Title: Where Your Love Ends

Cover image taken by: Erica Holgate

Warnings: Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I don't know how often I can update this story. . I'll try to do it at least once a week. This has become my August project, so I should have plenty of time to get it all done by the time school starts again. Thanks :)


The next time France meets England again it's four years later and France is in the gangly, awkward teenage stage of human appearance. Nation-wise he is doing rather poorly. As he is the only country cut off from the rest of the world with just Canada (and occasionally America) to send him supplies and assistance when the need arises, there is a lot he is still struggling with. Much has been on France's mind since his last meeting with his self-proclaimed destined soul mate, and the nation has had a very short amount of time to do a very large amount of maturing. His eyes have already begun to take on the tired and weary look of elder countries.

But when France sees England, all of these troubles are essentially forgotten in an instant. It's at the annual World Meeting that they see each other, a meeting France has neglected to attend for the past three years due to the dire need of seeing-to of his people.

France hasn't come with Canada this time. In fact, he hasn't even really spoken to Canada for the past ten months. He's truly his own nation now, and he even dresses like such. He's chosen the careful colours of blue, white, and red to decorate the cloth he adorns that symbolizes his country — colours that mimic the ones England uses as well.

England is seated a few chairs away from him, and for the entirety of the meeting France can't stop fidgeting. It's obvious enough to him who exactly is in charge in the room. England practically oozes confidence and power. Those who have been seated next to him quake in their seats whenever he moves, and often enough everyone casts a quick glance at the current superpower just to make sure he hasn't done anything different but sit stock-still in his seat and take a sip of his drink every once in a while.

When the first half of the meeting for the first day is over, France climbs unsteadily to his feet and heads out the door. He doesn't exactly want to socialize at the particular moment, but then he feels a heavy hand fall on his shoulder and he spins around, preparing himself for the worst.

Instead, he sees the absolute opposite from the worst — England's face. And France's heart flutters.

"Sir," France says, feeling very small. Truthfully, France has thought about the other a lot. Their first meeting four years ago, England had literally captured his heart. France wants nothing more than to chase after the older man for the rest of his life, to do whatever he wants him to, to make the other laugh and be happy.

"I see you've grown," England says. And then the superpower smiles. And France thinks his pulse stops for an instant.

France can feel the heat that's slowly rising up his cheeks and ears. He nods furiously and tears his eyes away from the other's piercing gaze and looks at the floor instead. "Y-yes, sir," he stammers. I want you, all of you, the voice in his head shouts at the proximity of the main character of all his reveries. I want it to be just you and me, and no one else in the world —

"I was thinking of going for a cup of tea. You should join me. You could tell me all about…yourself."

England's voice is so deep and smooth and dominant, and France can't help but wonder how on earth anyone is able to resist it. He doesn't think he himself would be able to keep a conversation with this man for more than a few minutes before he blushes himself to death.

He nods anyway.

England lifts an elbow, and France looks at it wildly wondering what the hell he's supposed to do. Then he realizes that he's supposed to take it, so he loops his hand around England's lower arm and grips it lightly, careful not to scrunch up the fine coat the other is wearing. England's escorting him there. They're actually going to walk together, together, there. France doesn't look back. He can already feel the judging looks of the other nations.

Really, France doesn't understand why so many people are afraid of England or refuse to talk to him unless they're talked to. Sure, England may hold control over every nation in the world, and sure, England may possess an arsenal of nuclear weapons large enough to destroy the Earth sixteen times over, but even still, France can't bring himself to be fearful of him. And he's so nice, inviting France to tea, seeming interested in France's story, escorting him there.

France doesn't see the problem everyone else has with the superpower. He thinks they should all just give him a chance, or something.

When they walk, France finds himself having to step a little faster just to be able to catch up with the taller man. England towers over him by at least a head and shoulders. They exit the building together, and they're actually really close now, because France has suddenly found his other hand gripping England's arm as well as they squeeze past the crowds of unknowing citizens. Every step France takes he's brushing against England in some way or another.

And there's about a million thoughts running through his head, thinking, I want to make him fall in love with me. I want him to think about me half as much as I've thought about him over the past years.

By the time they arrive at the coffee shop, France is shaking in his boots. England leaves him at a two-person table while he goes to order their drinks, and France can't help but watch the other as he goes. He can still feel the fabric of England's coat underneath his fingers, and he can still feel the warmth that emanates from the other's body.

When England returns, it's with a cup of tea in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. France accepts the latter and takes a small sip from it and feels it positively lighting him up from the inside, not because the drink is all that fantastic, but because it was given to him from England.

"I've not seen you for a long time," England says, stirring his tea and looking off at the other customers in the shop.

"I guess," France says. He wants to curse himself because his English really isn't that fantastic and he has a French accent and it's almost embarrassing. Back at home, he'd been proud of it — he's proud of practically everything and anything French — but here in London, he just feels like an outcast. "I was busy with my people. Sir."

"Ah, the new French people of the world. Tell me, how are they?"

How can England remain so cool and composed like that when France just feels like breaking down into tears? "Everything's going along fine. We're in a bit of a rough spot at the moment, since we're so cut off from you and everything, sir, but I think we'll be okay. I mean, we always are. We have each other. The French are starting to learn pride from all this work, and that makes me happy. We have to be able to depend on each other." France looks down at his cup.

"I've been keeping track of your progress ever since I first heard of your existence," England says softly. "You're doing well for a nation of only fourteen years old."

"I've had a lot of help, sir," France admits truthfully. Canada's always been there for him. And sometimes, America, too. "Not many people know about me yet, but those who do have been very supportive."

"Which nations, out of curiosity?" asks England.

France sees no harm in telling him. "Canada and America," he says, although he feels as though he's somehow betraying the two by saying it. Who is he to deny the superpower, though?

"Interesting. I was actually thinking of sending you help myself."

"Wh-what?"

"Did you not hear what I just said?" England raises an eyebrow, and France shrinks back in his seat. "I could send you provisions and men to help build your nation. Perhaps speed up the process a little. And money; I have a lot of that, and I don't quite know what to do with it." England gives France a purposeful look.

France is stunned. "S-sir," he says, honestly wishing he was a little braver so that his people would have someone to look up to, "This isn't a proposal to ask me to join your Empire, is — is it?"

England laughs. He actually laughs — throws back his head and lets out a throaty, bark of laughter that sounds half-patronizing. "No, my sweet boy," he says. "I have no interest in conquering your lands. We both know I can; I'm just not willing to. I'd like to see you grow a little, see how far you can go. Don't worry about my intentions; I'm not all that bad."

France lets out a sigh of relief. He knew it. England's not interested in him just because he happens to be the only country he doesn't have possession of; England's interested in him because he's kind and understanding, and actually cares about this new nation's wellbeing. France allows himself a small smile behind the rim of his cup. He wonders if his hair looks nice enough. He wonders what England meant by you've grown, and if it's in a good or bad way.

France pats down one side of his hair when he thinks England's not looking, and when the superpower turns back around he immediately drops his hand. England stares at him with this curious look on his face that France can't discern before he reaches over and takes a lock of France's hair carefully between his index finger and thumb.

The French nation freezes. He waits as England tucks the strand of hair back with the rest, and then lean backwards in his chair and take out a cigarette. France doesn't take his eyes off him the entire time, just watches as England smokes casually in the coffee shop (that probably prohibits smoking).

France already regrets not having come to these World Meetings when he was younger, if only so that he and England could have had this conversation so much earlier.

England taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully. He hasn't said a word in a while. Finally, after what seems like forever, he reaches his hand across the table and says, "Remove the ring from my index finger."

France is a little bit confused, but complies. There's only one ring on England's right hand, and it's a huge golden band with some kind of gorgeous jewel in the middle. France removes it carefully, trying not to touch the superpower at all. He holds the ring limp in his palm as he waits for further instruction.

"Put it on your finger."

France looks up. Utterly lost now, he slips it on his middle finger — the only finger the ring fits on without falling off. "It's for you," England says when he sees France's face. England leans forwards, smoothing away France's forehead locks, and plants a gentle kiss there. Then he whispers, right in France's ear, "Come to my room tonight. As for my proposition…well, think about it. Meeting starts in ten minutes, so I'm heading back. Don't move from this spot until I'm outside."

So France waits, and watches, as England pushes himself off the chair and exits the shop. And he wonders what people usually mean when they say Come to my room tonight.