Camp meeting, boredom… What can l say. It happened.

A one-shot happened. And a FrUK one at that. Just making it clear, I only wrote this as a challenge to myself, to see if I could ship a pairing I did not usually ship. I hope I did.

Recommended listening: Not Getting Any Better, Klaypex.

Just One Chance

France couldn't remember a time when he hadn't loved England. The closest he had ever come to what he wanted was once, centuries ago, back when England was a pirate- and drunk. Very drunk. Even that had been one kiss. One kiss, among millions. And yet that was the kiss that stayed with him, even after all these years. All he needed was just one chance.

There was no air traveling through France's airways, probably due to the crushing force being applied to his neck by a very angry Britain.

He couldn't remember what they had been arguing about originally; all he could remember was that words had been said, wounds opened, and England had tackled him.

Judging as an outsider, he would probably have expected himself to be angry.

Or, because it was him, the Country of Love, he could perhaps have expected himself to be thinking of bondage and angsty sex.

As it was, his mind was almost completely blank; all he could feel was the softness of England's warmth above him, the rough callouses on his hands about his neck, and his eyes…

A tugging feeling, like fishing line or rope, in his belly, almost like pain; no, it was pain.

And he knew that whatever he did, he couldn't do anything to hurt England. Even if he had wanted to fight back, he couldn't have. He couldn't have done anything to hurt England.

Nothing.

He waited patiently until the other countries in the world meeting finally got bored with watching the resident pervert die, and, with reluctance and bad humour, dragged England off. He spent the rest of the meeting massaging his bruised neck and staring into space.

The other countries probably thought he was imagining something unspeakable. On the contrary, he was mourning the look of pure and unrestrained fury in England's eyes.

Those beautiful eyes.

000

"…And that," America said emphatically, "Is why mumble mumble much munch omnomnomnom… Star wars!"

Germany sighed, obviously resisting the urge to facepalm. "Yes, we agree, America. Please leave the podium and eat your burger at more appropriate times and venues in future."

"Aw, come on, man! Italy's eating pasta, I don't see you telling him off!"

Germany visibly flushed, pale red blooming in paler cheeks. "That's different!"

"Sure it is!"

"He's not presenting an action plan for health care in third world countries, for one!"

America shrugged. "Just because you don't understand my plans doesn't mean they aren't awesome!"

"You suggested using passionfruit-flavoured cookies to stop the spread of HIV/AIDS in Africa!"

"Passionfruit is awesome! You agree, don't you England?"

"I have no idea what you said, US. And I must confess I had no idea you had ever consumed fruit in your life."

But France could see the tiny smile tugging at the UK's lips as he stared down at his teacup. The tugging feeling in his stomach worsened.

"Aw, come on, man! Back me up, here!"

"I have no wish to be behind you."

"That's not what you said last night!"

England straightened up and flushed red. "America! Stop being inappropriate!"

France could feel his shoulders hunching inwards as Prussia turned to him, expecting some sort of innuendo with the air of a weary maiden aunt.

Don't let it get to you, he told himself. It's probably not what you think.

He leaned back in his chair, and, curling a lock of hair around his finger, murmured, "Anytime you need backup, Angleterre."

America visibly brightened. "He needs it! Every time we play a game, he's always exhausted afterwards!"

The skin around France's eyes tightened, but he easily fond a response. "It doesn't take much to make him tired."

"That's IT!" England was standing up now, fuming, steam visibly rising from his ears and his behemoth eyebrows almost obliterating the green of his eyes.

France wanted to go to him, calm him down, feel his soft warmth in his arms and massage the tension out of his shoulders, but this was England. This was France. That would not go down well.

Instead, he did what he would be expected to do- kick at the hornet's nest.

And so, for the second time in as many days, he found himself being choked by the love of his life.

000

France couldn't remember a time when he hadn't loved England.

A time when he hadn't paraded around, trying desperately to make him jealous, make him see.

A time he hadn't felt the tugging in his belly.

A time when he hadn't felt his heart flutter at the mere sight of his face, the barest touch of his hand, the quietest sound of his voice.

When he was young, a little boy to France's teenager, even then, France had loved him. For his shining eyes and unruly hair and defiant attitude and insecurity.

All he knew was that he didn't have a chance.

The closest he had ever come to what he wanted was once, centuries ago, back when England was a pirate- and drunk. Very drunk.

Even that had been one kiss. Just one kiss among millions.

And yet that was the kiss that stayed with him, even after all these years.

All the battles that they'd fought, all the hatred, he'd always loved England. He was not responsible for the things his boss told him to do.

The years passed, and his bosses died, and his people grew to hate England's- and he sometimes wondered if he hated England a little bit, too.

He'd always assumed that England was just incapable of showing love and affection; if anything, he'd hated him for that.

And then America had come along.

Suddenly, he could see another side of Angleterre- a warm, loving side. And that just made him more jealous, more in love. He'd been proven wrong- it wasn't that England couldn't show affection, rather he didn't think anyone was worthy of it.

He was envious and angry, and knowing that he was so petty filled him with guilt. He was a mess.

So when America had asked for help in the Revolutionary War, he'd helped- even though it had broken Angleterre's heart. Because he wanted to hurt him, wanted to be loved by him, wanted to replace Amerique, wanted to die at the thought he would resort to these measures, he, the Country of Love, resorting to war and violence and tiny touches and watching, always watching.

He was scraping from the bottom of the barrel, he knew, but every night he lay awake in a bed cold and empty no matter how he filled it, and thought of that one kiss.

He had tasted like rum and salt, and his rose-coloured lips were still soft even in their chapped state. He smelt of sweat and freedom, and his calloused hands were rough from rope and sail and grip of sword.

And after he'd pulled away, he'd whispered quietly in his ear-

"That's never going to happen again."

And France had been so shocked he hadn't spoken a word as England once again disappeared into the crowd of laughing, rowdy pirates.

France, with his well—coiffed hair, hadn't fit in. He'd waited in a corner and watched England in his element, at his laughing, smiling best. He'd waited the rest of the night, then the month, and year, decades of waiting and centuries of watching, hoping, that one day he'd get just one more kiss.

But he never did.

000

"Sorry, I can't make it that day."

He felt his spirit fall as if weighted with lead; he felt his heart shrink and shrivel, hope lost.

"Why-ever not?"

"America's dragging me to a movie. Some action-thriller. It's most likely be an abomination, but, what can I do?"

France's grip on the phone tightened and his lips curled back in a sneer. He tried to think of something to say, something to break the silence… what did you say to that? What was an appropriate comment?

"Hope you have a nice night," he said quietly.

England remained silent.

"Angleterre?"

"… Are you feeling all right?" England asked, his voice holding an unusual amount of concern. Once, it would have made France's heart flutter like a teenage girl's. Now he just felt empty.

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, you said something polite, rather than making some innuendo or double entendre."

"… I believe I was becoming too predictable. I hope you do have a nice night," He finally said, in an almost-whisper.

England said something he couldn't hear, because the phone was away from his ear and he was pressing the "end call" button. He knew it was rude. He didn't particularly care.

He could still feel those soft lips on his; still hear that one last comment-

"That's never going to happen again."

000

We were on a beach. A beach on a deserted island, to be exact.

Angleterre had unbuttoned his shirt in the heat, sweat slicking his skin and making it shine in the sun. He was asleep, under a palm tree.

I sat with my legs curled under me. I wanted to swim, walk, get a tan, eat, anything- anything to distract me. But I couldn't stop looking.

His pale skin was practically luminescent in the heat, and his face was relaxed and completely innocent. He looked so young, so open.

It was funny, but without the ever-present scowl, his eyebrows seemed only half their usual size. Soft rose-pink lips parted, and I wanted to hold him, hold this innocent, vulnerable England in my arms and never let him go.

But I knew that if I even walked too near, he would wake up, and that innocence would be gone.

So I sat watching him in his sleep, curled up and paralysed, waiting for night.

France sat bolt upright in his bed, chest heaving. The tugging in his gut was so strong it almost brought tears to his eyes, bile to his throat. The wanting-

Where had that come from?

The memory was at least 3 centuries old, and he had buried it amongst endless corridors of dusty, sunlit archives. He had thought he had finally forgotten it-

But the feeling of wanting and not having, of never being able to hold, of pure and sharp and painful longing, was something that had always stayed with him. He supposed it must have been the phone call that dug it up.

There had been many people over the years. He had established himself as a bit of a pervert.

It had all been in aid of getting England, of course; although it had backfired.

The original idea had been to make him jealous. But, of course, he had forgotten one of the golden rules of Love: You cannot make them jealous if they do not freaking want you. So now he was internationally regarded as a pervert. Go him.

France could remember his first conquest. Belgium.

Blonde hair, green eyes. Like his beloved Angleterre.

He'd stolen a kiss- or two- then gotten beaten up by Netherlands. And England had laughed in his face. Adding insult to injury.

Then had come a long string of conquests, real and pretence, until France could barely look at any country without remembering… Never mind…

They all had something-something to make him feel better about what he was doing- the same hair, the same eyebrows, the same smell, and even [in Romano's case] the same tsundere attitude.

And all through it, England had barely spared him a glance.

France didn't have many options left- He'd tried jealousy tactics, intoxication, sympathy, hints- The only path that remained open to him was outright confession.

But then, if l'Amerique had already stolen Angleterre's heart, then it would be too late. And he had no desire to be laughed at, or even worse, treated with outright contempt.

That would be too much to bear.

000

"So," France said conversationally, "how was your date with Amerique?"

"Don't call it a date," England snapped. "It wasn't."

France brightened a little internally. "But still, how was it?"

England shrugged. "Meh… As usual."

Usual? Usual? They had gone and seen movies together before?

The things they could have done- under the cover of darkness, holding hands, kissing, touching-

Whispers in the dark, warmth shared, and maybe- afterwards-

"-nce? What the hell?"

"Huh?" France muttered. Fingers wrapping around each other-

"You just had a micro-sleep! You were staring at me for at least 5 minutes, you eejit!"

"Je suis desole…" France muttered. Moans and grunts-

"Are you sure you're alright?" England looked unusually concerned.

France nodded distractedly. Shaking walls-

"I'm fine."

000

The World Meeting was over.

Amerique had sat next to Angleterre- and their hands had been underneath the table the whole time.

France didn't want to know what they were doing under there.

He had no idea what the meeting had been about, and if called upon to name the speakers, he would have been at a loss. He had spent the entire meeting staring off into the distance- having a micro-sleep, as Angleterre had so elegantly put it.

He had cultivated his sick and vivid imagination, nurtured it, and now it had turned against him- scenes he didn't want to visualise, didn't even want to speculate about-

In the shower, in the kitchen, in the dining room, bent over the dresser-

STOP! No, that was something he just didn't need right now.

"France?"

A curious voice came from the door. France immediately froze, chills running up his spine.

It was England's, that crisp accent. A sudden tugging in his belly, a sigh through his nose.

"You do realise, don't you, that everybody is gone?"

France looked around the meeting room, and sure enough, it was empty.

"… How long?"

"I went up and did some paperwork once I was done. Took me about an hour."

"I've been sitting here on my own for over an hour?"

England chuckled, the sound raising hairs all down his spine.

"Yes, it would appear that you have."

France slowly got up and stretched, straightening his deep-blue shirt and cape.

Your only option, said his conscience [or something like it], is outright confession.

Outright confession.

France didn't think he could do it.

He turned slowly, and the green eyes that met his sent a crackle of electricity through his veins. The tugging was so intense now it was like a physical force. He concealed his naked need behind casual indifference. "Was there something you needed? Cooking lessons, perhaps?"

England's eyebrows met in a thunderous expression. "Next time I find you thinking about… Whatever you were thinking about, I'll lock you in here."

I was thinking about you, France thought. And I wouldn't mind, as long as you stayed here with me.

Cheesy, it was true, but at least he was being honest. To himself.

They set off down the corridor, shoulders almost touching. France wanted so badly to just push him against the wall, touch that silken hair, kiss away his frown to find the smile underneath. But that wouldn't work. England would call him a pervert and walk away, asking why he still hadn't bothered to purchase a calendar.

He wanted- he needed-

The door was coming up.

Move.

Outright confession.

This is your chance.

He stopped. He grabbed England by the arm.

"Angleterre, there is something I need to tell you," France said.

He looked at France's hand on his arm with barely-concealed contempt. "And what would that be?"

France took a breath. Hundreds of years of waiting, building up to this moment- He could feel the desperation and need in his eyes, sure it was showing, the tugging in his stomach was so strong, he just wanted to pull England closer and hold his soft, cool form against his own.

"Nothing," he whispered.

England's eyes showed his confusion. France let his arm go slowly, then, just as unwillingly, walked past him.

He couldn't take the risk.

Even now, England looked at him as if France would jump him at the drop of a hat. If he didn't feel the same way, if France's love was unrequited, what would he do? He would have nothing. England would not give him what little notice he did.

He would lose everything.

"France!"

England was hurrying down the corridor towards France, lithe body stretching as he sook to overtake him.

"Tell me," He said softly, as they drew level.

"What is it?"

France couldn't met his eyes, those piercing emerald eyes, couldn't look him in the face.

"I can't."

He shoved his face towards and France's and he could see him struggling with his temper. "Why-ever not?"

"I just can't." You'll hate me.

"France, I want to know," he said, coming even closer.

France wanted to push him against the wall, block any escape with his hands, feel England's sweet breath against his face-

And before he knew it, he had.

France looked down on England, whose green eyes hid away so much fragility.

"I love you."

I love you.

His eyes widened, shrinking against the wall.

"… What the bloody fuck?" He whispered.

France was too deep to stop now. He leant in.

"I love you, Angleterre. I have loved you ever since I can remember."

England shook his head.

"Every time- Every time I see you, I want to- hold you in my arms, and know you were mine. Every time I see you with that little merde Amerique, I want to steal you away and show you how I feel. I need-"

"Shut UP!" England yelled, pushed at France's chest.

"Just SHUT UP!"

"But Angleterre-"

"I don't want to bloody hear it! I DON'T WANT TO BLOODY HEAR ANOTHER WORD OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!"

France felt the colour drain from his face.

"Please-"

"No ENOUGH! Just SHUT IT! I can't take it anymore!" England had angry tears in his eyes.

"Why do you have to do this to me? Can't you see I'm in enough pain? HAVEN'T YOU EVER HAD ENOUGH OF HURTING ME?"

"I don't-"

"Where do you get off mocking me, mocking my feelings? I have loved you my WHOLE LIFE, and you have done nothing but MAKE ME SUFFER!"

France opened his mouth. "I don't understand-"

"You parade around with your lovers and your friends and your stupid beautiful hair, and you laugh at me! Well, I'm sorry if I don't appreciate being a source of amusement! I'll thank you kindly to just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"You- You love me?"

"Don't pretend you didn't bloody know! You play your sick games and make your twisted jokes and you look at me, like you're doing it just so you can see the pain in my eyes! I'm bloody SICK OF IT!"

"I never-"

"SHUT UP! I love you and you've never done anything but cause me pain! I thought, once, that maybe- but it was nothing to you. Nothing!"

"Angleterre-"

"No-"

"Just let me SPEAK!"

England stopped, sides heaving.

"Do you mean to say," France whispered, "That all this time, you've loved me? You've always loved me?"

"Don't-"

"ANSWER THE QUESTION!" France yelled.

"Yes," England said, a broken whisper. "Always."

"But then-"

"From the first time I met you. Why do you think I went to all that trouble to make my hair like yours? Why do you think I would do that?"

"I don't know-"

"You bloody know, you Frog! It was because I wanted you to notice me! I wanted you to think I looked good!" England's voice was slowly rising, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

France's mind was completely boggled, going around in circles wildly, blank and storming.

"I-"

"Why did I fight so hard against that marriage contract? Because I loved you! I didn't want you to just take me, use me, leave me behind!"

"I would-"

"Don't pretend! DON'T MAKE EXCUSES! YOU ONLY WANTED THAT ALLIANCE BECAUSE YOU NEEDED PROTECTION! I'M SICK OF BEING USED AS CANNON FODDER FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?!

France and England stood there, just stood there, chests heaving and words spent, in the silence. Neither wanted to break it. Neither wanted to move.

What happened now would determine whether France's heart was broken or healed.

"I love you, Angleterre," He said softly.

England didn't say anything.

"I had all those flings and all those lovers because I wanted you to be jealous. Because I wanted you to look at me like you wanted me. But you never did. I watched and waited my whole life, and now-"

"Now what?"

"Now, I think, I'm tired of waiting," He said, almost in a whisper.

England's eyes widened in shock as France leaned in, and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. But he didn't move away. Instead, he leaned forward with an almost silent moan, kissing him back as gently as a butterfly's wing.

It was like a release, the tugging in his belly almost gone and replaced with a light feeling like chains were gone.

Neither of them opened their mouths, but it lasted long enough, in that simple, silent contact, that both of them were short of breath.

England's eyes fluttered open, and France felt a smile slip over his face like a warm blanket.

"Just, just- Just give me a chance, Angleterre," He whispered, trying not to snap the thread of moment. "Just one."

There was a struggle in England's eyes, a battle, but then he leant forward and placed his head on the taller man's shoulder, arms slowly wrapping around his waist.

"Of course I will, love," He whispered back.

"Of course I will."

… Oh my god that's cheesier than a grilled cheese sandwich minus bread.

R& R! I need advice!