Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Hetalia: Axis Powers, Ten Things I Hate About You, the characters mentioned in this completely fictional story, and anything else I haven't mentioned. They belong to their respective owners.

A/N: This story was based partially off a story written by CalliopeMused.

NOTE: This story really went on a bumpy ride for me. First I pulled an all-nighter and got 90% done, and then I abandoned it until MUCH later when I came back and rewrote a lot of it. '-_-

Assume the entire "letter" is in Esperanto. (Meaning any universal language that countries use when communicating with each other.)

Enjoy!

~O~0~o~0~O~0~O~0~o~0~O~

Ten Things I Hate About You:

I bet you think this is about the movie, don't you? It was based off of one of Shakespeare's plays, "The Taming of the Shrew." Quite famous actually, rather engaging storyline. Although, since I've never seen you watch an English movie before, you probably didn't even know such an adaptation exists. But I digress. This is not about the movie, nor is it about the play it was loosely based on. No, this list is about you. And if it's about you, you will finish it all the way to the end. If you do not, I will read off this entire thing to your idiotic face at the next World Meeting. WITH RECORDING DEVICES. So, without further ado, The Ten Things I Hate About You:

10) That Rose.

Yes, that one. That one that you always have on when you're being the most perverted little prick I've ever met. I've wondered time and time again how that goddamn thing even stays on for so long. It always seems to be fresh, always. It's like you grow dozens of roses around your house specifically for that purpose. What a way to torture a bunch of innocent flowers! Whenever you're like that, I never know where to look. I know where you want me to look, (twat) but with your attitude it's like you don't even know the rose exists. I don't even like roses, and yet it's impossible for me to quit thinking about them around you. They're my national flower, for God's sake! I've seen enough of them as it is, never mind you and what you do with them. How do you even walk around like that? What kind of person can do that on a regular basis without getting hurt by thorns? It's like you've perfected that stupid technique just to show that you can. Sometimes I fantasize about choking your bloody neck to death with a rose, just to show you they really can hurt, you wine bastard. And yet, that silly rose never leaves my mind. I just really wonder why you want me to look at that rose, rather than your face. Because your face is interesting, really. Just don't force it to compete with that rose.

9) You're constantly there.

Whenever I turn around, you're always right there. If by some miracle you're not, you're off planning something behind my back. It's been the same thing, over and over again; for centuries. You're never just content with annoying me at World Meetings, you have to make surprise visits and other idiotic junk. You might drag other nations into our debates, flaunting your alliances and trade relations with them like you've suddenly gained something more important than bothering me. Surprise, surprise, I'm not interested. Especially when I'm actually enjoying a little alone time, like having my afternoon tea. You know how picky I am about that. (Don't lie. I distinctly recall having a heated row with you for about an hour about the benefits of tea and biscuits, so you have no excuse for "forgetting.") I mean, you never annoy Spain this much when he's off fencing or riding his bull, or Prussia when he's writing in that journal of his. So why go messing with my time? If you're looking for an argument, you're not going to get it when all I want is to be alone. Give me some bloody space once in a while, and maybe you won't get the door slammed in your face every time you come knocking. My door needs to be changed because of you, so if you want to argue about something, you'd better make it worthwhile.

8) What kind of father are you, anyway?

A lousy one, that's what. I'll admit to being less-than-mature when we were fighting over America (and after, if you recall my distinctive victory dance) but raising him ended up being the most intensive experience I've ever gone through. I certainly didn't come out of it unscathed or unchanged. But when the British forces won over the French troops in Canada, I sought to take my rightful custody of him from you to live with his brother and I. It was... admittedly hard... to convince Canada to live under my custody after you had raised him for so long, but soon Canada came quietly enough soon I was able to raise both of them with little interference from you. But even then the boy still reminded me of you, constantly. The way he spoke Esperanto in a French accent, his interest of odd, unique military uniforms, and of course his soft, blonde hair. These similarities I thought I could look over, could ignore and raise him the proper British way as a part of my empire. But eventually, what with America taking up my attention and Canada's unbelievably shy nature, I must admit to neglecting the boy a bit. But, after all that, what really gets me was when you sided with America in his Revolution. It wasn't even your business! I wasn't just mad, I was livid. I spent days thinking, "Are you trying to get America to hate me more? Are you trying to make him grow up faster? Are you trying to use his resources to get to me?..." It never stopped. You caused me a headache even when you weren't even there. Eventually America broke away from my reign, and Canada followed sometime later, but the fact remains that you had a hand in raising both of my adopted nations, and it left me wondering if it was for the better or worse...

7) Your Fixation with Food.

I get it. Every country has its world-famous skill that's associated with its culture, and for the French it's their food. They take pride in creating fantastic concoctions that look twice as weird as they are inedible. You obviously seem to take pride in it too, judging by your enthusiasm in the kitchen. But I assure you that while you feel the need to criticize my cooking, I feel perfectly fine with eating my particular culinary choices, thank you very much. The ability to prepare snails and frogs into something edible is not necessarily a good thing. America can probably douse a dead rat in ketchup and wolf it down with as much vigor. The arguments with me over food are unnecessarily loud, distasteful, unpleasant, and little more than petty nuances that disrupt my quiet morning routine. Russia drinks vodka on a regular basis, Japan has an unhealthy relationship with rice and fish, and America has those bloody hamburgers every day! Why didn't you go take your obnoxious complaints to them? And that's just it, isn't it? I hate your complaining, not necessarily your food. One morning, probably some time in the 19th century or so, Canada asked me if we could have crepes for breakfast; the boy was feeling regretfully homesick and he said that was what you had always made for him. I was naturally appalled. What kind of proper self-respecting Englishman would tolerate a mere colony boy yearning for such awful culture under the roof of a great empire? In hindsight, I must admit I wasn't the best guardian for my colonies either. I've... made a lot of mistakes. But then again, so have you. So have all imperial countries. We wanted land, you know? Power and land and all the slaves and willing subjects we could control. And really, those days are long over. But you know what? Surprisingly, I made them. It took a while, but once I got the hang of it I didn't burn a single one. The little twins ate them all up. (So there.) To this day I can still make pretty good crepes, it's just that I never got time to make them with you always hogging the cooking space. So, if you want me to like your cooking more, actually allow me in the kitchen once in a while, won't you?

6) Perverted Jokes.

Alright, a few of yours can actually be labeled as "funny", I'll admit it. But sadly, not the vast majority. Not even close. In the right context, yes, I wouldn't mind a bit of raunchy humor. Especially after dealing with a bunch of old political duffers in all those boring meetings and press conferences. Some humans just need to get a life, you know? But when we're supposed to be responsible role models for the younger nations and your lips keep spouting off suggestive one-liners everywhere, I can't help but grimace at how many are offensive, ill-timed, and simply too vulgar to be in good taste. Do you even bother to think about who else is attending those World Meetings? Besides, they all seem to revolve around you, or the hypothetical people you want in your bed that night. Emphasis on hypothetical. Because after a while, you really need new material. We're countries, for God's sake; political humor isn't too hard to understand! If there's one thing I bet you could get a laugh about, it's politics. Maybe then some other people will actually join in for once, and then later on we can decide how to fix the existing problem. Again, I don't mind a few, but just learn to make them genuinely interesting.

5) You're too happy with defeat.

I had a good reason for locking you out of that Allies meeting that one time. We were discussing the likelihood of you betraying us, surrendering to the Axis and completely destroying any chance we had of winning the war. (Actually, we really weren't. America had challenged China and I to a drinking contest, and I was, to say... otherwise engaged. Russia was off... I don't know, picking sunflowers somewhere.) But the point is, needless to say you have a long history of being, well, a coward. Sometimes your eagerness to give up is even on par with Italy. Even in our fighting you still manage to end the argument early and quietly slip away, leaving me the victim of some distraction I have to spend all my energies getting rid of. Your battle strategies are little more than hit-and-miss maneuvers that rarely leave any advantages, and whether the French armies are with my country or against it, history never really lets it make much of a difference. But it makes a difference to me, because when you're fighting me I can't tell what you're planning. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer" kind of stuff. But when you're defeated, you never act like it. You're always persistently happy, like you understand a joke that nobody else knows about. Let me ask you, what joke? If you can explain your strange attitude, it might help me figure this out in the long run. (But I know you won't do that, you're just too attached to confusing the hell out of me.)

4) That blasted Face.

You know what I'm talking about. That annoying expression that was meant to be sexy and make me agree with you in whatever scheme you had, but it rarely turns out like that. I say rarely because there have been notable exceptions, but they were all when I was quite inebriated and not accountable for my actions at the time. Bloody pirating and rum... Other than that, you know it doesn't work. You think I'm some sort of gentleman with a crooked wand up my arse, and therefore immune to any sort of manipulative flirtations. Really, that face doesn't work on me because your normal face does. Why? You can't trick me into agreeing with you, but you've kept me in all your stupid fights longer than I wanted, right? You can twirl around your (gorgeous) hair all you want; it's when you're not trying to convince me of anything that I (sort-of) rather enjoy our conversations. No, I don't really want to try on fashionable uniforms, and no, I don't really want to spend £100 on expensive champagne bottles, but with you I can almost, almost consider it... if not for that face. So please, stop trying to plead with those musty bedroom eyes of yours, because if they haven't worked up until now (disregarding under-the-influence), then they probably won't work period.

3) You understand me too well.

I've tried to keep my distance, I really have. Out of all people I should've known that "knowledge is power" and all that baloney; the more your enemy knows about you, the more he can use it against you. But we didn't grow up as enemies, did we? I mean, we fought all the time as well, but it wasn't with swords or guns or cannon fire or other people. It was just us. You know things that I'm not particularly proud of, things that I never thought would matter until our countries went to war. How am I supposed to keep up the image of a competent military leader when you know exactly how to push my buttons and make my blood boil? The one certainty I had was that I could trust you to be my enemy; now I can't really trust that either. I have to rely on your ungodly annoyances that interfere with my daily routine as a replacement; but when you do, sometimes you interrupt me when I kind of... (Here I'm just going to be blunt about it, considering you're not really going to see this anyways)... need it. It's true. Sometimes my house stops being cozy and starts being... really lonely. Oh sure, I still curse and threaten and even carry out a few threats, but as least I can count on having somebody to annoy back. At least I know who to credit for my temporary insanity.

2) We're not human.

This seems like a silly thing to mention, but in the end it's always changing our relationship. We're not in control of our own life, we're always being manipulated to some degree. The biggest manipulation is from our "bosses," the governing power of our country. They ultimately choose whether to go to war or not, how to manage the national budget, what international relations to make... Really, it means they control whatever happens to us. What I'm getting to is that no matter what we think of each other, we have to obey them. I really don't know where this will go in the future. Our countries are both going strong and everything's adapting to each other's influences. But I wish I did, I really do. Maybe later on our bosses will be the cause of another war. Maybe they'll form a permanent peace treaty and we'll have to continue our rivalry in secret. Maybe one of our countries will completely obliterate the other, who knows? What I just wish is that we could somehow figure out where we stand with each other so that when the time comes, I can count on you to help me sort through the mess. I don't know. I'm getting wistful now, so I'd better move on before I completely lose my nerve for what I'm about to say next.

1) ...

Fine, so I guess I'm a bit more of a coward than I thought. It's- I've been trying to put this into words for quite some time now, so just give me some time before I have to say it... Look, you probably know a bit of what I'm trying to say here, don't you? You're smart in these areas, I'm not. You just seem to know people inside and out; you come up with all the best things to say, you can somehow tell everybody what you're feeling and that you know you're an absolute pro in bed. But, that's the thing too, is that- you have so much smarts, and you haven't even acknowledged me in a while, so maybe you just don't care. If you don't, then just say it. I can handle it. Just don't go and fake it, like you do to some girls that you meet. You think they're really interesting until they open their mouth; and then you're just standing there, nodding and faking a flirty smile as you realize that they weren't so interesting after all, and already moving on... You stupid wine bastard, you're turning my brain into mush; I can't even think straight. You know what? You want a confession, you're gonna bloody get one:

I love you, France. I love you, and I'm hating every minute of it. I hate the way I think of you too much, how distracted I can get by your thick accent and wavy hair, how one thought of you can leave me spacing out at my desk instead of dealing with my paperwork. I hate the way I love you, the way I ended up sneaking down in the dead of night trying to cook a bloody croissant like you do and grabbing one of your wine bottles that you had brought over so kindly instead, drinking myself dizzy until I woke up from the smell of burning pastry. But I had done it with you in mind, and didn't regret the massive hangover or the scorched kitchen towels one bit. I wish I could still hate you, and make this whole bloody fucking MESS so much simpler, but I don't hate you. Francis Bonnefoy; my enemy and my greatest rival, I do not hate you. I hate how I'm messing myself up and practically tearing out my eyebrows over this, but somehow I have more than enough room in my heart to say that I love you.

Why you will never find this.

Because I will never give it to you. I have meant everything I've said, but in the end I just don't have the strength. If I go through with this, put it in the mailbox, have it shipped to your country, send it to your doorstop, have it read, have every bitter thought and confounded emotion poured into that letter expressed and drawn to light, and then casually rejected like every other love letter you've received... I don't know. I have done many things infinitely more difficult than this, but somehow it's already the crack of dawn now; I haven't slept a wink thanks to this letter, and I'm still not going to send it to you. This is what I will do: I will print off only one copy, seal it in one envelope, get a nice, relaxing cup of tea and sit in front of the fire in my favorite armchair, and then I will toss the envelope into the fireplace. I will look at the flames and imagine how your reaction could have been. Maybe you would've sent me a letter back. Maybe you would've announced it at the next World Meeting, and then kissed me right then and there. I bet Spain and Prussia would've whistled or cheered, and America might jump up in surprise, and be pulled back down by Canada; and there would've been a general uproar so big Germany might just give up and let everyone sort it out and calm down. And we would still be kissing through all that.

Maybe you would send me a rose, one with deep red petals and the biggest thorns you could find, cut straight from your garden. I would treasure it; because in reality I absolutely adore roses, and lilies of all kinds. I wouldn't strangle you with it just to show that they can hurt, because I'm sure you know they do. Maybe we would go to the movies together, and you would try to learn a bit of English for my sake while snuggling close to me and not really paying attention to the movie at all. Dear Lord, I sound like a fucking jittery schoolgirl saying all this stuff, but if I've gotten this far I might as well say whatever the hell I want.

But of course, those are only the good possibilities. There's always the chance that you'll break my heart. You could stomp on it, tear it to shreds, take a flamethrower to it and toss the pieces out into the wind. You could embarrass me in public, or pretend your affection to keep me hanging on, or simply not speak to me ever again. You could mock me and ask if it was all just a joke, or play out so many other possibilities that I'll be regretting for the rest of my life. All those years that I fought you, raised a sword against your armies, spat and cursed at your smirking face, all those years would come undone, and I would lay down my sword in defeat. You, Francis Bonnefoy, would finally live to see the utter downfall of your enemy. Not by your weapons, but by your word.

So now I will type the message once more, before this letter is burned into ashes in my fireplace and swept away into oblivion. Je t'aime. Bonne nuit, France. I love you.

~O~0~o~0~O~0~O~0~o~0~O~

England wasted no time in following his own instructions. First he turned on the fireplace, then let a pot of water boil on the rickety stove for his tea. The papers had printed out nicely; four pages of simple, evenly-spaced text of black ink on crisp, white printer paper. It was deceptively plain; considering the feelings that had gone into typing all of it, but England folded it up and sealed it in an envelope with France's "human" name and address already inked out. He poured the hot water into a mug with a teabag at the bottom. The steam swirled up to the ceiling, smelling of fresh herbs and a hint of rose. He left it to brew as he opened his front door to gaze at the morning dawn.

It was so calm this early in the morning... England drew in a deep breath and sighed, seeing no harm in sitting outside in his old rocking chair for a bit. He was still wearing the stuffy business suit he had put on yesterday, (abet a bit rumpled) as he had forgotten to change before he had started typing on the computer. The envelope in his hand was starting to feel heavier and heavier, and as the sun peaked over the glowing horizon England found himself blinking back tears; closing his eyes and truly wondering whether he should burn the letter or not.

The indecision was killing him. England shut his eyes tighter in frustration, feeling blood rushing through his ears and his heart pounding with immense stress and turmoil.

Okay, that is it. I'll burn it, and I'll burn it right now so I don't have to see the bloody thing anymore...

But in that instant England suddenly found himself forced backwards, the rocking chair pitching violently and smacking against the house, leaving him dazed.

He panicked, still keeping his eyes shut in fear and confusion. His limbs flailed about, trying to strike the mystery assailant, but the figure forcefully pinned his arms down and-

Kissed him?

England snapped his eyes open wide in astonishment and horror, and once his brain registered the shock he found his answer.

"FRANCE, YOU BLOODY-mmgrrphhfff! England's curse was cut short as France firmly stopped his mouth with another kiss. They stayed there for a few moments, England's arms still pinned down on the armrests, eyes wide in shock and fury. Neither of them budged. England could feel his body go numb and tingly, his brain permanently short-circuited and slowly losing focus on the situation...

It felt like eternity before England felt France slowly untangle himself from his body; ending their kiss with a smooth motion, the smell of roses still lingering on his blushing face. His eyes were still closed, but he clenched and unclenched his palms in an almost involuntary nervous habit.

My letter... in my hand... MY LETTER!

Green eyes snapped wide open, spots dancing in front of his vision as he stared in disbelief at his empty palms. He heard a loud, taunting whistle and looked up.

"Merci for the letter, mon cher!" France called, several feet away, with a brilliant smirk on his face and holding a painfully familiar envelope in his waving hand. England's mind raced to catch up to the sudden predicament, until it hit him...

"MY LETTER! You give it back, you BLOODY WINE BASTARD!" He called, bolting out of his chair and hurdling straight towards the man, pumping his arms and clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles had already turned white.

France quickly turned tail and ran, his fancy custom-made navy blue tailcoat streaming out behind him and the letter held firmly in his grasp. He laughed with glee, angering England even more as he put on a spurt of energy.

"What the hell are you doing here, at the crack of dawn no less? FRANCE?!"

It went on for some time, heavy footfalls pounding on the dewy morning lawn and long strings of curses met with high taunting laughter. France doubled back and ran into the backyard. It was much larger than the front; an expansive garden so full of colorful flowers and majestic trees that it was impossible to tell where tame garden ended and wild forest began. Despite the vast range of buds and flowers that grew in numerous places around the area, there didn't seem to be a single rose...

He was brought back to reality when he felt England's scrambling footsteps come dangerously closer. "Pardon mon Anglais, mais "oh bugger..."

Racing around trees and twisting out of England's reach was the only thing keeping him away now; France was running short of breath and quickly out of time. For a brief moment his long wavy hair was grasped in a fist and brutally yanked back, but he managed to trip England up and break free.

France could make out a clearing up ahead. The sun was streaking down on a soft expanse of grass a few meters away. He had just made it-

WHAM!

The next moment France found himself pitched forward on the dewy grass, arms splayed out and his brain completely addled as to what had happened in the past second. He rolled over and-

SMACK!

… was promptly slapped in the face.

England fell upon him and started punching every inch of the man he could reach. France cringed at the sound of gasping curses and desperate strikes raining upon him.

The blows became weaker as England began to tire; his breath and energy running out as quickly as he had started. They stopped altogether and was replaced by profound strings of swearing, which also quickly wore away as he felt no resistance from the man on the ground.

France silently opened his eyes and met England's dirty face, the man's emerald eyes alive with hurt and fury.

Both were gasping for air. Now the tables had turned; England was straddling his bruised enemy with hands tightly clenched over the man's wrists, and France lay there, too tired to care if another blow or curse was tossed his way.

The envelope was ripped out of his hand. England sat up and let go of France's wrists, panting silently and still glaring at the man's cerulean eyes. He sighed once and ran his fingers through his blond hair, (France's thoughts wandered and briefly noted that it looked absolutely beautiful like that in the sunlight), and looked at the envelope in his hand like he wanted to crush it into a million pieces.

"You- Why are you here? It's the crack of dawn! You should be in your own country for God's sake..." England took a shuddering breath. "But really, it doesn't matter, frog. You're just tormenting me, I know it. You came over on one of your "surprise visits," saw me and wanted to steal whatever bloody letter I had at the moment, so you distracted me and stole it! You know what? I am done. You want to know what was in that bloody letter? Just go ahead and read it for all I care, you fucking wanker!" England chucked the envelope back at France, and with one smooth turn got up and stalked away; leaving France on the ground, stunned and dazed.

It was a long while before France quietly sat up on his elbows, nonchalantly brushing off the grass on the cuffs of his crisp navy blue uniform. He briefly considered calling out to England; but it was too late. He was already alone.

He crossed his legs and held his face in his hands, feeling immensely sorry for himself and wondering what in the world he could do. The offending envelope lay nearby, taunting him on the grass. He had come here on another of his routine visits, expecting to annoy the Englishman a bit and then leave, maybe sending a bottle of wine behind as an apology for waking him up. He saw the letter and thought it would be a nice way to have some fun, you know... Not this.

France sighed, and motioned to take the envelope. It was light, plain, and slightly rumpled from being the object of much fighting earlier. He glanced at the address.

No way...This can't be...

But it was true. The very letter France had so unkindly snatched from England, and had payed for it dearly, was indeed addressed to France himself.

A bitter laugh escaped the man's throat. All that effort... and he was trying to keep it from me? Why...?

There was two options: One, he could abandon the letter right here, right now, and save England the pain of addressing this matter ever again. It would be solemnly forgotten; and for all intents and purposes it would cease to exist entirely. Or... France could read it. He could learn the reason England addressed it to him, yet reacted so violently at stealing it. He could find out what to do to fix this mess...

It was decided. Before he could change his mind France tore open the envelope and began to read...

~O~0~o~0~O~0~O~0~o~0~O~

England collapsed on his bed. He felt too tired to do anything useful, but too worked up to sleep and compensate for his ridiculous lack of sleep. His tea - now cold - lay forgotten downstairs, along with the kettle and the fireplace still burning. He didn't care. He could let the house burn down for all he cared. The seconds ticked by endlessly with little indication of passing. Was it minutes, or hours now? England couldn't even make out the thoughts that swirled around in his own head, but he felt like crap and that was all he needed to know.

He hadn't wanted it to escalate into something like that. What was he doing, sitting outside at the crack of dawn? Why did that frog come up to his house, steal his letter - that stupid, bloody letter that he had put his heart and soul into - and run off like it was a sick game of some sorts and expect England to-

A knock.

Another.

And another, this time slightly louder.

There it was again...

England knew full well who it was. He also had no intention of answering it either. You know what, France? Fuck you. Fuck you, and that bloody letter too. Just. Go. AWAY.

The knocking stopped. Everything grew still. All England could hear was the thump-thump of his own heart; suddenly quite loud in the eerie calm. England waited, unsure whether France had left or was merely waiting to ambush him as soon as he opened the door. It seemed like eternity before England realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled with a gasp. He waited, and waited, and waited...

Finally, the silence had become so deafeningly unbearable that England shot up, threw himself down the stairs and flung open the door, prepared to give that bloody frog a piece of his mind.

But there was no one there.

England panted, drawing in long breaths before growling in frustration and clenching his fists like he wanted nothing more than to punch the bloody wall to bits. He looked down.

And there, on his front doorstep along with his opened letter, was a single, blood-red rose. A tiny note lay across it, stamped with a lily ensign. England softly read the words:

Je t'aime, Angleterre.

I love you.

~O~0~o~0~O~0~O~0~o~0~O~

The next week all the countries met for the ceremonious World Meeting held in London. They had all gathered noisily outside the door, chatting amongst themselves and the like; but to the surprise of those closest to the door, two loud voices could be heard already inside the conference room. Germany strode up to the door, opened it with his key, and silently pushed it open to reveal one of the strangest sights to ever be witnessed in the history of the world.

Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy - the personifications of England and France respectively - were sitting on the conference table, barely any room between each other; chatting and laughing happily as if spending time with your mutually-hated nemesis was the most natural thing in the world. Official-looking papers were strewn across the room, along with a few scattered roses and a half-empty plate of burnt scones, one half-eaten in France's hand. Everyone stared, too stunned to speak.

Before anyone could react the two countries drew closer and swept each other into a tight embrace; kissing each other right then and there. Italy let out a small squeak and hid behind Germany's shocked form. Hungary quietly brought out a video camera, but was waved down by Japan, who surreptitiously motioned to a better spot to film.

Meanwhile, both of the blond nations were lost in each others' presence, blind to the gawking crowd that had gathered outside the door. Moments passed, but they softly clung on like they possessed all the time in the world. A fuzzy feeling told England that everyone else was watching, but he ignored the simple fact to indulge in France's gradually deepening kiss. Strong arms wrapped around his body, fitting against every curve and pressing him closer until it was impossible to feel the difference between their melded limbs. It felt like eternal bliss...

All was quiet until the passionate couple finally broke apart, gasping for air and looking for all the world like they didn't give a damn what anyone else thought at the moment.

Germany gave a little cough. England untangled himself from France; turning towards the tall nation and raised a mischievous bushy eyebrow, proclaiming loudly, "Well blimey, haven't you all seen a bloody couple snogging in public before?"

France laughed and turned toward his partner. "Angleterre, I think they're wondering why we haven't killed each other yet, non?"

The emerald-eyed blond chuckled and playfully shoved France away from him, gathering up some papers as the rest of the nations began to talk anxiously amongst themselves. England was laughing at France's jokes? France was eating burnt scones? England's burnt scones? What was going on?

England hopped down from the table and strode towards the group. "It's rather simple, really," he began, beaming at their bemused faces. "I am in love with France."

"And I, Francois Bonnefoi, am in love with Angleterre." France called out, a few crumbs of burnt scone still stuck on his face.

The collective reactions ranged from awkward stammering to whistling catcalls (appropriately enough, from Prussia and Spain) to America's yell of surprise which was predictably silenced by Canada. Everyone began to file into the room, the original purpose forgotten in favour of surrounding the self-proclaimed couple with questions and gossiping amongst themselves. It got so out of hand that even Germany gave up trying to control everyone and instead focused on calming Italy down, who was positively bouncing off the walls with excitement.

Somehow England managed to pull France away from the chaotic mess and sneaked out together into the relatively quiet hallway. There they were able to enjoy a few good minutes of rest; staring into each other's happy eyes and laughing in spite of themselves. England brushed off the few stray crumbs clinging to France's cheek, and France reached up and softly held his hand lying against his face.

They both were aware that some things were never going to change. Those scones had actually been made as a joint effort, late at night and with the kitchen in shambles afterwards; but they agreed that no matter how bad the batch turned out to be they could both deal until England's skills improved. France still refused to change his flamboyant style, and England made it clear that his magical supplies were not to be messed with under any circumstances. Their daily insults and arguments wouldn't change, but both could make accommodations for the other when needed. The immortal nations were truly opposites at heart, but even the farthest of opposites have been proven to attract before.

Love, l'amour, in any language it still remains the same. Just as an eccentric Englishman and a flamboyant Frenchman could fall for the greatest power in human nature, so too can it guide them through the ages and any challenges they face, far into the future.

~Fin~