"Excuse me for a minute, mon cher…" France murmured as he took a moment to digest what had just been said. England's illness; the hospital; Death and death; being resurrected… and now this? It was all far too much to absorb. "I don't feel that well, Arthur." He didn't know what to do. His mind was corrupted as a result of the trauma he had endured through the journey of his lover's sickness. He shifted his weight from one foot to another in an awkward fashion, earning him first an 'oh, get a grip – three people in this room love you like crazy*!' look, next the normal 'are you alright' one. After a few seconds of rocking precariously on the edge of fainting, he finally regained his posture and even managed the ghost of an anxious smile, and the usual carefree flick of his hair.

But the unserious if slightly nervous ambience was cut short by England's yelp of horror. He rushed towards the seemingly vacant space where Joan of Arc obviously was and began to perform what looked like a shake: The kind of shake that one gives to the shoulders of an unconscious person in order to awaken them from their black void in which time speeds past yet stays oh-so stationary in unison.

"Joan? Saint Joan!" the Englishman yelled in a crystal-clear state of panic, still in the process of shaking gently. "Can you hear me?"

France had seen enough. He had to intervene and find out what the heck was going on! "Arthur, what's happening?" he said, racing over to the pair. "Is Jeanne okay?"

"She's unconscious! I don't know what happened – she just collapsed suddenly; no warning whatsoever!"

The French nation crossed himself again and prayed for the saint's well-being. Well, one thing is for sure: Jeanne can't die, because she's already dead, he thought, trying to look on the bright side of the situation.

The atmosphere was of anxiousness and suppressed desperation (and slight incompetence). The innumerable amount of broken clocks that Death had left in his wake sprang into action, tick-tocking and pecking away at the girl's chance of returning. Seconds passed like hours running through the two countries' heads, spreading franticness like wildfire and unexpectedly-

"She's waking up!" England cried in relief. Candidly, he didn't really know why he was experiencing such great concern for a girl that, long ago, was his rival… his antagonist. She was burned for witchcraft in his name, for heaven's sake! But what he didn't understand was that he cared for France, and that everyone that France cared about, he cared about. It's such a mess, the Englishman ruminated. This regarded his whole life. And, frankly, it was a mess.

"Arthur, I want to hold her," France told England.

"Pardon?" The younger cogitated about the other's statement. It was a request.

"Let me hold her. S'il te plait."

The English nation had absolutely nothing against it. But why do I not want him to hold her? Am I jealous? he wondered, knowing the answer straightaway but being too scared to face the truth. "Okay," he finally agreed, attempting to ignore and shut out the reluctance germinating inside his stomach. "I'll guide your hands."

France uttered his gratitude before letting his lover softly take his wrists. He was astounded to find that he, too, could actually feel Joan. Euphoria skipped around inside his heart, dancing in a gleeful and energetic folk style with his soul.

"That's her cheek," said England, helpfully.

The Frenchman beamed, radiating waves of mirth. "This is so strange…! But it'll really freak her out when she wakes up, oui?" he chuckled, failing to spot England's grumpy expression. "And you're amazing, Arthur."

England halted everything he was doing and stared at France. "I-I'm what?"

"Amazing," the other replied, smiling serenely. "You're amazing. And wonderful."

A pale pink flush swept across the English nation's cheeks. "Th-Thank you… Ditto…" No one had ever said anything as nice as that to him. Ever. That made him completely forget about the jealousy and realise that France adored both him and Joan equally, which gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling. Wait a minute. That warm, fuzzy feeling wasn't a warm, fuzzy feeling. "Francis, I'm just going to the bathroom, okay?"

France nodded and watched him sprint down the corridor, thinking nothing of it. Then Joan's eyelids fluttered open, startling the dreamy French nation when her eyelashes brushed his fingers. Obscured from his vision and completely oblivious to him, she started and, with drowsy, partially-open eyes, stared down at her hands in bewilderment.

"Jeanne… Est-ce que tu m'entends? Jeanne? Tu te sens bien?" the Frenchman asked calmly in his and Joan's native tongue with a happy, lively note to his voice. Again, he felt her eyelashes brush against his fingers, but this time, she sat up sharply and almost banged heads with France, whose face was but inches away from hers.

Perhaps I should decrease the distance between our lips... Joan thought, blushing. It would act as repayment for him surprising me so! And she leaned forward, pressing her subtle lips against France's.

At the impact of the saint's lips, the French nation was surprised. He was taken aback but it didn't take him long to return the kiss. Of course, it was an extremely bizarre phenomenon, what with him not being able to see the person that he was kissing, but it was just the same as last time… when she was alive. After their lips parted, France said in French, "You can touch my right shoulder if you want to say 'yes' and my left if 'no', okay? Here's the question: Are you a ghost?"

Joan lightly tapped France's right shoulder. And his left.

"Did you mean to do that, Jeanne?"

A tap to the right.

"Umm… Okay… Are you an angel?"

A second right-and-left answer.

"So you're half ghost, half angel?"

A tap to the heart.

"'Basically… Hah, you're hard to read!" France said with a laugh. "It's difficult when Arthur's not here."

A soft punch on the forearm.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry. It's just that Arthur can hear you; that's all. Speaking of which, where is he? It's been ages."

Meanwhile, in the bathroom...

"Gah!" England gasped after he had finishing vomiting blood into the toilet. He had forgotten about his illness in all the death shenanigans. As he was reaching for the door handle after washing everything thoroughly, yet another rumble sounded from his stomach and he threw himself over to the toilet, just in time to catch the crimson sludge spewing from his mouth like Niagara Falls. Exhausted, he rested his forehead on the now stained, porcelain seat in a state of extreme depression.

*He's accusing France of loving himself, if you didn't catch that.