This chapter is a little less implied and a little more plain rated M. And, when you get to the end, don't worry. I still have more to write and I'll write it as fast as I can.

Arthur stared blearily at the back of his couch. After the exceedingly awkward dinner with he, Francis, and that woman, Arthur had thrown them out of the house and then watched horror movies until late in the night. During one of them, he must have fallen asleep because it was now over, the TV's sleep mode screen flashing. He had woken up to find himself pressed face first against the back of the couch.

He sighed when he saw what time it was but didn't move. It was already about 3AM so he might as well just sleep there until the morning. It wasn't as if he had anything to do that day anyway.

"Are you finally awake, mon cher?" The soft voice sent a jolt of energy down his spine and he smelled the man before he saw him. He looked up and saw that Francis was leaning over him.

"I thought I told you to go home," Arthur groaned, turning away.

"You did," Francis agreed. "But I was already in town so I came back to sleep here. It wasn't very nice of you to sleep somewhere as small as this couch. I can't cuddle with you." Francis's breath ghosted over Arthur's ear and he shivered.

"Maybe that was the point, you bloody git," Arthur tried to snap but because he was so tired, it just came out flat.

Francis suddenly pulled Arthur's head back by his hair, exposing his neck. Without another word, Francis bit on the underside of Arthur's jaw, pulling a groan out of his throat. Then Francis proceeded to suck on the bite and, once he had made a large enough mark, he licked it slowly. Arthur tried to hold back his groan but couldn't.

"St-stop it," he whispered and Francis smirked.

"But you liked it so much," he purred, licking along Arthur's jaw line. Arthur suddenly froze.

"How many hickeys did you give that woman?" he asked suddenly, feeling angry again. Francis blinked and pulled away from Arthur's jaw.

"None," he replied. It was Arthur's turn to look surprised.

"You're lying," he said and Francis shook his head.

"I'm not," he insisted. Arthur looked up at Francis a moment more and then turned away.

"Whatever," Arthur grumbled, trying to ignore the warm feeling curling in his stomach.

He felt Francis above him and turned just slightly. Francis grabbed Arthur and roughly flipped him onto his back, spreading his legs so that Francis could sit in between them. Arthur blushed bright red and tried to shove Francis off.

"Non," Francis said breathlessly and Arthur could see the small tent Francis's erection was making in the front of his pants. Arthur bit his lip to prevent himself from panting as Francis began to rub Arthur's clothed member through his pants. "Let your noises out," Francis demanded. "I want to hear you." Arthur looked up at Francis, not sure what expression to make.

"France, I…" Arthur began and then looked away, closing his eyes. "Please…stop." Maybe it was the tone of Arthur's voice that did it but whatever it was, Francis stopped. Arthur sighed and relaxed against the couch. "Just go home and leave me be."

Arthur was just too exhausted. He was still angry with Francis and he was sure that Francis had had all kinds of fun with that Katarina woman, but he had no energy to yell. He just wanted Francis to go away and stay away. Francis wasn't helping anything. All he was doing was making everything worse.

"Do you mean that, Arthur?" Francis asked, looking down at the man. Arthur nodded.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "Go away." Francis removed himself from the couch and Arthur shivered as the warmth left him. A few moments later, he heard the front door open and then close.

Francis was gone.

When Arthur finally got up, it was already noon. He groaned and then struggled to get up from the couch. Why he ever slept on such an uncomfortable thing he could never figure out the next morning. He stretched and felt his back and neck pop.

Going to the kitchen, he quickly made some tea and then sat down to read that day's newspaper, which had been left on the porch as usual. Despite it being his normal routine, Arthur found that he was unable to concentrate. All he could think about was being mad at Francis and the deadly future that awaited him.

I thought that I would finally be able to tell Francis that I loved him, he thought to himself. At least I thought maybe we could be friends before I died, but now I don't think that's possible. It's clear that he doesn't care for me at all and that he has no interest in being anything more than fuck buddies. Arthur sighed.

"Bloody hell, Francis," he said to himself. "Do you even know what you do to me?" He rubbed his face wearily with his hand. "And now we're never going to have a chance, even if you could bring yourself to care about an idiot like me…"

So the matter with Francis was settled. Now on to something else much worse.

Arthur suddenly choked and clutched his side as a sharp pain raced through him. He nearly spilled his tea but managed to set it back down on the table, teeth clenched. He didn't have to look at the news to know what had happened.

There had been a riot and a bomb had gone off. Arthur looked down at his side and saw that there was blood oozing out of a wound. People had died. The bomb had taken lives. Arthur grimaced and limped upstairs to his first aid kit. He then rinsed the blood off and applied a band-aid.

"The war hasn't even begun and I'm already injured," Arthur murmured. "By my own people…" He grimaced as another pang flooded his body. He felt his legs shake and then found himself on the floor. His legs had collapsed. "What am I going to do?" He was gasping for breath and couldn't stop quivering.

I'm not ready for death, he thought, horror filling him up from the inside. I've endured pain, I've endured loss, but a country is never supposed to die. We don't ever have to face that as the mortals do. I can't die. I just can't! He felt tears prick his eyes and then a thought raced through his mind.

"Prussia," he breathed. Prussia had died and was now staying with Germany. Gilbert would know what it was like to die. Arthur clutched at that frail string of thought as a drowning man would clutch to anything just to stay above the surface of the water.

It was just a simple matter of calling Ludwig and arranging to meet with Prussia. Arthur stifled a cry as another blast ricocheted through his core. The sooner he spoke with Gilbert, the better.

Arthur cleaned his new wound and then stumbled outside. He was going to work in his garden to get his mind off things. Arthur knew that no matter what he did, the end result would remain the same. Ivan would kill him mercilessly and Arthur would lose Francis forever.

Francis took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Arthur's house. He had done a lot of thinking and realized that he shouldn't have brought Katarina home. He hadn't meant anything by it…okay, well, he had. But it was just one of his usual flings. He didn't see why Arthur had gotten so upset. Didn't the Englishman know that Francis was in love with him and always would be?

He sighed and then frowned as he realized there had been no answer to the door. He knocked again, harder this time.

"Arthur?" he called. "Are you in there?" No one replied. "I came to say I'm sorry," Francis continued, knocking again. The door didn't open and Francis didn't hear any noise coming from inside. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his keys. "Arthur, I'm coming in," he said and unlocked the door.

The house was unnaturally still. Francis looked outside to make sure Arthur's car was still in its place.

It was.

Francis looked around cautiously, a strange feeling creeping over him.

"Arthur?" he repeated. "Where are you, mon ami?" He knew Arthur hated when he spoke French but he couldn't help it. It just rolled off his tongue. He was the country of France after all.

Francis walked to the kitchen and saw that Arthur had left his tea out on the table. He smiled. Arthur did tend to forget to finish his tea once he left the kitchen. Francis frowned suddenly, spotting something on the floor next to the chair.

He knelt down and touched it softly. A red substance came up and smeared on his fingertip.

Blood?

Francis stood up quickly and raced to the stairs. He stopped up short and actually took a few steps backwards.

In a thick oozing trail leading from the back door, blood coated the stairs, banister, and walls. Francis walked up the stairs, carefully avoiding the blood.

"Arthur?" he asked, concerned. "Arthur?" he repeated, louder this time. As the blood continued, Francis's stomach curled into a tight ball. "Arthur?" he shouted, not even caring that his voice was shaking. He slipped on a patch of blood and righted himself on the wall. He pulled his hand away and saw that it was smeared with blood. He paled and attempted to calm his breathing.

The trail of blood led into Arthur's bedroom.

Francis hesitated only a moment before continuing on.

When he reached the doorway, he couldn't find his voice.

There, lying on the bloodstained bed, was Arthur, a gaping wound on one side of him.

"Arthur!" Francis screamed, choking on the stench of blood. He stumbled toward the still man, tears beginning to form in his blue eyes. "No…" Francis breathed, still not seeing any movement from Arthur. "No…mon Dieu…"