Part II

Two weeks later…

The crystal-blue-eyed man walked up to the front door of the imposing British mansion, a small smile curving up his thin, handsome lips. He had a dark brown satchel hanging over his shoulder and he was wearing black shoes that weren't quite dress shoes but were much nicer than sneakers, dark blue jeans, and a loose, salmon-colored button up. Because it was getting towards the latter part of the fall season, he also had on a light brown coat and a red scarf wrapped around his neck to keep the worst of the chill at bay. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and knocked on the large wooden door, listening to the sound echo through the air for a few seconds before it was drowned out by the wind.

"Angleterre?" the blonde called out in a thick, French accent. He smiled a bit wider; it felt good to say that name. He hadn't used it in quite a while. It felt like years since the Frenchman had seen his British gentleman… Of course, in reality it had only been a few months; their last World Meeting had been in September. However, it didn't usually take this long before the two European Nations made contact. Despite their apparent dislike of each other, the two men seemed unable to keep themselves from bothering each other.

The Frenchman frowned when he got no response after a few minutes of waiting. He knocked and called out again, thinking that the Englishman must not have heard him the first time. However, his inquiry was once again met by nothing but silence. This was certainly out of the ordinary; even though Arthur never wished for a visit from Francis, he would at least dignify him with some sort of rude send-off through the door, usually until the taller blonde managed to somehow convince the Englishmen to let him inside. But today, there was nothing.

France was starting to wonder if the Brit was out. He glanced towards his driveway and saw that his car was still parked in its normal spot right next to the house. Because he lived in the countryside, it would take England quite a while to get to town if he walked, so he never traveled on foot. This meant that either someone had come to pick him up (a rare occasion, seeing as he wasn't the most social of fellows), or he was hiding out in his house for some unknown reason. This called for some investigating.

Smirking slightly, France bent down and reached under the small flowerpot at his feet. If his memory served him correctly, England always kept a spare key under there in case he locked himself out (which happened more than the Brit would care to admit). Sure enough, France soon grasped a small, cool metal object. He replaced the pot to its original position next to the door and stepped up to the lock, sliding the key in with little difficulty. He knew that England would probably have a fit that France let himself in, but he couldn't blame the Frenchman for being concerned, now could he?

This was the logic that ran through France's mind as he slowly opened the door and walked into the grand foyer of the other Nation's house. He closed the door behind him, still holding the spare key in his hand, and looked around, frowning.

"Angleterre?" he called again, noticing that the house was uncharacteristically dark. Not only were all the blinds closed, but there were only a few candles lit here and there to provide the minutest light to see by. France had to strain his eyes to see even a few feet in front of him. He slipped his bag off and placed it on the floor, and then he took of his coat and scarf, hanging them on the coat rack next to the door. Carefully, his hands outstretched in front of him, he began to walk forwards, wondering where in the world his England could be in this dark house.

Shit, England thought, peering around the corner of the entrance to the living room. He knew he should have moved that spare key under the flowerpot… He had just never thought that someone, let alone France of all people, would come calling so soon. He still hadn't been able to finish the antidote; the ingredients he needed were in-transit, and they wouldn't expected to arrive for another week at least. England had steeled himself to the fact that he would have to deal with this body for a little while longer. He would be perfectly fine, as long as he could stay holed-up in his house. There, in the quiet darkness, it was easy for him to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach that screamed out for him to satiate it.

But then France had to show up. The taller blonde wasn't even next to him, but the mere presence of someone, another human soul nearby, was enough to send a spike of adrenaline coursing through the Brit's vampiric body. He had heard the Frenchman come to the door, of course; he had been standing right in the foyer as the accented voice had called out for him. Even though he despised Francis (or so he claimed to anyone that asked), he couldn't help the strong urge to open the door and let him in, if only for some sort of human contact. The Brit had been living in a black hole, literally and figuratively, for the past two weeks; his magical friends had long-since stopped coming near him. They still checked up on him every few days, and England could sometimes feel their small eyes on his back as he wandered aimlessly around his house, waiting for the ingredients to arrive so that he could finally leave this personal hell-hole of his… But they refused to come near him.

Which was probably best for everyone; barely a few days after his transformation, England had had a small breakdown of nerves and had lunged at Flying Mint Bunny, who had come up next to him to comfortingly nuzzle his best friend's neck. The poor rabbit had barely, but thankfully, escaped the vampire's grasp, although he had lost a few wing feathers in the process. The Nation had immediately regretted this, of course, but he and all of his magical friends had then agreed that it was best if they keep out of his way until he was healed.

And that was also when England decided to lock himself up in his house until he was able to cure himself. If he had already made a move towards his innocent little Flying Mint Bunny, there was no telling what he would do to a human. Even though his mindset was still that of a human, his body was now that of a vampire… and the instinct to feed was extremely strong. It had gotten worse over the past two weeks, but England had been able to ignore it. But now… there was a human standing right in his foyer. And not just any human- another Nation. There was no telling what the consequences would be should anything befall France… England had to get him out of the house as soon as possible.

"Angleterre?" the Frenchman called, having already put his stuff down by the door and started to walk forwards. While the dim candlelight was ideal for England's sensitive eyes, it was obvious that Francis was having trouble by the way his hands were thrust out in front of him, feeling for anything he might accidentally run into. England narrowed his eyes; France seemed to be searching for something. He began to feel along the wall, lightly brushing his fingers against paintings and pictures, nearly tripping over a table at one point. Finally, his hand settled on something and he stood up straighter as his thin fingers grasped at it. England realized what it was a split-second too late.

"BLOODY HELL!" he screamed as Francis flicked the light-switch, instantly flooding the foyer with bright light. He sat down, scrunched his legs up to his chest and buried his face in his knees; he hadn't had the lights on since Halloween night, since he was much more comfortable in the near-darkness, and the sudden brightness was too much for him. He stayed huddled in a ball even as he felt a presence kneel down by his side.

"Mon amour, are you alright?!" England heard the Frenchman ask as he placed one of his hands gingerly against England's back, as if afraid that the Brit would startle at the touch. Said man sighed and kept his face buried; what the hell was he supposed to do?! He couldn't let France know what he had become… the whole point of him holing up in his house was so that people wouldn't find out! And now this damn idiot just had to come and ruin it… Although, if he tried hard enough and managed to get France out of his house fairly quickly, he might just be able to save face. The question was: how exactly would he get Francis out?

"I-I'm fine, you git!" England snapped, shifting his back so that France's hand was no longer touching it. However, he still didn't pick his head up. When he spoke, his tongue had run over the two canine teeth that were currently protruding from his upper gums… that would be a hard thing to give an explanation for. But he couldn't just sit in a ball and hope that Francis would leave, either. "Just leave me alone!"

"Non, I came all this way to see if you were alright! I'm not just going to leave!" Francis responded. England sighed; of course. There was no way it would be that easy to get rid of him. Slowly, he lifted his head up, keeping one hand over his mouth. Francis was staring at him with a concerned expression etched across his handsome face. England mentally scolded himself; France was not "handsome," he was… aggravating, and that was it.

"Why were you sitting in the dark, mon cher?" the Frenchman asked, reaching out a hand towards the Brit. Said emerald-eyed man slapped the offered hand away and glared over his knees.

"Because I can, Frog," he snapped, not in the mood to chat. France frowned; the Englishman had always been a bit… brusque, to say the least, but it was very unlike him to insist on hiding his face.

"Are you sick?" the long-haired blonde questioned, but England merely shook his head. France sighed and gave him a soft smile. "The why won't you show me your beautiful face, mon amour?"

The Brit quickly buried his face further into his knees to hide the blush that has instantly started to spread across his pale cheeks at France's question. Though he hated more than anything to admit it, sometimes the Frenchman's words sent shivers down his spine. He didn't want to think that he could possibly be falling for the man that had despised for centuries upon centuries… but these days, he was never quite certain where his feelings lied. Yes, they had spent a few scattered nights together in the past, but those were only short flings with no meaning attached to them (usually involving heavy intoxication on both parts).

However, over the past few decades, England has slowly started to notice that France was no longer merely trying to get into his pants; the romantic Nation seemed, in an odd way, to be trying to woo the Brit instead. Sort of like a modern-day Romeo with a lot more roses and frilly clothes.

But look where they ended up, the Englishman told himself every time these thoughts began to cross his mind. It would be a horrible idea to return the Frenchman's affections. Not only did intimate relationships between Nations usually end badly, but England would never be able to live it down if, after vehemently denying any sort of affections for France, it was revealed that he really did care for the ice blue-eyed Nation. He was afraid of being labeled as "easy" and he was afraid of other bigger, stronger Nations than he using this opportunity to take him down once and for all. But mostly… he was afraid of hurting this surprisingly sensitive man more than he already had.

This inner dilemma was running through England's head as France gazed at him worriedly, the blonde's ice-blue eyes showing nothing but concern. Even if the Englishman never returned his affections, France still couldn't help but worry. He had known for a long time that he was in love with Britain, but he had only just recently (in Nation terms, which meant quite a few decades) found the proper way to show it that wouldn't send the green-eyed man running for the hills at the mere sight of him.

"Angleterre, qu'est-ce que c'est?" France questioned, automatically slipping into his native tongue. Though he knew that England could understand him whether he spoke English or French, he always tried his best to speak the other's language in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable. Knowing how particular England was about everything, France thought that anything he could to do make their encounters just a little bit easier would help his chances.

"Nothing," England mumbled, peering over his knees again, seeming not to notice nor care about France's change of speech. "Go away."

"That's not an answer, mon cher… Won't you tell me what's wrong?" England's emerald eyes narrowed; the stupid Frog just didn't seem to get it.

"I'm. Fine," he replied through clenched teeth. France merely frowned back at him.

"I am going to sit here until you tell me what's the matter," the Frenchman said, adjusting his position so that he was now sitting Indian style, facing the aggravated Brit. England attempted to burn a hole through the annoying blonde with his gaze, but it had no effect; the other Nation simply crossed his arms in front of him and waited.

England heaved a huge sigh. He really, really didn't want to have to reveal his current state to anyone, especially not to France of all people…but it seemed like he had no other choice at this point. Obviously, the other man wasn't going to leave his side until he got some sort of explanation.

"Just… wait until I explain before you overreact, alright?" the Englishman told him reluctantly. A worried crease formed between the Frenchman's eyebrows, but he nodded and kept his mouth shut. England stared at him for another moment, hoping that he would change his mind at the last second and decide to leave, but of course that wasn't going to happen. Cautiously, he lifted his head up so that France could get a view of his entire face.

"On Halloween, I had a little…incident," he admitted. He tried to keep his mouth as closed as possible, but it was impossible to totally hide the canines that were so prominently visible. France's frown deepened what he caught a glimpse of the flash of white that should not have been in the Englishman's mouth under normal circumstances.

"An…incident?" the Frenchman repeated, and England nodded, looking guiltily at the floor.

"Remember how America and I have that contest going on where we try to out-scare each other?" France inclined his head, trying to figure out what was wrong with his love's mouth. "Did America tell you how I won this year?"

"He mentioned that you won but non, he never said how exactly you did it," the blue-eyed blonde repeated, his brow still furrowed. England let out a small sigh and glanced up through his eyelashes, trying his best to look France in the eye and avoid eye-contact at the same time; he couldn't believe that he was being forced to reveal such a serious magical blunder to someone.

"Well, you know how he goes through phases of what he's most interested and sometimes scared of?" he asked, and France nodded. "A few years ago, he was extremely entranced by vampires, so…"

"Oh, Angleterre, you didn't…," France tried his best not to groan. He didn't want to believe that the Brit would be naive enough to go for his love of authenticity on this occasion… but he knew that this was indeed the case when England finally opened his mouth.

"I wanted to make myself as believable as possible," he said, giving France a wry, fanged smile. The Frenchman's eyes widened at the flash of white canines. "And, well… I turned myself into a vampire."

A/N: As much as I love working on this story, I don't know when I'll get to put up the next part due to finals rapidly approaching. I definitely have plans to continue this story, but the next part might not be up for a bit. Please keep an eye out for it! :)