A/N - This is the first non-fluffy thing I have ever written. I'll probably stick to fluff in future; this just made me more sad. Plus inexplicably pissed off…
England knows he isn't the only one to share France's bed, but it doesn't matter.
France doesn't bother to hide it from him. When he tugs England across the threshold, kissing him like he's the only one that matters, there is the floral scent of perfume in the air. When with a soft moan France bares his neck for England to taste, the marks of another stand out stark against his pale skin.
It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter, because it's enough that there are those precious nights when France doesn't turn away - when instead he pulls England close and whispers sweet nothings in his liquid language; words that are as sweet as they are empty.
It doesn't matter, because there are those moments when England can almost believe that it's real. That the murmured 'je t'aime' isn't just what France says to his lovers; that it's special, meant for him.
(England knows that he's deluding himself and he hates himself for it.)
Beside him France shifts and presses closer, mouthing his hollow love into the bare skin of England's shoulder - and England realises that he can't pretend for much longer.
France is the country of love, but it is England that has fallen headfirst.
If you liked it, please do review. Especially if there's concrit; it's badly in need of some D: (IT'S LATE AND I'M SLEEPY)
