A/N: Hello guys! Woot! I'm so excited as this is my very first fan fiction! Hopefully with time, I'll get better at it.

For now, please enjoy!

Cher journal,

I have received you today from a man in this strange land which strangely enough finally became it's own country today—a true nation now. His name, he has decided, would be England, something which left a bad taste in my mouth. I did not tell him off as usual however. It was about time that he became his own, like I was. It would also be time for him to carry his own weight like a man.

Speaking of which, the amount that he's grown since the last time I saw him was something that had me staring at him with amazement. He told me to stop looking at him with such a strange look. When I realized I what he was going on about when I felt my jaw was slacking like a dead man's! Mon Dieu, it was embarrassing! He wittingly remarked that he would lend me a cloth to close my mouth with if I needed it.

Later on, he invited me to where he lived nowadays in the castle of his roi, his king.

It seemed that somehow, the more I stayed around this man as Arthur, the more open he would continue to be with me, offering me things which I do not need and being generally mild and cordial in my presence. However, being with him as this new England, was more of a torture than a slow death! He seemed always tense, always suspicious. A man quick to be foulmouthed and get hot at even the most childish of remarks began to slowly corrupt my best friend. I fear he shall soon raise arms against me.

Nevertheless, friend or enemy, I will continue to call him Angleterre. Land of the Anglos. It was the first thing I called him, and thus, I shall continue to address him as such.

He is no longer my petit lapin. Il faut que je fasse avec. I only hope that we can continue to be friends, with all sincerity. In these times, he is all I have. And more as much as he says he hates me, I'm all he has too.

C'est la vérité absolue.

—François Bonnefoi

England closed the book the instant he heard the Frenchman's voice echoing down the hall and scrambled to put it back in its place among the many volumes. No, not in the right place, but what sort of man would the Brit be if he would be able to understand French anymore? He used to, but it was now as intelligible as Greek.

"Ah, Angleterre! Did you find my library useful to your research?"

"Hn." The younger grunted, taking hold of the book on economics that he had picked out previously and opened it up. "You seem to have quite the extensive English collection of books, for as much as you say you hate my language. It makes me wonder…"

France wore a thin smile as he entered the room, taking slow, light steps towards the spot England sat in. "There is no reasons to why my English collections is so large, if that is what you are speaking of, Angleterre." He raised a hand up, flipped up nonchalantly. "I buy whatever I think looks interesting, regardless of culture. I have nothing against your mutt of a language… I simply believe mine is much better than your own."

Immediately, England's sight shifted from the blur of words to the elder's face. "Is that a challenge of some sort?" he asked, slightly amused. "I'm sure my language is much more interesting than your own. It may be a mutt language as you say, but at least it doesn't take one a thousand years to learn it. Mutts happen to have diversity, you aristocratic git!"

"Ah, cher Angleterre…" Francis seemed to be unscathed by the personally hurtful remark. It was the things related to his past that he took offence to the most. It was a couth elegance that he was taught to have in the face of insult that held him together while arguing with England. He knew that most of what he spoke of were exaggerated stereotypes or lies. It was when he told the truth that the Frenchman would become upset.

"You seem to forget, that at one point, your nation's national language was my own! My aristocratic ways was what you thought to be cool, non? Oh, anglais c'est une langue affreux! La langue Anglaise, j'en ai rien à cirer! You do not remember the calls of your people as you continued to use your own mutt language in lieu of mine?"

Arthur stood up from his seat at that moment, his blood beginning to boil. "Yes, I also remember kicking your sorry ass on multiple occasions. Just because you have a cultural influence on people doesn't mean it's going to backfire right in your bloody face! Look at what the Americans think of you, France! You're nothing but a cheese eating surrender monkey to them!" The Englishman scoffed. "Your language is simply an array of derogatory terms and pick up lines! It is no more sophisticated than it is the language of romance, as you such claim it to be!"

"My language is more than just sexual references! If you perhaps used it for more than for that, you'd unde—"

POW!

England punched France as hard as he could at that moment. He could felt a crack as soon as he fell back. Once the other was on the floor, he turned back, and picked up the book off the floor, feeling a very painful sting in his hands as he wrapped his right hand around the book. "I am by no means, one of those men, frog! I am taking my leave!" Arthur took a final glance at the one on the floor, only to see that he was knocked out. "…Bloody hell, Francis. You make me go to such levels…it's all your fault." He muttered. Heaving a heavy sigh, his eyes wondered back to where Francis journals were. In silence, he would take as many as he could carry out and make his way to the door.

If anything good came out of this, it was this much. Admittedly, France's writing style was interesting, to say the least.

A/N: This was a surprisingly short chapter, and I promise that the others shall be longer and better than this! Actually, that'll be a given, seeing as this'll be a long story. Until next chapter! [You can probably tell I'm not too good with Author Notes] Don't forget to R&R!

Glossary:

Ah, cher Angleterre… (Ah, dear England...)

Mon Dieu (My God)

Petit lapin (Little Rabbit

Il faut que je fasse avec. (I have to put up with it.)

C'est la vérité absolue. (That's [or it is] the absolute truth)

Oh, anglais c'est une langue affreux! L'Anglais, j'en ai rien à cirer! (Oh English, it is a horrible language! The English language, I have no use for it/I don't give a damn [for it].)