A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks. Real life caught up with me (mmmn, love to my Korea/Hungary. *happyface*), and my inner!FrUK ran away for a month. They eloped. And came back happy and fluffy and--yeah. XD;;

Thanks so much to everyone who added/favourited/commented. You're all awesome, and thank you for making me so happy!


France can see that England's attention isn't on America as the boy reads through his ridiculous notes, but out of the window where white flakes have been falling on and off all morning. He recalls a semi-drunken conversation they had – oh, two, maybe three years ago. England had been complaining about the rain (which wasn't that unusual), but had gone on to complain about how little snow he was getting these days, and how much he missed it.

France wonders if he still misses it.

He realises that his own concentration is focused out of the window, although he is watching the grey expanse rather than the snowfall like England. Well, bless America, he does tend to go on, and it is rather boring. He pulls his attention back to the bespectacled Nation, and struggles to focus on him and what he is saying. As he does, he begins to realise that even America's concentration isn't on his notes, and the boy is practically stammering, as his gaze swings to the window almost constantly.

Standing up, France shakes his hair out as all eyes fall on him. "I call for a break." He says, smugly.

America straightens up, grinning. "I agree." His words are only seconds before calls echo around the room, as Nations stand up, some already gathering their things. No one wants to be there.

Out of the corner of his eye, and through the chaos of Nations moving to be with friends, France catches sight of England slipping out of the hall. Spain is coming over to him, and France quickly waves him off with a flick of his wrist, as he dodges past North Italy and Germany to follow the other blonde out of the room.

England is standing just outside, still in the lee of the door, one hand held out into the light snowfall. France stands back and watches him as England lifts his hand to his face to watch a snowflake melt into his calloused skin. A smirk curves the corners of France's mouth, and he steps forward, hands out stretched. Firmly pressing against England's shoulders he pushes him out into the snow.

The other Nation turns to glare at him, as white flakes begin to settle in his hair and on his shoulders. "What was that for, frog?"

"Aww, Angleterre, I know you wanted to go out in it."

"S-shut up! What do you know?"

France just laughs, stepping out of the doorway. England takes a few steps back, his black shoes now almost white with snow. "It was all over your face, mon cher."

England growls, gritting his teeth, fists clenching, and France laughs again, smiling fondly at the younger Nation. Before he has a chance to react, England has crouched, gathering a handful of snow, and flinging it at his face. The make shift snowball isn't packed together, and it doesn't hit him with any sort of force, but the cold shock to his face still makes France step back in shock.

For a moment he is still, and then he chuckles, brushing the snow off his face with his suit sleeve as he rushes past England. He has already seen the look on France's face and has crouched again, gathering another snowball, and throwing it just as France launches his first one.

Spain steps out of the doorway just in time to be caught on the shoulder by a badly aimed throw by France, and France can hear North Italy's giggles from the corridor. Soon other Nations are piling out of the doorway, joining in with the impromptu fight. A few of them hang back by the walls, but that just makes them targets, and by the time Japan has been hit in the face by a particularly well aimed throw by South Korea those who want to stay out of the madness have learnt better than to linger there. Only Russia seems to be mostly unhit, for what France can only think of as obvious reasons.

France sidles over to America and Canada while England is distracted attempting to hit China's back. A few furtive whispers later, and France dances away before England can notice, although not quickly enough to dodge a snowball that comes from his left (one of the Italys, France suspects, seeing them out of the corner of his eye, and launching a few half-aimed handfuls of snow at them).

By now, fingers are numbing and suits are soaking wet, and many of the Nations have already retreated indoors, but the two American Nations catch England easily before he has a chance to escape. Canada and America bombard England with snowballs, and soon Australia and Sealand come over to join in the abuse, wicked grins on all of their faces.

England half-screams when France sneaks up behind him, unnoticed because of the flurry of snowballs from England's former colonies, and shoves a handful of snow under his collar. Turning, he forces a handful of snow in France's face at the same time as he squirms, trying to dislodge the melting snow, but France is laughing too much to care. It was worth it for the scream, and judging by the laughter from behind England the others agree too.

"Fucking frog." England is still squirming desperately, and as he shrugs out of his suit jacket France noticed that his fingers are grey with cold. They are the only ones left by now: even the other four are slipping back into the warmth of the meeting hall to gather around the radiators with the other Nations. "What the hell was that for?"

France grins, taking England's jacket, and reaching round to unhook the younger Nation's shirt at the back. England shifts his shoulders so that the snow that hadn't melted falls out, although France can see through the white shirt that his back was soaking. "Fun, Angleterre." He replies with a smile as he wraps his arm around England's back and gently leads him back inside.

"Well, you couldn't have got someone else? This is my best suit." England shifts slightly, but doesn't shake France off. Both of them are shivering slightly, and they emit identical sighs of relief as they step out of the cold into the heated doorway.

Glancing to his side, France takes England in. He is soaking, his messy hair clinging to his pale features, and his nose is red and slightly running, but he is also grinning wildly in the kind of way that France doesn't get to see so often any more.

Tugging him a bit closer, France smiles to himself, even when England dislodges himself. Shoulder to shoulder, there was no way he could forget that England was older now, but for a moment he's seen a glimpse of the wild youngster that he misses so much.