"Oh, please," Francis said with an eye roll, "you're never here. You should really visit more. I enjoy your company." Alfred's cheeks tinged pink at this, and his face softened into a smile.

"I will. I like being here." He spoke honestly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a small sip. "And of course you enjoy my company, I'm great." He added, teasing.

Francis rolled his eyes again and looked out the window at the pedestrians strolling leisurely up and down the street. He seemed quite happy. The war was over, things were getting better. And he was, even more so than he'd ever say, truly enjoying spending time with Alfred.

"Hey, you know, I've been wondering," Alfred began, causing Francis to turn back from the window. "Do you really believe in true love? I know that you say you do, of course, but do you actually? You don't act like it so I can't tell." Francis was taken aback slightly, but tilted his head.

"Quoi? Of course I believe in true love. I live in the city of love, my language is the language of love. Amour is the air I breathe, it is the blood in my veins. What makes you think that it is not, cher?"

"Well, I mean, you say all of that. But it doesn't seem like you really love anyone, or that you're concerned about finding anyone to love. You just like to have fun." Alfred told the Frenchman, taking a long sip of his drink. Francis sat open-mouthed a moment before responding.

"I have experienced true love in my life before, and I still feel that love despite the object of my affection being long gone. I think that love is a blessing, and I have been given my blessing already, years ago. I'm thankful for the time I got to spend as in love as I was, and I no longer feel a need to search for it. If someday it is to happen again, magnifique. But if not, I am no better or worse off."

Francis smiled and though there was a sadness to some of his words, there was also a clear sincerity. So that was it, then, Francis didn't believe he would get to love again. Alfred rested his arms on the café table in front of him. He knew what Francis was talking about as well, or rather, whom he was talking about, and so when he nodded it was in understanding for more than just how he felt about love in the abstract.

"I don't know how to recognize love, I guess. I can't tell if I've ever been in it." Alfred twiddled his thumbs. "What does it feel like?"

"Like home. Like fear and anger and sadness are somehow less powerful because nothing else has felt so strongly as the feeling of loving someone. Like smiling at nothing and being motivated by the thought of the one you love. And being loved in return, oh la la, it's baffling ecstasy. It's bliss you never imagined could be real. And it can be dark and painful and intimidating, too. But, ce n'est pas rien compared to how good it feels when things go right."

Alfred blinked as he listened to Francis' words roll off of his tongue and melt into the air. There was such an indescribable sweetness and earnest intent to them that the American had to wonder if the older man was in love with someone in that moment, despite what he'd said before. But he just asked another question.

"That was beautiful, but very general. How do you feel around someone you love? Like, what makes you realize you're in love with someone?" Alfred's eyes flickered to a couple strolling down the street and chatting, and then back to Francis as he awaited whatever wisdom the Frenchman might bestow upon him.

"They'll make you indescribably happy just by being in your presence. Your heart will hammer harder than you thought possible when you get lost in thought about them, and about the idea of loving them and their reciprocation of that love. Some mornings you'll wake up after dreaming of them and your face will hurt from smiling so hard. You'll realize that when people say they'd take a bullet for someone, that what you're feeling must be what they mean. You'll never forget a single person you ever love, jamais." Francis' voice dropped almost to a whisper for the last line, and he realized he'd been staring at the edge of the table as he spoke. He looked up at Alfred who was watching him with wide eyes and gave a small smile.

"I think," Alfred began slowly, crumpling his brows and nose. "that I've been in love. Or, well... Yeah." Now Francis' brows raised, a curious smile creeping onto his face.

"Mon ami, you can't simply tell me that without telling me who. Tell France all about it, I'm intrigued." Francis waggled his fingers at Alfred, enthusiastic.

"Heh," Alfred scratched the back of his head. "Well, there was this person. One of the first to really believe in me both as a person and as a nation. Taught me that people have faith in you easier if you have some in yourself to start. Even the stuff that they do that pisses me off, it doesn't, you know, actually piss me off. And without a thought, when they were in trouble, I did my absolute best to help. And would do it again in a flash. I guess you could say I love him." His eyes widened as he realized what he said.

"THEM! Them." He added quickly, as Francis' eyes widened. Alfred felt heat burning in his face and chest, and he could feel his pulse pounding away.

Francis felt frozen. He was trying to process, trying to reason through what'd just happened. Because what he thought— and what he didn't want to admit his heart was hoping had happened— was that Alfred had just told Francis that he was in love with him. Maybe he meant Arthur? But Arthur hadn't believed in him since he was young. There was no other explanation. Francis felt a giddy fear inside.

"Perhaps, mon lapin, I was wrong." He replied, each word slow and precise. Alfred swallowed hard.

"About what?" He asked, afraid that Francis would quickly call him out on his slip up and shut him down. Francis licked his lips before he spoke again.

"Peut-être, my one true love has not been and gone. Maybe it's the person who has inspired me for as long as we've known one another. The one who has taught me to see life through youthful eyes, no matter how many years pass. The one who has saved me innumerable times in so many different ways. Maybe I love him." And Francis didn't correct himself.

"Him?" Alfred asked, quietly. Voice almost a squeak. How uncharacteristic and charming, Francis thought.

"Him."