England awakened, with something inside his head resembling a hangover. A furious, burning hangover. He groaned loudly, rubbing his eyes, reaching lackadaisically across to where his bedside table (furnished with the very same British oak as the violent door, I'll have you know) sat, beside the chest of drawers. The skin of weary fingers brushed against something other than wood.
"Bed sheets...?" The worn-out Englishman, who hadn't received close to enough sleep, yawned, wearily opening one eye. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed as the realisation of him lying sprawled across the floor whacked him in the face as hard as he had done, France.
I must've had a rough night; I'm also in my day clothes, he thought whilst picking himself up drearily. Following arranging the sheets with a slightly perplexed frown, England trudged downstairs, not batting an eyelid at failing to miss out the squeaky step. The norm. It was only when he heard three eerie knocks on the door when he broke out of the routine running on the 'auto-pilot' setting of his wandering brain. He stopped in his tracks, greatly annoyed. Again, he swore badly and questioned the name of the irritating person behind the door. When the quiet answer reached his ears, the disbelieving squeak of a cry could be heard from half way across the street. England dropped the pillow he had absent-mindedly obtained. It can't be. Surely not. My dream... It...No way, that's not possible! It can't be true! Why would he do something like that though? I need answers, fast!
The terror-stricken island nation carelessly and inaccurately kicked the unfortunate feather-filled item behind him and half way across the room, then tried to casually perfect his newly-creased clothes. He didn't prevail, only stood quaking in the hallway. He boldly turned on his heel to face the door that mocked him, laughed at him so mercilessly, the door he had held affection for in the past.
Here goes nothing.
England threw open the apparently evil chunk of wood (as idiotic as it seems) to reveal a certain Frenchman, drenched from usually 'immaculate, voluminous' hair to shiny, lace-up boots, panting and breathing heavily. He had patiently waited outside his house for the whole night. Through the dark, dangerous, rain-filled night. The man horribly familiar to England lifted his head slowly with a grateful expression plastered across his face, beautiful blue eyes taking in the whole of the other's figure, kind gaze finally resting on his hair.
"Eh, Arthur, your cheveux is quite, let's see, messed up?" he smirked while England reddened once again at the talk of personal matters. His hair. The Englishman had always admired and envied France's hair, even going as far as to grow it, style it to look like his, and request him to cut it to a complete spitting image. Jealousy stole one quarter of the whole Feeling, that was for sure. The remaining three, however…
"You want to kill me, don't you?"
"Pardon?!"
"You're so nice to me because you want to get close to me, and kill me when my guard is down."
With that, England sprinted into the kitchen and returned bearing a frighteningly large bread knife that shimmered in the morning's gold with a sinister air. He watched, ironically fearful, as France's eyes widened like a rabbit's in headlights at the sight of the weapon and backed away slowly, showing the palms of his hands as a sign of peace. Suddenly, he smiled, as if to say, "It's alright, and I'm not scared".
"Arthur… No matter how you see me, I'll always be there for you. Until the end of time. Even though you find me infuriating, I'd like for you to know that I think of you as an angel," France whispered softly, embracing the knife-wielding nation. "England means 'Land of Angels', after all."
At this, England burst into a fit of uncontrollable and unexplainable tears. He dropped the weapon and returned the gesture with emotion and no hesitation, feeling the other's warmth despite the rain's freeze. France chuckled again, gazing happily and dreamily into the Englishman's watery eyes, and raised England's chin to his level via lifting it with his hand gently. He didn't pull away or protest this time; the French nation was in fact joyful because of the abundance of reaction from the younger. England was the one to push his lips against his, tightening his loving grip on France as if to prevent him from leaving him alone once more. There had been so many occasions where England had left him stranded on the battlefield and in day-to-day life… It was surprising France didn't have monophobia. He adored England, and that was the only definite thing within this ordeal.
Finally, the two nations' mouths parted and they looked intently at each other with interest and contentment for the first time. But there was still something wrong with England.
I now know which emotions make up the Feeling: jealousy and love, so why is my stomach still hurting?
It happened in a blink of a vibrant, emerald eye. The transition from neutral to cold, sick and pale passed like the flick of a switch… The switch that France flicked unknowingly, and by accident. He clutched his midriff in utter pain and crouched on the floor, the horrible, agonising, all-too-real throbbing sensation kicking in, causing him to double over. Attempting to keep his cool and not have a seizure, he let his hands scale the wall that lay to the left and picked himself up for the second time, using the wall to his advantage while steadying himself like this. He coughed up liquid the colour of the Frenchman's favourite flower; he thought he would vomit. France panicked, concerned for the other's wellbeing, running around in desperation and confusion in search for a medical book of help. He didn't want to give up, yet he could only watch as the fingers of England's mind slipped and lost the hand of consciousness, vision fading to deadly black. It was like France was killing him without intention.
