DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia. Hidekaz Himaruya does.

If you hate France, don't flame me because you read this. Turn around now, while you can. But even if you do, there isn't much to hate here.

Scheherazade: Symphonic Suite, Opus 35. A wonderful piece of music. That was what France had decided, the moment he had heard its very first debut. He had known it for a very long time, and it had just popped up in his mind while he started walking home, back from the world conference meeting.

The way the music resounded in the piece reminded him of tidal waves, its various lengths, the richness of expression in each tone, always the correct thickness on the depending mood of the piece. At roughly more than half an hour, the piece never failed France when he was down, as it reminded him of the ups and downs of one's life. In which if there were good things, bad things were always bad things yet to come, and vice versa. Just as in the piece, when a certain amount of piccolos and flutes would play out a soothing, light-hearted tune, then slowly progressing deeper and deeper, the violins send out coarse trills, the cellos deepness would increase, trombones, horns, percussion, everything starts to exude in chaotic harmony, it all gets too intense, then as it nears its climax, all of the instruments cease to continue. Then it would repeat again, on a loop. A vicious cycle, one could call it.

It was one of the things that inspired France to love classical music, or learn how to play his favourite instrument, the violin. Because at a certain part, Scheherazade had a very emotionally-heart-breaking solo. But it was also very hard to play. Its trills were very delicate, there were series of swiftly played notes, and then quickly and briefly followed by prolonged notes, on an adagio's speed. France would know. It took him a very long time to master the solo alone, let alone the whole violin part itself (of course, he couldn't memorize the whole piece. It was too long for him to memorize, and it required an orchestra, not just a violin.). He always noticed every time he played its violin solo, it wouldn't sound good unless the person who played it conveyed and expressed his or her emotions through the music. Even the most skilled of violinists couldn't play it right if they did so half-heartedly. It took a long time for him to realize that, that's why he had a hard time learning it. It is up to the instrument-bearer's will, as how he or she will bend the melody in his or her own way. Whether to stay on a note a second longer than the sheet music calls for, or staccato a series of tones in varying patterns at a loud, opening szforzando. It is up to the player's feelings on how to play it, rarely on what the exact tempo and dynamics the written staffs say it should.

But what France found the most intriguing about this piece, was its story. Perhaps France took a small interest on Saudi Arabia's literature. 'The One Thousand and One Arabian Nights', it was called. A story about a king who would marry a woman each day, then have her beheaded by dawn. The king would do this in frustration and anger, due to his first wife's unfaithfulness to him. Then one day, the vizier's daughter, Scheherazade, had decided to stay with the king for one night, against her father's wishes. But unlike the other women, Scheherazade read a story to the king that night, and as she reached the climax of that story, she stopped at its cliff hanger, saying that it was already late. The cliff hanger was so suspenseful, that the king decided to spare her life the next day due to wanting to know the end of the story. So on the next day, she had finished her story, and started a new one the next night. Each night, the cliff hangers were more and more suspenseful than the last, each day; the king would spare her life due to wanting to know the end. This went on for a thousand and one nights, until Scheherazade had nothing left to read for him. But instead of executing her, the king had realized he had already fallen deeply in love with her. So he gave her pardon, and spared her life, as queen.

France would read the story as he listened to the music, understanding that each climax in the music represented the climax of each story, and the silence afterwards, representing the abrupt halt in each story. He would sympathize with the king, thinking that he himself couldn't bear to sleep without knowing the end to the story.

It would just show that music was expressive enough to tell stories, even without any words.

So here he was, stroking the violin strings with his bow, as his violin was firmly nestled under his chin. He began to play the violin solo. Each time he played this solo, he always thought of something. Something that would always leave him crying afterwards.

It won't be mentioned here. It's up to you to fill in these blanks.

But the France that everyone sees is not his true self. There are times when he can actually do his job as a supportive and kind, 'Big Brother'. Deep inside, he's a man that lost everything that he once had, his faith in others, the cause of his downfall. A man who once was so naive, his naivety was what shattered his emotional purity. A man who covered himself up with a facade different from his true self, in order to be able to choke back his tears, and seal tightly his bottled up emotions.

And perhaps, this is violin solo is one of the very few things that open up his covered facade completely.

"France."

The person being called looks up from the floor to see the voice who called him. He tries to wipe away his tears and rub his red eyes before looking at the one who called him, England.

"France," his voice said more roughly, "You look absolutely pathetic down there, weeping on the floor. Get up already."

France smiled. It wasn't a smirk, or a devious grin. It was a genuine smile. And after he smiled, he let his tears break through, with no need to hide them anymore. England looked at him in sympathy for a good 10 seconds before helping him stand up, watching him sniffle and sulk with a completely contradictory smile of happiness plastered on his face. England picked up his violin for him, letting go of his hand to return the bow and violin to its case for him. As he did, he started cleaning the bow in the process.

"You play the violin?" He murmured, still not facing him, as he returned the bow in the violin case, then marvelled at the antiquity of the violin.

France laughed at this, "Oui, Angleterre, I do." England shut the case, then turned around, leaning against the table. "Well, does anybody besides you and me know this?" France thought for a moment, looking up at the ceiling, "Austria knows," France said, pointing an index finger up, as if to show he got an idea, "Me and him, ve zometimes play duets vith his piano and my violin." He gave a look of bewilderment that disappeared as quickly as it came.

England looked at the sheet music that was left on the table, next to the violin case. "Scheherazade..." he whispered thoughtfully. "It's an orchestral piece; it'll take more than you and Austria to play it." He affirmed, while shuffling through the detailed pages of the musical piece yet to be played. "You will need more band members." he continued.

"But for a bloody annoying frog, you can pull off the violin solo just finely." He smiled behind the pages, so France couldn't see it.

France blinked in surprise. But then he calmed down. He knew England well enough to understand what he's saying. 'Just let out your feelings, France. It isn't healthy for your psychological welfare.'

Maybe it would change him for the better. To let out all his sorrows, by conversing in delicate and fragile melodies.

But that's another story.

(Please drop a review, if you feel so inclined to do so. It is much appreciated.)