Francis never thought he'd be in this kind of situation. Never in a thousand years, he would have bet his life, his reputation and his own land that something like this would never come up. But, it did. And he had to push through it; there was no running from this one.
He tensely took another sip of coffee. An unusual drink for him, but he needed it. The coffee shop was mostly empty, there were maybe eight others scattered at various tables. He was currently sitting in a table by the window, looking outside nervously, holding his coffee in one hand and tearing apart pieces of a napkin with the other.
After ten minutes of waiting, England appeared on the other side of the window, walking down the sidewalk towards the door. He was carrying a briefcase and nothing else, wearing a blank face and revealing no expression. France visibly tensed and put down his coffee, brushing aside the pieces of the destroyed napkin and watching the other nation anxiously. When he walked through the door, he didn't respond to the woman at the counter who called out a, "Hello!" He didn't look at anyone else. He turned his head and looked directly at Francis.
The Frenchman looked away.
Still wearing a blank expression, England made his way to the table where France was sitting. Meanwhile, Francis stared out the window, seeming calm. England sat down and set the briefcase on the floor beside his chair, then he proceeded to give France a very polite greeting indeed.
"Good morning. How are you?"
Francis didn't respond. He didn't know what to say.
"Hm. I see. Maybe you're feeling a little guilty now, if that's possible. I wonder if it is, Francis?" England was sitting upright in the chair, hands in his lap, looking directly at the other man. Francis avoided looking at him, continuing to stare out the window, hands folded on the table in front of him. England sighed.
"I'm not very thirsty, so how about we just get this over with and avoid making a scene this time." England leaned over and picked up the briefcase, setting it in his lap and opening it. He pulled out a folder, setting it on the table and sliding it toward France. "Have a look at those, if you will."
Francis stared at the folder for several moments, feeling a tension in his chest that made his heart pound. Slowly, he picked up the folder and opened it, and a few pictures held together by a paperclip fell in his lap. Everything else in the folder were 8 by 11 inch pieces of paper. Specifically, they were printed out screens of a Facebook and Google pages.
England watched him as he briefly sifted through the pictures and papers. He knew he'd recognize them. After all, it was Francis' Facebook images in that folder, and he had taken the pictures himself. He watched him, poker-faced, as Francis closed the file and set it back on the table, not saying a word.
The British nation broke the silence. "You do realize it's over."
Francis felt his heart stop and he looked up at Arthur, fear spreading like a virus through his pounding chest.
The Brit didn't even blink. "I'm not sorry we started this, but I am sorry we have to end it. Especially when it's something like this. But, as you can probably tell, you have completely and abruptly destroyed my trust in you by taking these pictures. And don't even think of telling me you were drunk. I've heard that excuse too many times."
Francis couldn't speak through the lump in his throat. He was gripping the edge of the table like it was his very lifeline, and he tried to hold back fearful tears that threatened to overflow in his eyes. "A-Angleterre…" he croaked, reaching up and putting a hand over his mouth. "I…I-I didn't…mean to… I-I wasn't right i-in ze 'ead when…!"
England shook his head, closing the briefcase. "No. Just stop. I'm done. We're finished, alright?" He stood up, gripping the briefcase tightly. There was a hint of anger and, perhaps, even pain in his voice when he said, "I can't trust you. I never could trust you. We can't do this anymore. …Good day." He turned and started to leave.
Francis watched him with wide eyes as he turned away, wanting more than anything to reach out and take him, beg him to stay. He wanted to get on his knees and beg forgiveness. He wanted to take everything away and fix it up and make it so he'd never taken those pictures the night he'd gotten so pathetically drunk. He wanted it more than anything.
But he knew Arthur wouldn't come back. Not after France had done something this…horrendous.
He stood up quickly when England took hold of the handle on the door, saying desperately, "Arthur, wait! Please…"
England didn't turn, but he stopped and listened. After a moment, he opened the door. "No. I'm sorry." And he left, not once looking back to see if Francis was still watching him, or if there were tears in his eyes, or if he was on his knees, or still in the chair, or leaning in over himself in heart-wrenching agony and guilt.
He didn't look back, so he didn't see Francis on the floor, hands limp between his knees, eyes full of tears as he watched the man he loved walk away forever.