A long, long time ago, before a war that lasted a hundred years, two nations were sitting together in a field. The two nations, England and France, had a very shaky relationship. They weren't exactly fond of each other, or at least, that's what they liked people to believe.
You see, one of them, England, had fallen in love with his enemy. Had done when he was a small child, and France had looked after him. He'd been in denial for a really long time, but had finally accepted it, and was ready to confess.
He sucked in a deep breath, and asked; "Hey, France?"
France turned to look at him. "Yes? What is it?"
England hesitated a bit. He soldiered through, no point in backing out now. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm in love with you." He said all in one breath.
France gave him a shocked look. "What?"
"I'm in love with you." It was easier to say now that it had already been said.
France furrowed his brows. "You're in love with me?"
England rolled his eyes. "Yes, as I've just said twice now."
"Oh."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, before England asked; "Are you in love with me?" It was a long shot, as he figured if France really was in love with him, he would've said something by now.
France laughed. "Me? In love with you?" He laughed again. "As if I could love a stupid rosbif like you! Your eyebrows are hideous! No one could love someone like you!"
England stared at France, hurt, sadness, and anger visible on his face. How dare France say something like that! Hiding his heartbreak behind a mask of rage, he stands to his feet. "Well, not like I care anyway! I was just joking! Hahahahaha!" His tone was slightly hysterical, and they both noticed. They didn't say anything about it, and England stormed away from the field, his hatred for France intensifying.