France came back up again with some hot, buttered toast on a plate, which was covered by a dish-type thing, to apparently, keep it warm. Yet, upon seeing his Angleterre so calm, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, France found it hard not to go over there and just take him. But, still, that would have been evil. He set the plate on the bedside table, opened the curtains, to let the morning sun in, and looked at the Brit again. Ah, if only he was this quiet all the time. It made him so much more than lovable.

Still, France would have to find a way to satisfy that love he felt, swirling around inside himself. He bent down, and very softly, just touched England's lips with his own, but quickly, so as not to interrupt the flow of the other's breathing. Yet, both of them were quite unprepared for what came next.

England's hand slid up to France's blonde hair -so, he was faking, hmm? - and stayed there, keeping him in. Out went all thought of being careful. France's hand caressed England's cheek, finally being able to explore every curve of that beautiful face without being slapped away or reprimanded, as he slid gently onto the other man in a straddle.

England's breath hitched in his throat. So, he had fallen for the Frog, then. France slowly, reluctantly pulled out of the kiss. England stared at him for a moment until his face turned red, and he had to look away. As it turned out, this was where two fairies happened to be perched on top of a mirror, giggling at the two men. England's eyes grew wide and he made a 'shoo, shoo!' gesture with his hand. The fairies had one last laughing fit before they flitted out of the slightly open window. England's gaze finally settled on the covered dish.

"What would that be?" he carefully asked. Bending over to the dish (and putting weight on a place that England had never known to be so pleasurable), with a smooth flick of the wrist, France pulled off the cover. England heard his stomach rumble, embarrassingly loudly.

"How long was I asleep?" he questioned, realising that his earlier assumption of not having slept very long at all was quite far off the mark, as portrayed by the daylight streaming in through the windows.

"C'est le matin, mon petit lapin. And so that is your breakfast," came the reply. England nodded and made to sit up, against the headboard. France slid off him and picked up the dish, setting it in front of him.

"Please, don't watch me eat," England sighed.

"Ah, sorry!" France cried, and left England in peace, but not before a quick kiss on the cheek. England rolled his eyes, smiled, and tucked into his breakfast. He'd never expected to end up having a man as his lover, especially the one with whom he'd had a rivalry as old as time, but... this just seemed right. He felt happy in France's embrace, and for the first time in a while, completely at peace with himself. Though, he sadly contemplated, the fights wouldn't be far behind, unless they could both keep a lid on their tempers.

He still hated and feared to think exactly how Francis would take things out on him. They fought at the meetings ever such a lot, too.

You know how he'd end up winning things, his mind told him.

The lyrics from the song echoed in his head.

'Ooh-ooh... Pain is so close to pleasure...'

A.N:

Thank you for reading! I hope this is okay, it's only been half beta'd by my sister and I.

This is my first fanfiction! Ve, I beat Lovi to it~

She owes me some pasta. We took a bet.

Thank you again!

Feli~