Note: Fixing my format & splitting up stories with segments. So this isn't a new story or chapter, just a divided one. I did, however, polish up the typos & errors as much as my tired brain would permit. (Grammarly is my new best frenemy right now. 8I)

Disclaimer: Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer for all my Hetalia stories on my profile page. The good news is once you've read it, you'll never have to read it again. Huzzah! X3

Story #43:

"Kiss & Tell"

It seemed a perfectly harmless thing to do at that time. But in hindsight, no other error in judgement had so far been more consequential to his undoing than that singular misstep. A misstep that led to his being infected with an especially potent and anomalous idea; One that would grow with time like a virus— a virus that he would never be able to rid himself of forever (and to someone who did live forever– forever was a very, very long time)… For it was then –a part of him he had no control over was made privy to the idea – that he was taken with the French Nation –deeply and beyond all reasonable bounds. Though it would take many more lifetimes before his conscious mind could even begin to come to terms with the idea, needless to say, the shock of having his heart threaten to catapult itself out of his mouth was enough to distract him from his original plan of driving the kibitzer Francis away from his flower bed… And ultimately, from his life…

-x-

It was a vexing sight.

The frog sleeping in his flower bed. His faeries swooning over him and making a fuss. He jumped at them as far as his little legs would permit and grouchily shooed them away, fully intending to shoo the snoopy French boy next…

As he loomed over the lump of flowing muslin and winding flaxen locks that was France, a feeling of superiority washed over him. After all, he was always the one having to strain his neck to look up –high up– just to meet the haughty French boy's gaze. And that was even when the taller Nation was already stooping to meet him halfway!

Being both figuratively and literally belittled all the time was maddening, and what little consolation from the fact that he would eventually catch up and perhaps even outgrow his pompous neighbour someday was of meagre comfort during their disenchanting encounters.

But now it seems that fate has presented him with a perfect comeuppance. A chance to finally feel what it felt like to be the one staring down at the other Nation for once. So stare down he did. Hard. Determined to milk this fortuitous occasion of all its sweet satisfaction. After all, such favourable odds didn't come his way often.

Lamentably, there wasn't much satisfaction to be gained from bearing down on a rival who wasn't conscious enough to feel intimidated. He even resorted to using his "imagination", but his imagination was proving just as uncooperative. If anything, staring down at the sleeping Nation only made him feel stupid.

"Stupid France…" England muttered, vexed. He dropped his posture and slumped onto the soft grass with a sigh, having lost interest. "Even while asleep he finds ways to taunt me!"

The scourge of his existence was lying right there! Vulnerable as a sleeping infant! And maybe that was precisely the reason he was in no mood to exploit it –he was no coward, no sir.

Nonetheless, something had to be gained from this situation –anything at all that would give him an edge over "La Belle France", who flaunted every inch of his "flawless" landmass at every godforsaken opportunity!

'Flawless'… England pondered this for a moment, and just like that, the answer to his predicament presented itself.

He envied France more than he would want to admit. But only because France was far superior to him in every way… Or so he's been led to believe. The French Nation didn't seem to have any weakness. Which of course didn't make sense, everybody had to have at least one…! France prided himself above all for his looks. And maybe, just maybe— that could very well be his undoing! If he finds the slightest flaw– something amiss; A wonky nose, a blemish, perhaps asymmetrical nostrils, or with some luck– even a split end! The mere prospect thrilled him indecently! What better revenge than to finally be able to harangue France with an imperfection?

'Know thy enemy' was indeed sound wisdom to go by.

England was not ugly. He knew this. But when constantly compared to France, he could not help but feel, well– inferior. France was one of those Nations naturally endowed with superfluous beauty and charm that was the envy and consternation of the world over. While him, being the primary target of comparison, would always be lacking; He harboured this against the heavens as downright nepotism!

If he had been granted a neighbouring Nation who was a little less perfect (or a whole less of an arse about it), then he wouldn't have to feel so cheated and miserable. But no~ he had to have the imperious, overbearing peacock France as his neighbour! Well, he won't stand for the injustice –certainly not if he could help it!

Even so, as he leaned close to get a more intimate view of the arrogant Nation, he was unprepared to be hit full force with the realization that he might have seriously demeaned the Nation's inherent splendour all the same…

Without that ever-present smugness about his countenance, France was surprisingly tolerable –even rather pleasing to behold. For once he could see every detail of the French boy's face properly, unobstructed by his usually limited vantage point. If not for the sissy girly tunic and flowery smell, it was almost impossible to reconcile the France he was accustomed to, with this.

He had –never in his wildest (mostly infuriated) imaginings– pictured France looking so serene, innocuous and even actually child-like in innocence… that suddenly the idea of inflicting any harm upon a creature so angelic seemed borderline criminal.

England had attributed France's "immaculately perfect" hair to the fact that the French boy must always waste ridiculous amounts of time taming it. But now his silvery blond locks were scattered around his face like a halo, wildly "misbehaving", and yet not a spot of radiance and glory was lost to it– if anything, the reckless tumble served to compliment it. It remained perfect as ever. Too perfect to be real, he could barely restrain himself from touching it.

Okay, so there was no exaggeration to his accursedly perfect hair! Surely his face could not be as ludicrously defect-free…?

However as his gaze fell upon France's delicate eyebrows, another huge chunk of England's hopes chip away. France's brows weren't sparse or bushy, but just the right volume and shape. He narrowed his eyes spitefully at them as if by doing so he could set the hapless things on fire. (Well he could with a little bit of sorcery, but he wasn't resorting to that just yet; That would be like admitting defeat.)

He continued his search down the sloping eyelids to find the most delicate eyelashes he's ever seen. Long, swooping and full, cascading down flush pink cheeks like golden stardust. He never gave it any more thought than it was due– but he found himself missing the dazzling indigo-blue eyes it concealed, and noting how breath-taking they would look framed against the rest of the backdrop. Every vibrant hue in the French boy's features matched those orbs like a surreal painting.

Even France's complexion wasn't snowy-white like his was, but a robust shade of light-brownish-gold that somehow instantly brought to mind delicious things like cream-caramel humbugs and perfectly baked croissants (even if those were yet to be invented). Indubitably the kind of skin tone one would have if they lived in a place with impeccable weather and just the right dose of sunshine all year round.

Now upon reaching France's nose, he was hard-pressed to find something awry. But instead of a crooked and out of proportioned one as most adult noses always appeared to be, he was met by one elegant enough to be a girl's, yet pronounced and strong enough to be a boy's. Symmetrical ears, a handsome chin, a graceful jawline and a long, slender neck, and so on… Yes, from where he stood (which was as close and personal as one can get) it seemed that France was indeed as perfect as he always proclaimed himself to be; At this point, hardly remembering to be disappointed, as much as forgetting not to be so enraptured by his persistent failure to find imperfection in the older Nation's countenance. If anything, utterly gobsmacked and too self-conscious to remember how many more reasons he had discovered to hate his neighbouring Nation.

Whatever it was he had been meaning to do in the first place, was now completely forgotten… Instead, he revelled at the sleeping beauty that was France. He really was wonderful. It was no sham…

A shaky hand automatically rakes through his own unruly hair as he tried to bring to mind his own best features. He supposed his eyes were his most noticeable feature; Vibrant green with flecks of gold. His mother Britannia told him once that it was his best feature. That staring into his eyes was like looking into another world… A world where you could pick the stars right off of trees in a magical forest that lay at the very bottom of an enchanted crystalline pond. It was like seeing all the life of the world all at once that you could not help but be drawn into it, hopelessly lost. (Of course that was his mother, so it might have been a tad of an exaggeration…) Well, apart from his eyes, he was personally very proud of his nose. It had a nice, intellectual arch to it. There was an almost invisible clef on the finely sculpted plateau at the tip that made him look sophisticated. It wasn't too small or too big, and not a curve out of place either. He reckoned those two features were what gave him a fairly pleasing appearance— if one bothered to look close enough.

The urge to compare got the best of him once more. Leaning as close to the oblivious Nation as could afford, he noticed one more little nuance; Faint golden freckles gathered in a roundish pile at the bridge of his nose 'like pixie dust', he thought in awe. He never noticed it before, given that he always only ever had a "worm's eye view" of the tall Nation. 'Per'aps you mean, 'caterpillar's eye view'!' He plainly heard the frog interject in his mind. He shook his head vehemently, as though the action would literally dispel the unwanted thoughts. "I am not a caterpillar…" he mumbled under his breath.

And just like that, he felt that he very much liked this "In Repose France". He knew he should be shunning the idea and feeling awkward; But without the pressure of an audience, he actually found it okay –rather nice even. So he allowed himself to bask in it, already feeling his cheeks bloom full roses… As long as no one saw –as long as France was not awake to tease him about it– it wasn't so bad…

Attempting to distract himself, his eyes wander down a smidgeon to those slightly parted lips. They were red and shiny like a polished apple –inviting him for a taste. It was curious that England thought of it as such, and was even finding it perfectly natural to want to bite into it.

What is it like to kiss those lips, I wonder…?

Goodness. England mentally kicked himself for even allowing the thought to pervade his mind. Never in his wildest, most absurd fantasies had he thought of kissing France. Not even out of curiosity –not ever!

Well, not until—

Sometime around a week prior…

England didn't really mean to spy. It was only in his country's best interest to find out what the frog was doing in his home country, again.

Stealthily dodging behind tree trunks and bushes in his undertaking, he settled behind a mossy boulder beside a common oak tree where he had an ample view of his target, who had now stopped to talk to someone; That someone— being a girl. A girl with dirty blonde hair and big goo-goo eyes.

He couldn't get close enough to hear what they were saying, but it was a safe guess that she was professing her love or something just as maudlin, from the way her eyes nervously darted to her feet. Though no one could see him, England couldn't help but make a face when France flashed that obscenely self-assured smoulder of his. The girl's face turned so red that he half expected to see smoke billowing from her ears.

In the next moment, she latched onto the young French teen's neck and pulled him down to meet her lips. England's tiny hands flew to his mouth in a vain attempt to stop any shocked noises from escaping. But even so, he could not help the furious hammering of his heart in his ears –that odd twisting and tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach wasn't helping at all either.

Was this what they called "kissing"?

France was plainly caught off guard but certainly was in no rush to stop her. England turned away. Partly disgusted, partly affronted, mostly chagrined and a great deal of something he could not describe. Something he's never felt before, all coalesced into an aching tightening in his chest. He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could; Until his stubby legs ached and tears were streaming down his cheeks. No matter how fast or how far he ran, he could not outrun the image of them kissing; The aching in his chest wouldn't stop…

"I am not jealous!" England burst out, seemingly to thin air. There was no one else there, but to those with the eye (or the heart) for it, the rapid flapping of tiny faery wings were easy enough to catch. England had many faery friends, and they usually accompanied him on sunny days like this, playing their little faery games. One particularly ebullient one was circling him now, teasing him on about a certain French boy, as he doodled absent-mindedly on the soil with a pointy twig. "I am not at all remotely interested in any of the sissy things that foppish snail-slurping frog-eating twit does! And I most certainly am not—!"

The faery stared at him expectantly at the hanging sentence.

I am not interested in kissing him! Oh, bother! Why was he having so much trouble saying it? But suddenly the image of France's lips against his own flashed in his mind, and his heart gave a thundering lurch. He clenched so hard at the twig that it snapped. "I hate that vile philandering interloper!" He screeched to the heavens, rattling the faeries around him, who quickly made themselves scarce.

It's been days now, yet no matter how much he shouted or told himself he couldn't care less, the images persisted and it made no improvement to his mood whatsoever. Hastily wiping away the warm wetness at the corners of his eyes, he bolts upright and breaks into a run, leaving behind a scratchy drawing of what looked like a frog with long wavy hair and puckered lips.

Which brings us back to where we left off…

The present...

Since then, the last thing he wanted to set his eyes on or be reminded of in any way, was France. Much less: France, all over his flower bed, like he owned them!

That was exactly what he was up against at the moment. A thousand different things were going through his mind right now, and none of them involved what he had originally set out to do. He couldn't do it! He couldn't bring himself to kick the frog in the face while he flounced about in the land of dreams. Somehow it was much easier when he imagined it, but now it seemed so cruel and dishonourable… France just wasn't irritating enough this way.

But still, the frog was trespassing, and he had to teach him a lesson. There were other ways to assert himself in situations like these. It didn't necessarily have to involve inflicting pain… Maybe— just maybe… He could use this to gain some leverage over the frog, and snuff out all the disquieting thoughts he's been having about him all week. This was one of those things you just had to face up to in order to rid yourself of it. And there was only one way the young English Nation could think of…

Once and for all—

He would kiss France.

(He shuddered. Whether from revulsion or excitement, he couldn't tell.)

However— he reasoned, as much as he abhorred the idea, kissing France now would help him affirm what he had been conjecturing all along: That kissing those French lips would be foul (especially since it was France). Then he would finally be able to move on and go back to hating the frog like normal… right?

It was a dreadful and desperate idea. But also the only recourse he has yet to try. He figured if it could break whatever spell the frog had put on him to make him think of nothing but that stupid kiss incessantly– then it was worth trying. If he had to pick one thing France was most notorious for, it was his atrocious way of infecting people with his perverted ideas. The French Nation was an obnoxious, insufferable git who flirts with anyone and anything! And sometimes the best way to be impervious to the enemy's tactics was to be prepared for it! They were at war after all, and he was his country's best defence. (Although, this certainly painted a whole new meaning to the phrase, "The best defence is a good offence.")

Deciding it would be wise to test the waters first, he hovers a trembling finger over the sleeping Nation's lips, lightly dipping it to make the briefest of contacts, before recoiling promptly and waiting with bated breath for any reaction –any indication that the frog was going to awaken, readying himself for a swift getaway…

But none came.

Absentmindedly that same finger lands on his own lips, bringing with it a tingly-buzzing energy, causing the temperature of his cheeks to pitch up several notches, unnerving apprehension suddenly gripping him. But no, he wasn't going to back down now! To be doubly sure, he once again brings his finger to gently poke at the other's cheek– once, twice… But France was indeed fast asleep. It was safe to proceed.

He leans forward and bends down –so excruciatingly slow that his arms begin to tremble from the effort. Only an inch away from France's lips, he blinked several times, a last-ditch effort to regulate his pulse, which was close to rivalling that of a stampede in the manic tempo it was building up to. He abandons all reservation and brings his lips to almost touching, that France's soft breathing suddenly tickles the surface of his lips. His eyes flutter shut in reflex, and finally, he closes the remaining space for a brief touch of lips, before pulling away promptly. He collapses to one side in a daze, and for a few minutes couldn't open his eyes nor catch up to his breath; Unable to put together any kind of coherent thought or singular sensible emotion because the world wouldn't stop spinning.

Spinning… spinning… spinning… ugh.

How could one simple contact have such a profound effect on him? He has been kissed before of course, by his monarchs and his family, but it was never like this. His lips felt numb, buzzing with a tingling static energy of some kind.

If this was how it felt to kiss France, then what was it like to be kissed by him…?

No… he thought miserably… The idea he hoped to get rid of did not die at all— but compounded exponentially. His plan to get the upper hand had backfired disastrously. He has failed.

He puffed his chest and heaved himself to his feet, wanting to mope somewhere private. Then giving in to what he could salvage of his pride, he bends over the sleeping Nation one last time, to childishly stick out his tongue. But the action was cut short by a firm hand to his nape and a powerful tug.

Caught off guard, he loses his balance and topples down! It didn't hurt as much as he expected, his elbows managing to break his fall and support the greater part of his weight. But even if it didn't, he wouldn't have had the sensibility to feel it— his body, and his entire consciousness was focused on only one thing:

France was kissing him.

He was back over the other's lips again, only this time those lips parted slightly and started to move in a most scandalizing way against his… And the world was gaining speed, ready to spin itself right out of orbit. A whimper caught in his throat as a warm tongue slid in-between his lips and he shuddered and moaned as the tongue prodded a little deeper with each thrust. He falls limply onto France as his arms give way, the kisses melding even harder, unrelenting.

A small voice inside him was telling him to pull away, but how could he? He couldn't even keep his eyes open long enough to gain any sense of balance, he couldn't even tell if his feet were still on the ground; Blimey, he doubted he even had the strength required to pull himself free from the older Nation, even if he wanted to. All he could think and feel was the warm body beneath him, and the maddening liquid heat flowing through him.

Then it was over, too sudden and too soon; And the only remainder of it was his racked nerves and persistent sensation of falling even if he was lying quite still.

What just happened? Did France know what he was planning and was playing along to tease him? To steal a kiss? Biting back the urge to cry, and utterly convinced that he had just been made the subject of a cruel joke, he steeled himself and waited for the bomb to be dropped –practically hearing the French Nation's laughter tear the silence any moment– but it never did.

France didn't even stir, his eyes were still closed, and incredible as it seems, he was undoubtedly, still very much asleep. And apparently having a very vivid dream because he seemed to be talking while he was at it, faint unintelligible slurred words sliding from his lips which were lifted at the corners.

'Je pense…'

England could not resist bringing his ears a little closer.

'Je pense… je suis… amoureuse de toi…'

His heart sped up again, as he caught the full sentence and a wave of comprehension finally hit him. He was professing his feelings to someone in his dream! France had kissed him so passionately, obviously mistaking him for whoever that person was… But it couldn't be him, of course not! He bit back a hiccup, furiously rubbing at his stinging eyes. It had to be that petite French girl with the big brown eyes! Why did he even think that kiss was meant for him in the first place? Why would France even want to kiss him at all? Someone like France would never be interested in someone like him… All he was to the French Nation was a puny neighbour to bully and make fun off. He hated himself for entertaining the notion he and France could be anything more than that. He rubbed harshly at his eyes again, it was wet now, but he ignored it.

Such was his power over him that he could afford to taunt him even while asleep? Pretty sure that he had suffered enough humiliation and heartache to last a lifetime, he quickly gathered his bearings, and scrambled to his feet, seized by the urgency to run away. His bright green eyes looking ahead but unseeing, not really caring where he was going; His mind even more muddled up than it had been before he came here. However, he was jerked back by his cloak, which seemed to be snagged in place by something. France's hand was firmly clutching it, surprisingly the said Nation's eyes were still veiled, breathing regulated.

"L-Let go you stupid frog!" he hissed, tugging feebly at his garment, fighting the onslaught of tears. He nearly jumped as the sleeping French spoke up again, this time with surprising clarity.

"Shhh! Promise you won't tell?"

"Fine! I promise!" England all but shrieked under his breath, wanting more than ever to get away, swearing that he would never get close to France again –sleeping or otherwise. "Just bloody release me already! Who'd want to know about your dumb secret anyway?!"

"Tres bien," And with that, France's grip slackened and he fell on his rump, finally free.

But even before England could relieve his sore behind and break into a run, France's lips curl into a lewd pucker and he blurts out, voice still heavy with sleep, "Ohhh, stop being such a tease~! Let grand frère take your vital regions already!"

It seemed that awake or not– France will always be France… Untimely perverseness and all, without any discrimination. England's face burned scarlet and he balled his tiny fists at his sides, all efforts to hold his temper diminishing very quickly… There was a very good reason he had come here in the first place, and it certainly wasn't to be led on and downtrodden by a depraved, self-absorbed, sleeping frog! Now, what did he come here for again?

Oh, right…!

"Go to hell already, stupid frog!"

And France most certainly awoke from his sweet dream, with a sharp pain in his gut, and a rather tiny, but unmistakably English foot mark impressed upon his cheek…

To be concluded...
Epilogue up ahead.