A/N: Well, hi, guys! I'm slowly getting back to writing, but school recently started and I've been swamped with homework and too uninspired to write anything. And now guess what? This just popped into my brain on a car ride home from my weekend, and I threw it down on paper and it actually turned out pretty well!

This is my first FrUK fic in quite a while, it seems like, and as historically accurate as I could make it with my headcanon-twisted brain. So, yeah. There's some hotness toward the end! Enjoy!

The last thing to occur to England at that moment had been the question of why Francis was carrying a sword in a gunfight.

No snappish last insults had come to his mind, and no cruel remarks or humiliating revelations had even existed to die on his tongue. His mind was strangely stunned; he had lost. He was finished. If Francis wished to kill him, he could with a tiny swipe of that gleaming blade that shone in the same nonexistent sunlight that highlit his hair. He seemed to glow with a light all on his own, leaving America standing behind him in the shadows. England could remember how much he had envied that soft, gleaming hair as he watched the Frenchman swing the sword over his head, curving a graceful arc through the soft drizzle of rain, turning it into something like a dance in the way that only Francis could. Despite his economy's suffering, somehow he managed to be stronger than ever in this midnight rain, while England could barely stand. Those deep blue eyes shone, his steps held an effortless grace, his hair blowing softly in the chill breeze and a look of strong victory on his handsome face that was streaked with rain. He was the image of beauty, unbelonging in the mud and rain, but ethereal and angelic. Ghostly.

Even now, Francis was beautiful.

The arc slowed, and England simply stood, forcing himself to stay upright as the beautiful Frenchman's sword point came to rest at his throat. It didn't dig into his skin, wasn't bloodthirsty like America's gun. It was the gentleness of his defeat and the strength in those beautiful blue eyes that finally brought Arthur to his knees, collapsing into the mud with the weight of the world on his slumping shoulders. He was shaking, suddenly only barely able to move from exhaustion, and a tear trickled down his cheek to join the streaks of the rain. He stared at his hands, bruised and covered in tiny barbed cuts, muddy and sweaty and broken. Had Francis not sided with Alfred, England would have won. But as it was, Francis was the real reason he was so defeated. England felt dead inside.

With that gentle touch, Francis had broken him.

Alfred was breathing hard, rage in his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides, and he stalked toward Francis, grabbing his shoulder harshly.

"Finish him, god damn it!" he yelled. It echoed in the silence of the rain. "I want to see him suffer!"

Francis turned. "Non, Amerique," he murmured, shrugging off the hand. He was still so, so beautiful. Another tear slipped down England's face, and then another. He was still shaking, sinking farther into the mud. Francis's unreadable gaze of victory was ripping him to shreds.

"He suffers enough already."

In all his silken-smooth lies, there had never been more of an absolute truth.

The hatred in America's eyes as Francis and he turned their backs on him sent another scalding wave of tears streaming down his face, and as the drizzle became a downpour, England was sure he had cried more tears than the sky ever could.

Blood swirled with the rain in the muck around him like dull red lace, streaming from a wound in his side. He ached all over, throbbing with pain and barely conscious, tears streaming down his dirty face and uniform soaked with mud, blood and freezing-cold rain. He had no energy to shiver. His throat was raw from screaming curses to the silent world, desperate and hopeless. His people were against him, his country was failing, and somehow he almost wished France had slit his throat with that beautiful, soft, and deadly touch. But no; such an act would have been of kindness. Francis would never act with kindness or mercy toward England, no matter how much Arthur was in need of it. Hours had gone by, and he was left alone, bloody, sick, and broken in the mud. He had no allies. France had doomed him to the slow, agonized descent into insanity and finally, death.

He hated how much he loved the frog.

But Francis was so, so beautiful.

Impossibly so.

Arthur fell into a feverish, frozen state of complete and total hell, unable to sleep, sobbing quietly to himself even though there were no tears left to cry, gasping raggedly and feeling pain erupt in his throat, torn to pieces by the frigid night air. Thoughts were but images, laced and wavering with frozen agony. Arthur barely felt himself breathing.

Francis. His hair; his scent; those beautiful eyes and that soft, soft touch.

Alfred. His determination; his strength; his cold, cold courage. His hatred.

Francis. His utter beauty. England's soul was lost to him, sold to the man who hated him even more than Alfred ever could.

And then that beautiful, merciless man was striding from the distance, and England wasn't even alive enough to wonder if this was a dream.

"Arthur," a soft French accent breathed. England's green eyes were dead, his blood-soaked uniform caked with grime. His breaths came in shallow, choking sobs. His body was freezing cold.

Francis knelt in front of him, sinking to his knees in the bloody muck, still glowing with beauty. He wasn't crying, wasn't angry, wasn't blaming. His hand on Arthur's chin was warm, searing warm, and he tilted the Briton's face to look at him, but England didn't even seem to see who was in front of him.

There, in the rain, France leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his blue lips.

A little life returned to Arthur's green eyes. Francis nearly broke, seeing the sudden flare of crushed hope, but before he could crack, he kissed Arthur again, harder, longer. When he broke away he rested his warm face against the Brit's, breathing on him, trying to bring the life back to his face.

"We will get through this together," he whispered, kissing England's face once, twice, another time, and then returning to his lips with a feverish desperation that seemed to jolt Arthur back to life. A tiny hint of motion; Arthur kissed weakly back. Francis was nearly crying now, pulling England to him, regardless of the grime and the blood and the cold.

"I am as weak as you," France breathed, panting between kisses, feeling Arthur's arms come to rest around his neck. They were shaking and painfully light. "But I have not given up. Don't give up on me, Arthur. S'il vous plait; je suis desole, je suis desole..."

Arthur was kissing him back now, fearfully, as though this were all a cruel trick, but his lips felt warmer, and though his hands were like ice against Francis's uniform, he found himself being pulled into the Frenchman's lap and pressed against his warm body. Francis refused to let him go, not caring that he was covered in grime and frigidly cold, kissing him anyway, with a desperation Arthur had never, ever felt. Heat was slowly beginning to bring life to him again, pangs of agony shooting through him but his heartbeat finally growing stronger.

"Francis," he rasped, kissing back as hard as he could manage. "F-Francis, why—?"

France cut him off with another messy, openmouthed kiss. "I need you, Arthur, I couldn't let you die, because it would be as though I had killed you with my own hands," he said feverishly, smoothness gone, desperation painfully obvious, holding England tighter in his arms. "J-Je t'aime, je t'aime..."

England clung to him, kissing him hard, barely able to form a coherent thought around the tongue against his own and the heat pulsing though his body and the thudding of his heart. Francis loved him. Francis loved him. Francis loved him. It beat in time with his own heart, barely registering with his brain, as he pressed himself against the Frenchman's perfect body, pushing their faces against each other, noses rubbing, cheeks flushed, hair mussed and saliva smearing. Arthur moaned, desperate for closeness, unable to stop the ache in his heart even as he was warmed by this beautiful man and his gentle touch.

"It will go away in time," France murmured finally, as though reading his mind. He broke the final kiss, pulling Arthur close and letting the Briton's head rest on his shoulder, rubbing his back. He could feel the hot tears beginning to flow once more. Arthur nodded silently.

"Just say you'll stay with me," he whispered, almost begging, pleading with Francis to not leave him alone in the dark and the rain.

Francis took a shaky breath and kissed him softly. "I promise," he murmured. "I will never leave you. No matter how you hate me, I will never leave you, amour."

Arthur buried his face in France's shoulder, letting his eyes finally slip closed. He took a deep, shaking breath, tears still flowing free down his face. If he had looked closer, he would have seen France crying a little, too.

But he didn't, and instead murmured the four words of truth that had always seemed to haunt him since the moment he had met Francis in that meadow all the years ago. They had been true this far, and they would be true for a thousand years more. England clung to France like he was a lifeline and told his one biggest secret, that had been kept behind closed doors for so long it was nearly impossible to bring into the open at last. England was shaking when he spoke.

"I never hated you," he breathed.

EDIT: A/N: I have already gotten quite a few requests to continue this; while it may be something I do if I can't sleep and am feeling rather depressed and fluffy, I would not count on changes. Sorry! Please love me anyway? :3

Hugs from Maple