, those blasted lips would surely be curled in sadistic pleasure.

"England, stop oversleeping. The meeting is going to start, and I'm not coming back to fetch you if you don't come out right no-"

England's up and wretches open the door. A cocky grin dares to split his face at the look of surprise on France's.

Startled, France frowns. "Why are you-?"

But England's lips are upon his before he can finish. It's rough, it's hot, there's teeth nipping in there somewhere and it's just like flames licking at France's lips.

He pulls back, satisfied with the momentarily bewildered expression and wide eyes of blue. "England, what-"

"Your kisses may be like raindrops, frog," whispers England and mouths the stubble on France's chin,-

"-but my kisses are like fire."

/hates ff(dot)net's formatting