How is it that the country of love himself has lost the only person he's truly loved?
A week later, France is still sadly pondering this question. Having put the roses meant for his love in a vase, he now stares at them, his heart heavy and a frown on his handsome face. He picks the keys to his car and house off the coffee table next to the vase with a sigh, then looks in the mirror. He straightens his white tie, takes a deep breath, and walks out the door of his summer house. Time to go to the World Meeting.
And face America.
Immediately, France's heart falls to pieces. He had, assuming he was the first one there, walked in with a frown, which deepens at the sight in front of him. America and England, locked in a tight embrace. England's ungrateful hands are entangled in the younger's golden hair, his mouth moving feverishly against the others.
England doesn't deserve America. It was practically treason, to see America with someone who would never fully appreciate him, and it physically hurt France to know that, even though he would never take a second with America for granted, (namely because he did not get to be with America freely without looking suspicious,) he could not hold the younger, could not touch him the way England touched him now, for he knew he would be rejected. This was a fact, judging by the scene in front of him right now. England had somehow stolen America's heart.
He clears his throat, and America jumps away from England, turning bright red. When his eyes land on France, he stares in confusion for a second before shaking his head and moving over to the Frenchman. He sits in a red chair next to him with a giant grin.
"Hey Francey-pants!" He exclaims happily, "You know, you seem different, too!"
"...Different?" France asks curiously, a small smile creeping onto his lips.
Stupid America, smiling that stupid annoying grin that makes him so happy, when he's supposed to be mad and sad.
"Yeah, like... I dunno... There's something missing..." America's blonde brows furrow in confusion.
England places a hand on the younger's shoulder, smiling. "Haha, I wonder what that could be?" He asks, and France can tell he's feigning confusion.
...What was going on? If England did anything to America, oh, there would be hell to pay.
"America, why don't you come with me?" England asks, taking America's wrist.
"Sure... But don't be too long, I want to talk to France for a while." America replies, standing up and smiling happily at France, who smiles back, though this time it's fake.
"America, can you hear me?" England asks, locking the door, unaware of a certain country leaning against the other side of the door, which lead to a small room that looked to be meant for having tea.
"Yes..." The America, whose eyes are closed and is slumped in a random wooden chair says in a monotone voice.
France furrows his brows. America would never talk in such a boring manner! ...And why wouldn't he be able to hear England?
"Good. I would like you to tell me what is different about France."
The man in question shifts outside the door, pressing his ear even closer. He would like to hear this.
Still in a monotone voice, America replies, "He used to make me feel funny...Like with you yesterday..."
Well, that's nice, France thinks, I make him feel funny... But what happened with England yesterday?
England, meanwhile, is gaping openly at the America. Could he possibly have been in love...?
"...Sunrise." England says in a stern voice.
A second later, France hears stirring, and then America saying, "What happened?"
Then, he hears footsteps coming toward the door, and he runs back into the main meting room, his heart pounding and his mind racing. What the hell had he just listened to?
France sighs, flopping down on his comfy white couch. One of the perks of having World Meetings at his place.
He grabs the remote to the TV, but doesn't turn it on. Instead, he throws it at the wall angrily.
How had England, a stuffy old man, gotten someone such as America, a fun-loving, ditzy, handsome man, all to himself? It just didn't add up. America had always thought of England as his brother, and now all of a sudden they were kissing in the meeting room? Something was definitely off.
Yes, it was off, and not just because France was angry about it so he thought it was weird... No, it was definitely strange... Well, for America, at least, it was strange. The entire world (quite literally) had known how England felt for America, long before he even realized how he felt himself. America, though, somehow had no idea about the elder's feelings, even when England had straight up kissed him. (It was a quick kiss on the lips) So why were they going out?
And what had he listened to while he was eavesdropping? That voice... How could it have possibly been America's? It was so... So dead sounding, it almost made France want to cry. America was full of life and love, and it showed in his voice, which was bubbly and happy and sort-of high-pitched.
America's voice was the most beautiful sound France had ever heard. And then when you paired it up with his bright, baby blue eyes, his golden hair, his slightly tanned skin, and his energetic, fun, sweet, caring personality, you end up with an irresistible person. It was almost unbelievable how beautiful America was.
France, though he would never tell anyone, was positive this is the first time in his entire existence that he had felt less beautiful or less worthy than the other. Hell, he was positive he'd never even had to try to get someone, they all just came to him. France may have said he liked a challenge, but... Now that America was a challenge, he had changed his tune.
Because America was his, damn it! And he shouldn't have to run all over the place trying to win his heart!
Not that he wouldn't do it, of course, because he would. He wanted America to be his more than anything else, and, being the country of love, knew that America would be the only thing France wanted until he had him.
And so, he picks up him phone (glam-ified by Poland) and dials a number.
"Bonjour, old friend. I must ask you a favor."