Okay, normally I don't write things like this but I was in a mood. So yeah. Also, sorry for any errors and grammar mistakes.

This is just a quick thing I did in between writing my other stories. There is a long FrUK oneshot I'm writing, and hopefully a new chapter for It's a flower soon.

NOW THE STORY.

"Do you want more painkillers?"

France opened his eyes. England had a sweat drop on his forehead, slowly running down. He had an odd glint in his eyes, kind of sleepy, pained, yet amused and knowing. France knew he had the same glint; even if they were not human, they were not immune to the effects of alcohol and painkillers mixed. He shook his head, and took a sip of his wine.

"I'm going to take this like a man; I will let the pain come. It's not going to take that much time anymore, anyway."

The Brit snorted. "Fine. Don't cry on me when the pain comes too strong to bare."

Francis's eyebrow quirked up. "You still keep doing that, rosbif? Acting rude around me, even if we are going to meet our end together?"

"It has worked with us to this point; no need to change it now. Pour me another glass", England slightly leaned forward, allowing the Frenchman fill his empty glass with red wine; their favourite brand, one of the few things they could ever agree on. He filled his own glass too, looking into Arthur's eyes. He smiled, revealing his teeth, and let out a laugh without sound. The Brit grinned, and chuckled. England was missing a tooth, due to their last fight last night. France knew the other nation had a few bruises on his back and legs, and a cut on his right arm. England had been as rough as the Frenchman; he had bit France's hand, and there was a bandage there, also his back was bruised, not to mention the fact his nose was slightly swollen. There was terrible strenght in that Briton's feet.

France raised his glass, though his moves were shaky and off, smiling proudly. "To death."

Arthur followed the example, smiling that uneven smile of his. "To life."

"To the men and women who gave their lives for their countries."

"To the wars we have had."

"To the peace that was between us."

"To hate."

"To l'amour."

Arthur frowned.

"Don't ruin this with that stupid language."

"I made it better."

They glared each other for a second, then smiled. "To us", both of them said, their glasses of wine met with a small clink, and they drank the liquid, enjoying every bit of the taste. England put the glass on the table, licking his lips and looking into the burning horizon.

"I'm pretty convinced you are going to Hell, France."

The Frenchman laughed. "Then we shall meet there. After all, you were the one who practiced witchcraft. That will not go unseen, mon sorcier."

"You might be right. We shall meet there, then. I'm not looking forward to it, though."

"Nor am I. How convenient. But, in the end, you are what makes my Hell, Sourcils."

"I can say the same thing about you, Frog."

They laughed, these daggers made of words couldn't hurt them anymore. They couldn't sink into their flesh and draw blood, they couldn't make them cry out in pain, as they were already near death. France began to hum "La Marseillaise", eyeing the ruins before them, as they collapsed, burned, accompanied by cries and screams. England took another sip of his wine. The fresh markings on his shoulders tingled, those which France had given him last night. He grinned.

France's voice became quieter every second, and his eyelids began to feel heavy. The Frenchman chuckled.

"Dieu, I don't want to be the one to leave first."

"I can't see the problem there; we both know I am the stronger one of us."

France's eyes met England's. "Exactly."

They raised their glasses, both of them were shaky. "It has been a pain to know you, Arthur Kirkland."

"Likewise, Francis Bonnefoy."

France laughed one last time. He placed the glass on the table, and closed his eyes.

"Adieu, Arthur. Je deteste toi", he whispered, and fell from his chair on the cold stone floor. The Brit stayed where he was, looking at his beloved enemy. "Je deteste toi aussi."

The Frenchman didn't move anymore, nor did he breath. England sighed.

"I always knew I would outlast you, Frog. You were too weak, in the end. And too stubborn to admit you were defeated. You're a bloody twit."

He stood up, and walked next to Francis, the glass of wine in his hands. "Don't fly too far, though. I'm coming there soon enough, a few moments from here."

He lost his balance, landing of his bottom. The wine spilt on his shirt. "Oh bloody hell. This was a good shirt." England glared the Frenchman's body. "I blame you. I will claim your lands as an apology. They are British territory now", he said, and snorted. "Not that no one will know that."

He lied down, facing the dark sky. The glass was thrown away, meeting the floor and shattering into millions of pieces. A heavy exhale was followed. England's body seemed to paralyze. He closed his eyes.

"Not long, Francis, I'm coming...Attendez."