A rainstorm had started early in the night, so England had turned in and was sleeping peacefully until a knock came from downstairs. He pulled himself out of bed and hurried down the stairs, glancing at the clock. He rubbed his eyes as he opened the door, revealing a very disheveled France. "What are you-?"

"England," France gasped out. He was hanging his head, causing his face to be hidden by his hair. "Angleterre," he whispered before collapsing at England's feet.

"What the bloody-?" England looked through the pouring sheets of rain, but couldn't see anything that could've been a threat. Still, he picked France up and carried him to the couch, laying him down without worrying about what the water might do to the couch.

The Englishman stared down at the unconscious nation for a few moments before the thought of pneumonia swam into his head. France was soaked to the bone and both the outside and house were cold (as was how England liked to sleep).

He lifted France to a sitting position with one arm and removed his coat and shirt. Laying him back down, he frowned. He supposed the trousers would have to go, too. England made quick work of removing the sickly nation's trousers, leaving his undergarments. The Briton left France on the couch to throw the clothes into the wash and retrieve a blanket from the linens closet. He laid the blanket over the Frenchman and tucked the edges underneath his body. Still unsatisfied, the doting nation retrieved a space heater and set it on the coffee table.

England sight and sat in a nearby chair wondering idly if he should find some soup or something warm for the Frenchman to eat upon awakening. Knowing the very least he could do was make tea, he did just that.

Unsure if he should go back up to bed or stay awake until France came to, England decided it was best to take a shower and get ready for the next day. Sleep was all but a lost cause.

It was late in the afternoon the next day before France woke up. England had just gotten off the telephone with his boss to cancel a meeting they had scheduled for the day. As soon as he was awake, England pulled his clothes out of the dryer and made him a bowl of soup.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" England asked him, sitting on the coffee table across from France.

France shook his head and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. He had taken the soup, but mostly just stared at it.

"Then why are you here?" England snapped. He knew he shouldn't be so rude to someone who just came back from the brink of death, but he couldn't really help it. France had promised nothing like this would ever happen again.

But that was just it, wasn't it? It did happen again... so that must mean that the reason is the same.

"You almost went 100 years without repeating your mistake," England said dryly. "It's the same thing, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it, England," France managed to get out.

"Glad to see you're talking again. Was it one of your own, France?"

"I said I didn't want..."

"We're going to talk about it!" he said loudly. "Do you want to know why?" France shook his head, but England pressed on. "Because it isn't pleasant to see you like this! But every time it goes bad you come running to me. So we're going to talk about it. You aren't going to weep on my doorstep anymore. Do you understand how sick you got this time?" England lowered his voice and leaned toward France. "Now, was she one of yours?" France nodded and England leaned away from him. "And her name was?"

"Madeline," he mumbled, ignoring the pain in his chest when he said her name.

"And how long did it last, France? A year?" Nothing ever lasts longer than a year when you're a nation. Human curiosity always got the best of them. Something was always different about them. There was always a small thing that gave them away

"Ten." France told the angry nation.

"Ten months?" England almost rolled his eyes. All of this hype and it didn't even last a year.

"No," France muttered, looking up at him sadly. "Ten years."

"Ten years?" England sputtered. "Is that even... How is that even possible?"

"I thought...: France took a deep breath. He seemed to be bracing himself. "I thought she might have been different from the others."

The Englishman sighed and moved to the couch, wrapping an arm around France's shoulders and pulling him close. "When are you going to learn that they're never different? There's a reason we don't date our citizens. There's a reason we tend to pair off with each other."

And that's when it hit England. He wasn't upset with France... Not really. He was tired... And jealous. He wanted France to stop appearing at his doorstep crushed... He wanted France to be happy, but not with a citizen. The citizens couldn't bring the nations happiness, no matter how much they wanted to believe it. Relationships with citizens are always going to end eventually. Even if it lasted for years... the citizen would die long before a nation did...

He shook his head. He couldn't let those sorts of thoughts distract him. France was obviously heartbroken about this citizen... Madeline... And all he can do is try to help his friend get through it... I can fix his broken heart. No. He couldn't... That would be wrong, wouldn't it?

A/N

When England said "Was she one of yours?" That means "Was she one of your citizens?"
I did this in another one of my stories, too. I have no idea why I put it like that...