A/N: I was fluff-starved. 'Nuf said, eh? France is so adorable when he's nervous!
France groaned, rolling over to smack the obnoxious blaring of the hotel room clock back into silence. He forced his sticky eyelids open a crack, the red of the clock's digital numbers coming to meet him, and he squinted drowsily at the glowing display. Only five? Merde, what sort of a madman would get up at five in the damn morning, when it was still dark out? He mumbled something incoherent, letting his heavy eyelids fall shut once again and shoving his face back into the pillow sleepily.
A few seconds later, it hit him that the world meeting was this morning.
A few more seconds after that, he remembered that today was also the day he was going to propose to England.
France's eyes shot open, and suddenly all traces of drowsiness had left him, only to be replaced by the nervous knots that had been twisting his stomach for the entire past month. But he had to do it today; if he didn't now, then he'd never be able to find nerve enough to ask some other time. Besides—he'd been both looking forward to and dreading this day for weeks.
He sighed and rolled out of bed, stretching luxuriously and heading into the bathroom. But even as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the doubts all started circling back.
What if England wasn't at the meeting? What if he said no? What if France lost his nerve at the last minute? What if England didn't want to marry him in the first place? They'd been steady lovers for three years now, but what if that wasn't enough? Was France assuming too much? What if England got embarrassed by it? Would their relationship survive if England wasn't looking for marriage?
By the time he was ready to head out the door at seven-thirty, France had decided to skip breakfast because he was so nervous he didn't even feel hungry anymore. He took a deep breath, flipping his blond waves back out of his face as he slipped on his black coat and grabbed his keys and the ring box, and silently made himself a promise that whatever happened today, he would make sure England knew that he would always be there.
Japan sat quietly in a corner, surveying the utter chaos exploding here in the conference room; Poland was already in his seat, laughing with Lithuania; Russia had somehow been backed against a wall by Belarus, and he was beating her with his lead pipe as she attacked him repeatedly, always diving for his pants; Spain was getting beat up by Romano yet again, no doubt for saying something stupid; Germany was steadfastly ignoring the Northern Italy twin as Veneziano bombarded him with questions; Prussia had Austria pressed down over the table and was trying to steal a kiss from the blushing nation, while Hungary was madly snapping photos; China was running away from Korea's groping.
All in all, it was a typical world meeting.
England stood talking animatedly with America, his green eyes sparkling even more brilliantly than ever and a smile playing around his lips as he caught sight of France over the American's shoulder. He shot France a little grin that made his knotted stomach flip, and he couldn't help but smile back. England was so beautiful when he was happy.
Germany called for silence before France got a chance to see what he and America were talking about, and one by one, all the nations finally gave up their invading of vital regions, conversations, or repeated attacks to reluctantly trudge to their seats. When the low murmuring had finally abated, France's stomach had dropped to somewhere near his feet, and he nearly jumped when he felt England reach over and give his hand a little squeeze under the table.
"You okay, frog?" he asked, green eyes giving away a bit of his worry. "You look nervous."
France took a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze. It was now or never. Before the meeting started, or he would never have the nerve.
"I-I am," he murmured. When England looked confused, he forced himself to go on. "It's just... there's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while now, Arthur..."
He slipped a hand into his pocket to grasp the ring box, pushing his chair back and getting down on one knee. His heart was racing, and England's was too, if the look on his face was any indication. The room had suddenly gone dead silent, all eyes on them, and France took another deep breath, pulling out the ring box and shakily beginning the speech he'd been running over and over in his mind for an entire month now.
"England, I love you. Je t'aime. You say you're not beautiful, but..." France chuckled, shaking his head. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, inside and out. I don't know where to begin to tell you how much you mean to me—no matter how much we argue. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
This was it. The edge of the metaphorical cliff. France took a deep breath and bit his lip, holding out the ring box and opening it, watching England's eyes widen. "Will you marry me?" he whispered.
Dead silence.
France's stomach twisted painfully at the blank, shocked look in England's eyes.
And then, a second later, France found himself tackled down on the floor with England's arms tight around his neck, the Brit stammering an endless stream of yeses into his chest. England looked up to meet his eyes, and France saw that he was crying a little.
"Of course I will, you stupid frog," he said, shaking his head. France laughed, leaning down to kiss him softly and gently wiping his tears away when they broke apart, reaching down to take his fiance's hand and slip the silver ring onto his finger.
"Je t'aime, je t'aime," France breathed, leaning down for another kiss before carefully shifting England off of him and helping them both to their feet, to meet the uproar that awaited them. Just for good measure, he laced their fingers together and lifted their hands high, so the entire conference room could see the ring on England's finger. The noise exploded.
"I KNEW IT!" screeched America, leaping out of his chair to launch himself at the two of them in a huge hug. "I KNEW IT! MY PARENTS ARE GETTING BACK TOGETHER!"
England blushed, stammering something about America being the product of a drunken one-night stand (and absolutely nothing more!), and France just laughed, kissing his nose playfully.
"Oh, cut it out, frog," he muttered, batting France away halfheartedly, but the Frenchman simply laughed again and looped an arm around his waist, earning himself a glare and then an annoyed sigh, even as England leaned into his warm embrace.
Needless to say, the rest of that meeting was a complete chaotic mess. America was bouncing off the walls, Japan had fainted in a puddle of blood for reasons unknown to anyone other than Hungary, but she wasn't exactly available to help him; she was too busy getting pictures of France and England in such rapid succession they found it amazing they weren't blinded afterward. Prussia and Spain bounced over to offer their congratulations, and Poland cornered them with a huge hug, tears streaming down his cheeks ("You guys are, like, so perfect together, like, it's so cute it seriously burns—"), while Russia even stopped beating Latvia long enough to turn around and kol cheerfully in their general direction. England had just asked where Germany was when he saw the tall blond hurry from the room, blushing and wiping at his nose, with Italy chasing after him asking why his nose was bleeding. France chuckled, wondering if that was what had happened to Japan.
Finally, amid all the chaos, England turned to his new fiance and kissed him sweetly, letting their foreheads rest against each other and reveling in the way France's warm breath ghosted over his face as he leaned in for another kiss.
"I love you so much, Francis," England whispered against his lips, smiling softly. "I didn't think you'd ever ask."
France sighed softly and hugged the Brit close, keeping their foreheads resting against each other as he kissed back lovingly.
"Neither did I, petit lapin," he breathed back with a tiny smile.