Disclaimer: Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Cheers!

Dedication: For my sweet little cream puff who has moved on to heaven, and whose kisses I will forever miss.

Story #16:

"XXX"

Kisses are like little treasures; the best ones are always stolen.

That is what little France was told, the day he came to know what kissing was. And that same day, he knew exactly whose first kiss he wanted to steal.

Of course, that certain spunky little Nation stole back his own first kiss; meaning he tried to get even by chasing France and kissing him back- after the older Nation had told him that he would turn into a frog if he didn't steal back what was stolen from him…

Now that went on quite a while, and by the time the little and very much peeved England found out what a kiss really was, he was not so little anymore, and so they had exchanged quite a brazen and frenzied few, and France was sure to have had a good laugh about it.

But he would never tell the furious English Nation that it had been him who had stolen his first kiss as well… okay so it wasn't exactly "stealing" if he had given it freely, but then, all's fair in love and war, so in a way, they were even. (Sort of.)

Of course, the Island Nation refused to talk to him for months on end, feeling so genuinely forlorn about losing not only his first kiss, but subsequently his second, third, and so on and so forth, to a frog! His sworn enemy no less! France almost regretted making him feel so bad. Almost. But it was well worth it, because by now he had accumulated a colourful array of memories of the feisty but cute British Nation and his kisses, and not a day went by that he didn't dream of hoarding more, and he missed them terribly- for England deprived him of any further contact since, if not sword and fist.

So desperate our young French Nation got, that he for some time tried kissing others, and this is how he discovered that each person's kiss was unique; And that born of some cruel little joke of fate- he has yet to find a kiss as special as one of a disgruntled green-eyed runt of a rival's from across the Channel.

It was many years before they exchanged kisses again, and England was no longer a "runt". In fact, he had never seen a squat little duckling bloom so gracefully into a fine, elegant young swan. That's when the teenage France decided that he had to take the Nation for himself. And so, it was that fateful day of his first conquest that he dared steal another long overdue kiss, and maybe so much more. France would not be satisfied with only invading and conquering, oh no, but absolutely usurping England and bringing their glorious kingdoms under French rule. Naturally, this only deepened the English Nation's scorn for him, that amidst the hundred years of fighting and brutal wars, it became a mutual sport between them, to not only clash swords, exchange gunfire, plunder, and conquest but also –depravedly– to steal kisses.

When a mutual threat had arrived, however, what many thought impossible became a reality. The Entente Cordiale was signed, and by then, they had exchanged every possible kiss known to man and immortals alike, except probably the most mawkish ones. And slowly, surely, they came to look forward to their secret pastime. When France stole, England would steal it back, and the rough, angry kisses became passionate and heated, and somehow in the last one hundred years and more of fighting and trying to sort out their differences or brandish it altogether, it's come to that: The acceptance that they mutually hate each other –and always will– but that there are, and always will be, things they covet, and that would be each other's kisses. They liked to think of it as sparring, only a more intimate kind. But still fighting. The kisses have come to be like intangible trophies and tokens of a battle won (or lost)… Just as France had come to know it: like precious treasures, they were compelled to steal exclusively from each other… Because no matter who they kissed, it was never as exciting as kissing one's dearest enemy.

(Of course, they wouldn't speak of it as such. This view is privy solely to us attentive spectators.)

Perhaps it was these very same kisses that sealed their fate as star-crossed lovers. Perhaps it was these kisses that bound their souls together forever, from the beginning to the ever-present forever. But perhaps it is only with so much hate and resistance that one can grow so habituated to another. Their strange relationship could never be replicated, and men of history have attested as much. Their hearts never ceased to beat indignantly with that familiar connection of their lips. There was never a satisfactory explanation for their biological or psychological chemistry, it just happens. Well, of course, there was one shocking rationale that exists but never explored, one they never even dared to entertain. The mere idea itself was taboo between them. The notion that maybe, just maybe… there was something more there than some primal "want-slash-hate"-driven sexual tension between sworn rivals. And that maybe they both knew it from the start, so it was never a subject to be laid out in the open for discussion. Ever. A matter of prosaic expediency to both parties.

And one they continued to exploit.

The first Christmas after the devastation wrought upon both of their homes by the Second World War was one they shared together, more convicted as allies and somewhere short of being friends. France was adorned beautifully with every possible injury imaginable on a living person, much as a Christmas tree was decorated with trinkets and frills… A broken arm being nursed in a cast and sling, numerous gauze patches and bandages of all sizes, stitches above his temple, and a very bad limp needing crutches; All echoes of the suffering dealt to his people and homeland. England had his own war souvenirs as well: A patch over one eye that had gone temporarily blind from the blitzkriegs, his share of bruises, burns, wrappings, and stitches. They hadn't been able to see each other for a period of time since the raging battles and the long-drawn recuperating, and as the other Nations fuss about, preparing for that holiday's festivities, England was rushing out to get the tree decor boxes from the attic when France arrived, and they nearly crash into each other by the hallway door. After a series of mumbled apologies through their noses, they stare wordlessly when they realize who they'd almost knocked over. They share similar sentiments of it, though entirely unaware that they did –a frightfully commonplace phenomenon between them– and for this specific instance, they were both mentally noting that the other looked stunning, despite how bad the shape the other was in, even more than the last. But that can be attributed to the fact that they missed each other hopelessly, of course –again, that would forever remain unspoken. England's one green eye, unconcealed by bandages, shone a brilliant shade of verdigris, while France's tired cerulean blues, seemed to twinkle effervescently at the sight of him, shy of smiles and hearts aching to bursting, for whatever reason, they dared not entertain.

"You two are under mistletoe, aiyah~!"

China's voice pops their private little daydream bubble, and anxiously they shift their gazes upward, where the mistletoe dangled innocently from the doorway's arch.

Russia who was suddenly at China's side out of nowhere (and was hoping to trap the hapless Nation with him under the said spot later), momentarily forgot his own 'why, not-at-all!' devious schemes, and instead smiled his signature eerie smile as he susurrated, "Well…? Go on and kiss. Daaa."

Both France and England blushed. The slighter Nation turned back to France, but not without scowling at the pair of onlookers first, then turned a shade redder as he met his neighbour's indiscernible expression, trying to deepen his scowl but failing.

"Y-You were in my way, cheesy monkey!"

"I had ze right of way, black sheep."

"A-hem!" China cleared his throat sternly.

"Kiss. NOT fight." Russia crooned, flashing his teeth, pipe suddenly in hand, his gloved fingers subtly squeezing around it impatiently. "…Da?"

France and England exchanged panicked glances, mutually not wanting their blood spilled needlessly over such a trivial—not to mention ridiculous—matter, and so slowly… ever so tentatively… leaned towards each other until their lips grazed, feeling awfully like it was the very first time they performed such an act.

Which wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, as this was probably the first real civilized, and remotely romantic kiss with the least hostility they had to share, for the season of peace and thanksgiving's sake. And when their mouth's connected, ever so softly, their hearts pounding in their ears, they could have sworn it did feel like the very first time.

Feeling overwhelmed by the heat overtaking him, England is the one who pulls away first, but France only took a moment to lament this loss, before leaning in to reclaim those lips again, and the Englishman did not respond, but did not object to it either, which is as good as any affirmation he'll ever get from the moody and prudish fellow. At this point, China began dragging Russia away for fear that he might enjoy the show too much and try something stupid on him later. But really, his fear was more of ruining the rarity of such an occasion that he knew all too well can not be understated enough.

Though England didn't have the heart or the strength in him to not let France enjoy his "gift", he wouldn't say he didn't enjoy it as much. And when the Frenchman finally released his lips, he didn't miss the breathless, 'Merci, mon Angleterre'. Not to be outdone in any way, he quickly forces out a muttered, 'Merry Christmas frog…' himself, feeling rather relieved that his voice didn't reveal how undone he had become from the sweet, but still, relatively modest kiss. Such to them was the stuff of dreams. Really, it wasn't so bad once in a while...

Eventually they had to move away from under the mistletoe as the other Nations arrived, and they went their separate directions, with France assisting Italy and China in the kitchen, while England continued decorating the tree and welcoming the guests with Seychelles, Australia, and Canada (who came as Rudolph with dried up antler tines for horns, and a huge glowing orb for a nose (lighted up via remote control- upon the inexorable insistence of his brother America, who predictably came as Santa Claus...).

But for France and England, the night seems to have started and ended with that one rare-of-a-kind kiss they shared, even if they endeavoured to ignore each other for the remainder of the night. When the eve of Christmas came along, kisses were exchanged and passed around, but in all the merriment and continued celebrations that followed, they somehow forgot not to smile, and not to direct it towards each other.

After which, history—as we say— rewrote itself, and slowly but surely France knows he had been forgiven… and England was not so bent on ignoring him anymore.

The kisses endure.

The End.

(09/03/2012 - 08/13-/2014)

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