The Love Of A Nation

"Arthur!" Rushing through the crowd, pushing people away, and the celebrations falling on deaf ears as he frantically tried to reach the fellow nation. "Arthur!" Could he hear him through the noise? Could he feel his heartbeat feverishly thudding against his ribcage as he continued running to the falling nation? At last he caught him. France's arms brushed against the Englishman's chest. The smaller man was flushed, with sweat against his brow. But he was breathing. "Arthur…" the Frenchman muttered, his wounded fingers brushing against England's cheek. "Why do you have to be such an imbecile?" France slightly smiled at England's sleeping face. As he looked closer, he realized how of wounded England truly was. Scratches and crude cuts impaled his pale skin, and there were shadows below his eyes. His uniform had blotches that France had dismissed as mud at first sight, but now as he looked closer, the nation realized that dots of blood had coated his former enemy's coat.

"Merde," swore France as he carried the unconscious England in his arms. The messy blond hair brushed against his skin slightly, causing the nation to slightly flinch at the contact. How many times had he touched England's hair, as a drunken caress or as a sharp tug as an enemy? He remembered too, of a time of distant past, of how screams and hated words would become choked moans and heavy breathless breathing. Of a lust-filled Englishman beneath him. "Francis…" Get your mind out of the gutter, imbecile! Although many nations, including England himself, had called him a pervert, flirting and mindless groping were France's nature. Flirting, in France's mind, was a sign of affection and love, not just simply sexual attraction. Although most of the insults were from the Englishman he held in his arms. France stared at the fellow nation that was in his arms. He looks so cute like this, France thought with a small smile as he ran his fingers through England's hair. Contrary of America's comments that "Iggy has that grossest hair ever," England's hair was actually fine and soft to the touch. France would know, after all.

France sighed through his teeth as he walked through the streets of Paris during the celebrations. The war had been won. The Frenchman remembered of how stunned he had been when Paris had been liberated almost a year earlier. The armies of his citizens and England's citizens had stunned him as they marched through the streets…but no more so than England himself. When he had surrendered to Germany in 1940, France had thought that he had never been so humiliated before. Even during the war with England that had lasted over one hundred years and when his dear Jeanne had been burned, France had felt incomparable shame and despair when the Nazi flag flew instead of the noble colors of red, blue, and white. He had expected England to laugh at him or mock his weakness, but instead there was sympathy bathing in the emerald eyes that he knew so well. "I'm sorry, France," he had spoken quietly as Germany eyed them across the room with suspicion across his face. It had been their last meeting together. There were no fights or insults shouted across the room this time. The formerly sneering pirate was looking at France with true and sincere sympathy on his face. He had seen England's eyes burning with passion, blood-lust, and madness and anger, but it was those eyes that haunted France's dreams. The nation hadn't expected England to go so far for him. Or perhaps his boss had forced him too. That would have been like the nation France knew. He had collapsed laughing when England's boss had declared France "their dearest enemy." Dearest enemy? France had thought as he collapsed on the floor from the laughter that echoed across the room as he ignored Germany's shouts to be quiet. I think England's boss went mad! Has he not learned his history, with the countless wars that I've had with that insufferable angry man? He must be mad! The laughter had stopped when France had heard of the devastation across England's house. The formerly rose-carrying nation remained subdued during those months. Why would England go so far for him, to save him? They had been enemies – besides for the brief stint in World War I – since they could remember. It was their dream to injure and devastate each other, so why?

France had asked himself those questions many times during the grim months as he religiously followed the French radio reporting on the bombings of London and various cities. Why did his heart shake every time when he heard how many of England's citizens that died from the bombs raining down on them? Why were his thoughts of the short-tempered nation with ugly eyebrows every moment of the night? France had denied his feelings for the island nation, proclaiming it has a survival measure. If he dies, then I'm next! …That's the only reason why I'm worried I haven't received a telegram in so long. How desperate he had been. Since they had been invented, both England and France had sent telegrams to each other with long insults and mockery. Even when the war started, it was regular to receive a telegram proclaiming that France was a pervert that smelled like revolting cheese. Then through the months of August to October of 1940, the telegrams had stopped. France allowed his boredom and restlessness to take hold as he teased Germany, who had been staying in his house until recently, of his relationship with Italy. How many times had he been chased around the house after he had asked questions about the nature of their relationship, especially when Germany had slipped that he and Italy shared the same bed? His laughter echoed in France's ears now as he held England against his chest. It seems like such a long time ago, France thought as he observed his citizens celebrating and running through the streets. Immediately after the bombings had ended, England had sent France a telegram. I will save you, France. No matter how long it takes.

France hadn't known what to say when he found England standing beside his exiled boss, a smile, and not a smile, on his face. They hadn't exchanged words then, but France knew that he hadn't been happier to see the messy blond hair and emerald eyes below the ugly eyebrows. Their parting had been had been somber with a hint of sadness, but now their reunion was pure joy, although neither one of them would admit it at that time. "I just came here because my boss told me I had to," England had told France late that summer night while drinking a bottle of red wine. "Not because I cared about you," he stated as a blush echoed across his face as France smiled knowingly. "Not at all! I just…had to because it was an order." It had been a mistake to laugh at England's face. In the morning, France had multiple purple bruised around his face, but he didn't regret it. They didn't have sex. Not like last time. When World War I had ended, both of them had drunk too much and had experimented their joy through their tongues and caresses. Although he would never admit it until now, that night with England – Arthur – sleeping blissfully across his chest with his fingers playing with his hair, was the happiest night of France's life. England didn't stay for long. "I have a battle to fight, frog." And so he had left with back straight and proud as France watched him walk away to defend the world that he loved so much.

And France had thought he had never been in this much in love before.

He immediately shook himself from those thoughts as fast as they had come. As he waited for the war to come to an end – and waiting for England – France steadily realized the feelings he had struggled with England as he observed Germany. France, the nation of amour, would absolutely understand the signs. He had been in Germany's presence for four years now, and could see the love Germany had for Italy even though the potato-loving nation couldn't realize it. He had desperately tried to call Italy during the time when the other Allies were bombing his and Romano's house. France had observed that Germany was more irritated around the household staff and of his allies after listening to the French news of the devastation and death surrounding Italy. How many times had France awoken to Germany's cries of "Italy, Italy, Italy!" in his sleep. The heartbroken expression of the formerly strict and stern nation as he was told that Italy refused to speak with him resonated in France's mind. Those thoughts echoed in France's mind as he had a quiet conversation with his formerly exiled boss on the day that they especially were celebrating. They had drifted from the island nation during their conversation. His boss had enjoyed London. So much so that he begged France to visit with him when Europe was stable again. The mention of London caused France to turn away from his focus on England – for some reason he seemed to enjoy watching him – and asked his boss if he had seen a bushy-eye browed man with a foul temper during the bombings of the capital. Before his boss could respond, France had turned to find England swaying as his eyes slowly shut as he suddenly was falling onto the ground.

"Arthur!" I have never called him by his former name before, France mused as he opened the door to his house. England was still unconscious in his arms. Except for…well…that moment. France shied away from those thoughts as he observed the house. He hadn't entered it since the beginning of the war. Countless photos of French cuisine and the countryside came into view as he walked along the halls. Vases and paintings from various citizens hid in the small spaces where wine was hidden. France chuckled slightly when he remembered of how England used to barge into his house, drunk more often than not, proclaiming his house as his during the centuries after the Hundred Years War. His room came into view. Bright sunlight bathed into the windows, shining the beautiful silk curtains. The bed was large, complete with soft and silk sheets of light blue color. A rather large "and bloody useless" dressing room was across from France's large bedroom. Gently, France set down the exhausted England on his bed.

For a moment, he was simply content with watching England breathe, the breaths easing of out his lungs and the slight blush across his face. France briefly combed his fingers through England's soft hair, relishing of how the feel of his hair felt to him. He reluctantly stood and slowly took off the uniform that the Englishman was insanely proud of, in France's opinion. Soon only bare skin remained, and France found himself staring at the various scars across England's body. Most of them had been directly caused by him, he knew. There was a long white scar across his left arm from the Battle of Waterloo, and another small scar across his hip from one of the many fights they had during the century they had fought each other. France eased his hand – which had various cuts and bruises – against the most recent scar that England now had. It was only a small bump and slightly red, but it must have been gruesome and bleeding as London had been continuously bombed. The scar was across his heart…the heart and beauty of England. For a moment France was simply content to listen to heartbeat of his fellow nation. It was strong, and slow…and yet comforting somehow. France slowly dressed the smaller nation into a nightdress – much more comfortable than what he had previously wearing – and picked him up again. He was aware of England's breath against his cheek as France eased him under the sheets. France looked at his – ally for a moment.

England looked peaceful. More peaceful than that night that France refused to speak of. Color seemed to return to his face, and his blond hair brushed softly against his forehead. His pink lips that had once been feverishly kissed appeared soft to France. His fingers touched them, softly. England didn't wake. It took France a moment to realize that he was crying. Big salty tears fell onto England's face, as if he was the only that cried. Erratic emotions as he continued to weep assaulted him. How long had he felt this way towards his former enemy? Had it been when England had left his house for the second time to continue to fight? Or had it been when he had felt England's head resting across his chest on that November night? Or had…he loved him since the beginning, when they had met as tiny nations under the rule of Ancient Rome? As tears continued to streak down his cheeks as his body shook, France came to realize that it was the last of those questions were true. He had loved England, under the guise of teasing, mockery, and war, for over a thousand years. "Why…didn't you tell me how exhausted you were? I wouldn't have gone to the celebrations if I had known you carried the pain inside you all this time." France gave a choked laugh. "Stubborn Englishman." His blue eyes stared at the beautiful sleeping face.

"I didn't know that the effects of the war would cause you to collapse the moment was over." He stroked England's thumb against his again. "I, just now, realized how I feel about you, Angleterre. I…don't know what to make of it yet," he confessed. "You would get a laugh out of that, wouldn't you? The glorious nation of love doesn't know how he should feel about the man he loves." France laughed loudly, but then the laughter died on his lips when he began to cry again. "You sacrificed so much for me, mon Angleterre…and I have nothing to give you. I'm sorry." Then France suddenly smiled. "Actually…I do have something. And it's not the disgusting cardboard pieces you call scones." Gently he cupped England's face. Arthur… His breath eased as his lips almost reached England's. Arthur…I've loved you since the 43 C.E. when Ancient Rome took you as a part of his empire. I was so lonely...not knowing what to do, only dreaming of freedom. That day, he introduced me to another prisoner, a very young nation with the most beautiful emerald eyes that I had ever seen. We dreamed of freedom together. That's how long I've loved you. His lips were sweet and soft, exactly how France had expected them to be. "Je t'aime, mon Angleterre…mon Arthur…mon amour. Je t'aime." France smiled at his England – his Arthur, as newly shed tears shed from his eyes. Tears of love. "I don't care if you love me back, mon Arthur…I just want you to know of my feelings for you." France stood while watching his new-found love. "Je t'aime," he whispered again, before he exited the room.

Unknown to France, England had been awake as soon as he heard France's laugh. And he had heard his words. A small smile graced his face as the memory of feeling France's lips against his own. He thought back to France's tears, and of the confession that had melted his heart.

"Je t'aime asusi…Francis."