AN: Written while listening to "Airplanes" by The Ready Set on a loop. Love that song, and I love its message, even if it's a little sad. And yes, I borrowed a few of the lyrics to use in this chapter. XP Anyway, here it is, the next chapter of International! Please enjoy and please review.

A Place Much Simpler than This

It was nighttime in Paris. Streetlamps were aglow, and the Eiffel Tower was lit up in white lights. The sky was a dusky blue-black, and despite the late hour, there weren't any stars visible in the sky. There were just too many lights on the ground. Many people had turned in for a good night's sleep, but there were still many people out in the darkened streets, enjoying what a Paris night had to offer, and the wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower at night.

On the eighth floor of a building that was surprisingly nondescript from the front, there was an office still occupied, and documents were being signed there. The office itself was elegantly decorated, a mahogany desk sitting on an expensive red rug, genuine canvas paintings on the wall, and a tall shelf of thick and dusty books against the wine-colored walls. If you knew the person who owned the office, you'd be surprised by the blue, ceramic vase of white lilies sitting on the desk. If you knew who the person who owned the office was, you'd be much less so.

A fancy, gilded pen swished an elaborate, cursive signature on the line at the bottom of a piece of paper.

Francis Bonnefoy

The man who'd just signed passed the paper across the desk to the man meeting with him. The recipient of the signed paper put it away in a briefcase, and then sighed tiredly.

"Finally." He stood up from his chair and stretched half-asleep limbs. "Dude, it sure took you long enough."

"You were the one who called for this meeting, Amérique. Besides, the time it took to sort out my part in this scheme is going to be well worth it, je crois. It is très important, no?" France replied. He was likewise sick of sitting down however, and joined America in standing up. France turned his head to the side, glancing behind him at the large, glass doors. It was terribly warm in the office, and cool, nighttime Paris air was just a few steps away. What the heck.

France stepped to the glass double doors and turned the silver handles. Then, he pushed out, sending them swing outwards and letting in a gentle breeze.

America loosened his too-tight red tie and slid the formal, navy-blue suit jacket off his shoulders. He drank in the cool, fresh air. "Man, that feels nice."

"Would you like to join me on le balcony? There's still time before you have to go." France waved a hand towards the balcony in welcome while stepping outside the stifling threshold of the office. He breathed in deeply, savoring the air, and then let it out in a sigh. He rested his arms on the metal railing."Très agréable."

The younger nation stepped outside, jacket hung messily over one arm, and strode forward to stand next to his older companion and co-worker. He leaned out over the steel safety banister, further than was probably safe, but the view of the Eiffel Tower over the River Seine was simply extraordinary. Lights reflected off of placid waves in the water, and the gigantic iron monument was a sight all by itself. America stretched onto his tip-toes and leaned over another few inches, hands gripping the railing.

"Lean out any further than that, and you will fall over into la rivière, Amérique." France warned, though his mouth curled into a small, amused smile.

America replied nonchalantly with a casual flip of the hand. "Relax, Frenchie. I can keep a grip on the railing. Besides, you're not gonna shove me over like Russky, are you? Ahahaha!" Despite the laugh and dismissal of the warning, America shifted back to a safer stance anyway.

Neither spoke for a while after that. Instead, they simply looked out over the River Seine and at the city of Paris, enjoying the view and amiable company.

Then, France, not taking his eyes off the the city, said. "Il est enchanteur, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yeah, it is." America replied. He gazed peacefully at those streets so pleasantly illuminated, and the attention-grabbing vision of the Eiffel Tower. "La Ville Lumière. The city of lights. Great nickname for this place."

France remarked offhandedly and teasingly. "Your accent is appalling."

"Haha! I know!" America laughed as brightly as the city below. "Japan thinks it's funny!"

Comfortable silence reigned once more.

Then, a small, blinking, white dot of light on the dark canvas of the night sky caught America's attention. It was far away, and drifting along in the cloudless void oh so slowly...

"Hey, look!" America let his suit jacket fall off his arm and haphazardly onto the balcony railing. He raised that arm and pointed up to the blinking light overhead. Excitedly, like it was the first time he'd ever seen one, he exclaimed. "It's an airplane!"

His companion looked at him oddly. "Amérique, you just got off a plane six hours ago, and you're getting on another one in three more. You told me yourself that you've been catching flights from Australia, to India, to China, to the Baltics, to here in the past few days to sort out this plan of yours. Not to mention you have not yet even collected agreements from the rest of the G8 or the Nordiques. Aren't you sick of flying?"

America shook his head with a smile, letting his arm fall back to his side. But he kept his face towards the sky, chin resting in one hand, eyes on the little, drifting light above. "No." He responded wistfully. "I could never be sick of flying."

"Ah." France nodded smugly and knowingly. He monologued with a dreamy, romantic tone of voice. "Je comprends très bien. Oui, I understand. You have a passion for flight, amour for the air, a romance with the clouds." He placed a hand over his heart and allowed the fingers of his other hand intertwine with the stem of a rose. "Much like your frère, Angleterre, has always had with l'océan. When Britannia ruled the waves, notre cher Angleterre would often sail on one long voyage after another, never tiring of the salty sea. Your heart takes after his, but revels in the freedom of le ciel rather than that of la mer."

The Frenchman received a confused look from the American. "Huh?"

France sighed exasperatedly. He resisted the urge to face-palm and instead simplified his speech. Flatly, he clarified. "You like planes."

"Oh, yeah, I totally love 'em!" America exclaimed happily, grinning at his companion. He pumped a fist in the air. "Biggest air force in the world, baby! AHAHA-HAHA! U-S-A~!"

Unnoticed by America, the sound of a palm meeting a forehead came and went.

"Of course." France grumbled, partly to himself, partly to no one. He was going to make a comment about wasting words on idiots, but then...

Then, America's smile fell, and an expression of uncertainty and longing was planted on his face as he kept looking up at the only speck of light in the sky. And when he spoke, there was a hesitation and lack of confidence to his voice opposite to his very nature. Something was weighing heavily in his thoughts."H-hey... France..."

"Oui? I'm listening, Amérique. You can tell Papa France what's on your mind." And because there was no one else to witness, he really meant it.

Still looking up at that blinking light that was a commercial flight, America asked something strange. "Just for tonight... Can we pretend... Can we pretend that airplanes are like shooting stars?"

The question surprised France. Partly because it was odd, and a little random, but mostly because it was much deeper than anything that could've usually been expected from America. He responded thoughtfully. "Why? Do you want to make a wish?"

In reply there came a silent nod.

"Eh then..." France prodded the younger nation. "What would you wish for, if you had one chance?" He smiled teasingly. "Come now, Amérique, tell me. Money to pay off your debt? More jobs in your economy? Or is this a desire for that impossible ideal you call world peace?"

"No, nothing like that..." America shook his head slowly. He sighed bashfully, laughing awkwardly. He glanced at France. "Ahaha... I guess, this wish is a selfish one."

France was intrigued. "Oh?"

"Yeah." America sighed, gazing up at the little moving light again, the wistfulness back. "I just... I wish we could go back."

That was a rather open statement. Not clear at all. France pressed for details. "Go back where, mon cher?"

"To a place a lot simpler than this." America seemed to be lost down memory lane. "Back to the days... Before the politics, before the games." He slammed a fist against the railing, the point where it hit denting severely. He grumbled. "Before all this sh*t."

Wincing at the damage done to his banister, France thought. 'A wish not uncommon.'

America went on speaking. "You know, when the Wright Brothers were inventing the airplane, they didn't have the best funds or the best resources or the best support. Langley and all those more famous guys who were trying to make flying possible, they had a lot of eyes on them.

But I rooted for the Wrights, because when they were building and experimenting, when they made the first flight, they were doing it because it was what they liked. No one believed them or me when I said it really happened, but what was worse than that were all the lawsuits and the patents and the legal stuff. They had to fight to keep their claim. I bet they wished they were back in their bicycle shop during those years. It wasn't about flying anymore, it was about getting the money and the rights for it. That was disappointing... It's not the same situation, but right now I'm feeling kinda the same way they did. "

France nodded in agreement. "We all do, sometimes. I myself miss the days of colonies and empires and adventures on the high seas. I also know that Espagne misses the Spanish Armada, and Angleterre misses sinking the Spanish Armada, but never mind that. The point is, those olden, golden days were so much simpler."

"Weren't they bloodier too?" America asked pointedly.

Slightly affronted by the jab at his nostalgia, France retorted. "Well, décès might've been more common then, but it happens on a plus grande scale now."

"... Yeah."

France sighed. "Cependant, I would not trade today for anything, not even the past. What we have now may not be simpler... but it is a better day than anything we've had before." He turned his head to the side and looked America in the eye, an optimistic smile on his face. "Your impossible ideal is more possible today than ever, Amérique."

"Yeah." America perked up again, back to being his usual cheerful, optimistic self. "You're right, Frenchie! Today's better than yesterday, and we'll make sure tomorrow is too!"

Then, music came out of nowhere.

'When I get older,

I will be stronger,

They'll call me freedom,

Just like a-'

The song was cut off when America answered his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"What?!"

"Wha'dya mean my flight's been moved up two hours?!"

"Wha'dya mean, what do I mean?!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm goin'!"

America put the device away, and said a quick goodbye to France. "Gotta go, Frenchie, flight's leaving sooner than I thought!"

France looked incredulous, but not at the phone call itself. "Your sonnerie is 'Waving Flag'?"

"Yeah, it is, so?" America rushed through the glass double doors from the balcony and back inside, followed by France. He picked up his briefcase and hurriedly put his jacket back on.

"Oh, nothing." France shook his head. As America yanked open his office door to leave, France called out. "Au revoir!"

America replied rapidly. "Yeah, see ya this weekend, Frenchie! You're hosting the party this time!"

"Q-que?!" France panicked. "But-"

"'kay? Glad you agree! Bye!"

Bang!

The door was slammed closed.

A moment of silence. Then...

"F*ck you, America!"

AN: Allusions to future chapters! Hooray! XD Please, let me know how you liked this chapter in a review!