For the Country of love, it took a long while for France to realize that he loved England.
Let's rephrase that, more like it took him a long while to grapple with the terms that he loved his dearest enemy even after all the bitter pain and heartbreak that they have both dealt to each other. France truly and deeply cared. Sometimes, he felt as though he cared much more than he should.
"Heeeere is to...heeeere's to stupid America. Who gives a bloody fuck about him?" The England man raised his glass in the air, toasting to imaginary friends before downing the shot. The country of love sighed to himself, rubbing at the slight headache coming on. This had been the third time this week that the French man found him, completed wasted and blubbering on and on about the American nation. France frowned. He couldn't say that this wasn't unexpected after all, the date was July 2nd. He knew how much this time of year unsettled the British nation. The older country blamed love that drove him to comfort Britain at the bars, fret over him when England admitted that he skipped meals that day, and soothingly stroke his hair and whisper sweet comforting words to fight off the nightmares (only when he was asleep or drunk because England would never allow France to touch him awake).
Every year, America invited every country to his birthday party to celebrate, where he bragged on and on about how he humiliated England that day and how much stronger he was now without the nation. Meanwhile, France couldn't tear his eyes away from the lonely Island nation, whose green eyes shone with a hardness that he knew masked all his hurt and his biting insults that covered up the pain he suffered alone.
He remembered watching the once strong, almighty nation crumble and succumb to his knees and surrender despairingly. His shoulders hunched over and sagged in defeat, drenched in cold rain and caked in filthy mud. Back then, France probably thought of him as lowly at the soft mud underneath his military boots as he watched his enemy with cold, unforgiving cerulean eyes and a smug smirk. He remembered England's eyes. He remembered those beautiful emerald orbs bleak with forlorn. He remembered watching England's spirit break with the utterance of a few words from a child. France remembered. He remembered relishing in England's misery, watching him break and dissolve into nothing. The memory burned lividly in his mind. France clenched his eyes close as his hands clutched tightly around his wine glass.
"Mon ami, perhaps we should get you back home." Opening his eyes, he found Arthur shaking his head vehemently and slumping over the bar with another drink.
"Ameeeeeerica is a fat git. He thinks that he's so awesome. But who made him bloody awesome? Meeeee!" Arthur downed another drink as he lethargically pointed to himself with half-lidded eyes.
"He'd be nothing without meeeeee! I made him who he was! Bloody bastard stabbed me in the baack. I cared about him. I looooved him." Arthur's eyes grew shiny and misty with unshed tears, and his lips began to tremble slightly.
"Why am I never good enough?"
At the moment, France wanted to reach out and say that he'll always be enough for him with his bushy sourcils, his imaginary friends, his short temper, his tea, his secret love of embroidery, and those beautiful forest green eyes that could never look at him with an ounce of affection. He didn't though. Instead, he gripped tighter to his glass until the nails of his fingers dug painfully into his soft palms as he listened to England. With his free hand, he rubbed the other blonde's back soothingly, and said nothing. What happened next took France by surprised.
His eyes widen when England draped himself over his companion, kissing his neck roughly with inebriated fervidness. France sighed, closing his eyes.
"Angleterre, what are you doing?" He asked sternly, grabbing England's wrist that began to wander too far south.
"Loooooove me, just for tonight." Francis shuddered as England's warm breath ghosted over his cheek and a surprisingly soft kiss placed itself on the shell of his ear.
"I'll let you have your way with me, and maybeee I'll imagine that this is what it would feel like with him. We both get soooomething out of it." The French nation frowned. He considered it for a moment for his own selfish whims. Maybe France could allow himself to pretend that he knew what it felt like to love and be loved at the same time. He could imagine for one night that England loved him the way that France had always, except it wouldn't be he that Britain longed for. It would be America. It would always be America, the country that brought England nightmares, scars, hurt, and chest pains. France was no saint himself either, after all, he dealt his own scars and hurt to England, but none of it compared the gaping wound that America left opened for two hundred years. Twisting his finger in the injury whenever he got the chance and making England crumble to his knees with every glass of whiskey that he drowned himself in.
"Non," The Frenchman refused softly, pushing shakily at the clingy and weeping England.
"I couldn't do that to you." France picked the sobbing English man off the bar, paid for the drinks, and left in a taxi for France's house. Once they arrived at his lavished home, France managed to help a stumbling and sexually frustrated nation upstairs and into his bed. Planning on sleeping on the white leather sofa in his living room, he turned to leave the intoxicated man when England grabbed his hand. France stared puzzlingly into cloudy and pleading green eyes.
"Please. I don't want to be alone." France stared at him for a moment, and sighed. He vowed to himself not to succumb to the temptation of flesh and the seduction of kisses, no matter how much he wanted to give into England's desperate wishes and his own selfish desires. Figuring that there was no harm now, the nation crawled in bed with England, pulling him into his chest as he buried his face in messy blonde locks. He ignored how his mind told him how England fitted perfectly in his arms and how much he wanted this. Eventually, the drunken country fell into a fitful slumber leaving France to his own thoughts.
"Je t'aime..." He whispered quietly, kissing his forehead ever so gently as he felt England clung to him tightly.
"America..." Hearing that sleepy and drunken utterance, France broke a thousand times that night. When he awoke that morning, he found all traces of the English nation gone and his bed as empty as he felt.
Eventually July 4th came around, and most invited nations gathered at America's house to celebrate.
"Oh man, West lost his shit when he found out what I did, but it was worth it!" Prussia took a swig of beer, grinning maniacally with shining red eyes as he told his story. Spain and France laughed at their friend, and Spain clapped his hand against his friend's back.
"Si mi amigo, that was one crazy story." France smirked behind his glass of wine.
"I can only imagine Hungary's reaction when she finds out. If I were you, I would be fearing for my life because trust me, she will find out." Spain nodded in agreement.
"Kesesesesese, as if I was afraid of that silly frying pan. I'm too awesome for that shit, Francy Pant." The Prussian puffed out his chest proudly until a certain terrifying female shrill erupted from the crowd.
"PRUSSIA!" The ex-nation's confidence dissolved, and fear clouded his visage as he grabbed on to Spain's arm.
"Fuck! Tony, help me hide!" Prussia pulled on a confused and oblivious Spain, and quickly disappeared within the crowd to hide from a certain tumultuous female nation.
France was left to himself. His eyes scanned for a certain English nation, finding him entertaining a drink with Netherlands. His face set in a guarded hardness as he scowled at his drink.
"Dude! This day should be labeled as 'America became super awesome and kicked England's butt' day! I mean, look at me, I'm totally a super hero now and saving the earth and making sure that I spread democracy all over this world so no other nation has to put up with bullshit like I did! I mean, democracy is cool, right! That's why I broke free from him, not to mention that his food…" France frowned as he tuned out America's loud and boisterous voice out of his mind. His eyes landed on England, who obviously overheard the conversation America was having with a group of other nations. France watch England's stony eyes, and the Frenchman's grip tightened around the glass he held in his hand. Something stirred in France.
"America!" France shouted over the crowd as he approached the nation. America turned to the French nation with a cheerful smile.
"Hey France! Dude, I'm glad you could make it to the birthday boy's party. What's up?" He asked, oblivious to the seriousness in France's face.
"May I talk to you privately?" France's eyes involuntarily flickered over to England, who studied the two nations curiously. The young nation gave France a puzzled look before tentatively answering as he eventually figured that France had serious matters to discuss.
"S-sure…" America ushered France off to a secluded part of his home upstairs.
"So…what did you want to talk about?" America gazed up at France, hands stuffed in the pockets of his blue jeans.
"I want to talk about Angleterre." France stated seriously, and the American stared at him with confusion.
"Okay talk…"
"Don't you think that it was a bit cruel to invite him here, especially if you're going to boast so loudly in front of him? Don't you think that those comments hurt him?" America frowned and sighed, and his sagged shoulders and shifting eyes gave the impression that he definitely didn't want to have this conversation.
"What was I suppose to do?"
"Stop rubbing your victory in his face."
"It's been two hundred years already. I think that's enough time to get over what happened, France. We're nations. We win some, and we lose some. You and England should especially know that! He could have stayed home, but he came. He's a lot stronger than you give him credit for. Stop coddling him so much. He'll resent you for it. Why do you think I left so long ago?" France narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in annoyance.
"What are you exactly trying to say?" America rolled his eyes and huffed.
"Dude, I'm not stupid. I know England complains about me at the bar, and I've seen the way you baby him. You're not so innocent yourself, France. Remember, you had your fair share in this. Your hands are just as dirty as mines. So don't come into my home pretending to be Saint Francis." American stalked off angrily, leaving France alone in the hall.
"He's right, you know. I might not be the British Empire anymore, but I'm not invalid and fragile, France."
Or so he thought…
France quickly turned, finding England in the middle of the hall. He sighed.
"How much of that did you hear?"
"All of it. I don't need you taking up my bloody battles for me. I can do that for myself."
"I'm just trying to help."
"Why?" France paused, and a moment of uncomfortable silence passed over them.
Because I love you.
"Because I'm worried." Technically, it wasn't a lie. England stony glare narrowed and his fist clench tightly.
"Oh really, since when have you ever worried about someone other than yourself, France. We're not even friends. We hate ea-"
"That's not true." France interrupted sharply, and England's eyes widen in surprised.
"What?"
"I don't hate you. I've never hated you. Yes, I've been angry with you. I've wanted to hurt you, but I've never hated you. This time of year, I'm always here with you. I listen to you when you're drunk and you cry over someone whom you feel will never love you back. I allow you to stay in my home and cry on my shoulder. I hold you through the nightmares. I do these entire things, never once complain or demand something in return. Do you really think that all of that is hate?" France argued. During his outburst, he never realized that he had moved so close to England until they were face to face, and Britain's breath ghosted over him. Though they were disagreeing, he couldn't help by feel slightly aroused. He was so close. France could just lean over, and his lips would be just right there.
"I never asked you to do any of that! So why do you do it? Is it self-pity because I swea-" France cut the Island nation off with a rough kiss. He felt England's body tensed against him as the Frenchman seized his lips for his own, fervently kissing him. Britain's lips were warm, full, supple, and surprisingly soft. In one kiss, France poured his confession into England's lips. His kiss saying everything that he had been too cowardly to say: I love you. I adore you. Why am I never enough? Francis pulled away watching Britain stare at him with clouded, confused eyes.
"That's why, but I don't think I'll ever be enough for you, Arthur." France smiled sadly at the stunned English nation before disappearing down the hall.
Author note: Thank for reading. I have to say that this is the first time I've written fan fiction since a while ago. Anything I posted on fanfiction lately was written a while ago. So my style might have changed. I'm not sure if that is for the better or worst. Hopefully, I can write more often. I already have things in mind for later. Please leave any positive reviews or constructive criticism to help my better myself. It would be really helpful. This fanfiction was inspired by the song Quelqu'un m'a dit sung by Carla Bruni.