England had always had a problem with France. Ever since he laid eyes upon him, he knew instantly that he wasn't to be interacted with. He loathed everything about him: the girly hair he flicked and played with every ten seconds, the way he strutted down the road in the most flashy and showy way possible, swinging his hips obviously to attract female attention, his absurd, completely inappropriate habit of drinking excessively and lifting girls' skirts up and pulling boys' trousers down… He could go on ranting for years. To prove that, I'll inform you that England had managed exactly that for, well, the whole of his life. As a country, the day of his birth was quite a while back. Most would categorise his feelings towards the French nation as mere jealousy, but there was definitely something else mixed in. Only England could identify what the said emotion was, but even so, it was a vague, wild guess. Much to the Englishman's annoyance, a surprising number of other nations sought after the true meaning of his hatred towards the slightly older man, the vast majority asking questions along the lines of: "Is it because he's handsomer than you?". Of course, he uttered the negative. This lead to nothing, as the reason behind his disliking had yet to be discovered.

"Ugh," the blond, thick-eyebrowed nation sighed, flinging the scratched green front door open then flopping into his brown leather armchair, taking in the smells of old vacuum cleaner, mint, coffee and tea of home. Mostly tea. Lazily reaching for the television remote, he allowed his thoughts to wander to his magical friends that everyone (besides Norway) called him insane for conversing with. Once in a blue moon, the (slightly antisocial) man would wish a 'magical sight' spell existed, so he could prove Flying Mint Bunny and friends were real, and not just in his now puzzled head. "Why do I have the feeling of someone watching me? Gah, whatever. I'm just being a git because I'm tired."

England's drowsy ramblings were somewhat rudely smashed by the doorbell. Why the theme was 'God Save the Queen', he had "no bloody clue". He cursed and carelessly dropped the remote on to the wooden floor with a loud CLACK. There, the song again. And again. And again.

"Stop it, you [insert extremely insulting British swear word here]! I'm coming, I'm coming! Give…" STAMP. "…me…" RATTLE. "…time!"

Sharp, furious emerald interlocked with soft, calm sapphire as two male nations' gazes met. England backed away swiftly in shock and attempted to slam the door in the other's joyful face, but, however, he managed to prevent that happening with his recently-polished, heeled boot. Flustered, the younger turned a shade of red that would have appealed greatly to a certain Spaniard.

"Ah, bonjour, Angleterre!" chirped the subject of confusion himself. He pushed the door inwards to reveal a perhaps frightened island nation then proceeded to chuckle to himself as he spotted the intense scarlet brushed across his pale face. "Why the rouge-ness, mon ami?"

England adjusted his posture and awkwardly brushed off a scattering of non-existent dirt from his jeans, briskly turning his head to the side in order to hide the fading magenta from the grinning Frenchman. "I-It's just that you surprised me, nothing more, nothing less! A-And don't speak to me in French! It freaks me out a-"

"Fine… Arthur. I'll use your boring language that isn't even close to being as sexy as mine," France interrupted, starting to laugh his trademark laugh. England cringed.

"Whatever, Francis. Now you still haven't told me what the bloody hell you're doing here, so either tell or scram."

"But Angl- I mean, Arthur, I thought you knew!" the ultramarine-eyed nation began, somewhat shocked. "It's a special day!"

England paused for a second. A special day? Christmas had been and gone months ago, and besides, it would have been almost impossible for him not to notice the decorations and carols and Finland getting over-excited. "What do you mean? Spit it out, I'm tired!"

France allowed yet another wide smile cross his lips. "How adorable! Monsieur Black Sheep of Europe can't even remember the date of his own Birthday!"

Awkward silence. Then out of the blue, SLAP!

"Wha-What was that for, Angl- Arthur?!" the Frenchman cried, hurt and taken-aback.

"G-GIT!" the other yelled as he slammed the door successfully this time.

He shoved his trembling body against the wooden entrance, oxygen struggling to find its way into his quivering oesophagus, shaken, drum-like heart desperately pounding and beating his ribcage for escape. He breathed heavily with his lungs and chest going in and out, inflating and deflating, in frighteningly quick succession. No one had come to visit him on his Birthday for decades... and no one had been as friendly as France towards him, EVER. Yet he still hated him. That was the problem.

I need to do something about this feeling; it's making my insides go all hot and it's starting to become embarrassing, England thought while clutching at his waist to stop the raging fire in his stomach. Unexpectedly, two gentle knocks caused him to jump. As soon as it came, it was gone. Miraculously, he was fine now.

"Whatever I did, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Arthur," the familiar thick French accent sounded out from behind the oak of the door.

Wait, did France just… apologise?! This day can't get any more peculiar, touch wood!

"Alright, frog, what's your problem? Can't you just leave me alone like everyone else? Why does it have to be you that constantly stalks me, damn it!" the Englishman shouted in bewilderment, embarrassment and anger, gradually gaining his bearings and returning to his rather bipolar and sarcastic self. The three emotions mixed like an amateur magician's potion: they were otherwise useful ingredients that weren't compatible, randomly thrown into the liquid to create a monstrosity of a concoction. And England knew all about magic and potions.

The green-eyed, untidy-haired nation heard a solitary foot slip in the dewy grass outside. He didn't bother tell him not to step on it, he just wanted dearly to uncover the secret of France's kindness and hope that would stop the Feeling from eating away at his innards.

"I don't have a problem. It's just one of those things, oui? Am I not allowed to be friendly with you now, eh, mon cher?" he sniggered patronisingly, talking in a characteristically flirtatious manner, pushing the door to. England submitted with a disapproving grimace and a high level of reluctance, letting the door's force drive him aside, shoes sliding slowly on the floor panels, towards the wall opposite.

"Why are you being so nice to me, Francis?" he sighed, ignoring the fact that he had just called him 'my darling' in his own language that, according to England, was NOT 'sexy' AT ALL. That's NOT AT ALL in capitals. "Everyone's supposed to hate me! Especially Europeans like yourself."

The curious, flaxen-haired man didn't challenge his so-called 'friend' when he clearly stated that he wasn't actually in Europe. Instead, however, he merely answered his previous question politely and friendlily (a rarity!): "I'm nice to you because you're my friend. I know I tease you, insult you, and... touch you, but I'll always be your ally. So Joyeux Anniversaire."

With that, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against the unsuspecting English nation's, wrapping his arms around his warm body in a bone-crushing embrace. Utterly astonished, confused and caught off guard, the other screamed in a rather unmanly fashion as he was tugged back and slammed against the nearest wall unceremoniously by the collar of his virtually spotless shirt. He tried to yank the other's beloved hair out but failed, as his arms were pinned to his sides in a strangely gentle but purposeful manner. England couldn't bear it any longer, but even so, he was enjoying it for some unknown reason.

Why are you just letting him do this to you?! You don't even like him! the angel hovering above his right shoulder shrieked, chin in hands. It's been going on for at least 10 minutes now!

You like it! I know you do! Go with the flow, as Alfred says! It's obvious what you want, so why not treat yourself? It's not as if you're ever going to get a chance like this again, Arthur… the mischievous devil on the left giggled naughtily.

What shall I do?! the actual England thought in utter desperation with wide, verdant eyes flicking back and forth between the two opposing ethereal creatures arguing and persuading like always. He had to go with one of them, and that one was…

As soon as France 'got the hang of things', so to speak, there was yet another SLAP!

The newly hurt visitor merely stood there with his head facing the direction in which England's hand whacked him determinedly, mouth forming a small 'O' in astonishment. That dreaded awkward silence.

"…G-Get out."

More silence.

"I said GET OUT! S-Stay away from me, you b*st*rd!"

"But Arthur, I-"

"Shut up and get the hell out of here!" England hollered, shoving him roughly through the entrance with France attempting desperately to grasp onto the doorframe in vain. He felt the hard wood slam into his back and propel him away from the door, causing him to perform an unlucky face-plant on the concrete path. It hurt.

England seized this chance to try to calm down and clear his mind of all thoughts even remotely related to the Frenchman, who happened to be clutching his face in pain and despair outside. No one had ever kissed England before. Ah, no one had ever hugged him at the most before. He staggered, both dumbfounded and exhausted, upstairs and collapsed in a baffled heap onto his bed, practically tearing out his unruly, golden hair. He wailed, "WHY?!" repetitively before crying himself to sleep: a deep, strongly troubled sleep.