Written after a gorgeous roleplay. In this, in case you couldn't tell, France has just, if a little awkwardly, confessed to England.


His stomach felt full. It was good, because it was full of alcohol. Alcohol hurt so very good.

Numbing, chilled alcohol that burned its way down his throat and made him cry and gave all his friends that particularly pitiful look of dread. But they were used to the violent drunk, the one who drank to become intoxicated and streak through the streets. They barely knew the England that was only there to drown his sorrows in the dark liquid and maybe hum a few sad songs.

He had realized that he loved France some years ago. He'd be damned if he remembered the date, but he did remember a quiet night spent together, doing nothing but talking. There was no sex, no violent kisses and fights for dominance, and the first few moments of non-sexual Francis was almost eerie. And France had just spoken to him about nonsense things, about his history. And England was amazed that he wanted to listen, wanted to soak up every last word. It was then that it occurred to him.

And it was then that he began to hate himself.

His kings hated France. His queens and his lords and his court and his people, they all hated France, the man and what he stood for. Even the simple tricolor or a depiction of Marianne could send them boiling with anger. And England, being a young nation and a fool, felt angry at France as well, angry, because he loved him and he shouldn't. They fought, sometimes in jest and sometimes in earnest, sometimes with words and sometimes with swords or fists.

And whenever he had said something horrible to France, something truly truly horrible, he had caught a glimpse of something in those blue, blue eyes. He had seen the pain, and the anger and the frustration there. And he had told himself that he had liked it. Because if France hated him, it would be easier for England to hate him too.

But time passed, and England grew more and more sure that France really didn't hate him. The chocolate and the flowers meant little to him (so he told himself) but the nights that he would have loved to spend alone that were spent crying into a bare shoulder after sex, the mornings after that were spent waking up slowly to find a pair of warm arms around him, and feeling a small sinking right after the sudden flutter... those meant everything to him.

England told himself they didn't. And after enough times of this he pushed Francis away. When he woke up he scoffed and shoved them away to get dressed, or made a snide remark or just insulted him with whatever his groggy brain could come up with. And at the end of the day he was smiling to himself, because France must have really, really hated him.

And when France had looked at him like that, just looked, England had a flash of memory. He had seen the pain and the anger and the love. The love! And even as he had walked out the door, England knew he had made a grave mistake.

And so after Ireland and America were gone, and he was surrounded by faeries and an imp and of course his unicorn, he had grabbed his rum and began to drink, disregarding the worried gazes that were on him.