Not Giving Up.

"Well?" Russia asked, "What do you think?"

"It's too big for me." China pouted.

"Aw, that's a shame. Red is really your colour."

China examined his reflection. He couldn't deny he looked good in red, even if the detailing on the centuries-old coat was somewhat over-the-top. It was only just to big for him, hanging baggy on the shoulders and arms and almost swallowing him whole around the torso. He did a spin, and the long, heavy fabric dragged in the air dramatically. He gave it a sniff – it still smelled like Britain. He blushed, remembering when he had seen said Britain actually wearing it, how dashing and powerful he seemed. Cheeks still aflame, he turned back to his friend.

"Where on earth did you find this?" he marvelled.

"I found it in the trash." Russia admitted, "I was pretty surprised, even Latvia doesn't wear things like that anymore."

"It's a true antique." China admitted.

"I wonder who was keeping it all this time." Russia mused "They took very good care of it."

"Probably one of the idiot trio." China supposed "That infant America has no sense of sentimentality."

He kept fingering the coat – the years had softened the sturdy fabric, a few of the embellishments had fallen off and been sown back on by an inexpert hand, and the occasional stain and small rip betrayed its age.

"I wonder why that one wasn't sown up." Russia pondered, fingering one of the cleaner little tears.

"Looks like rapier damage." China said, blushing again and smiling at the thought "Britain had a sword fight while wearing this coat. I wonder what he was doing?"

China unconsciously chewed on his lower lip as he thought about waiting for Britain to come back while wearing nothing but this coat. It would be a lie to say Russia wasn't thinking something similar.

"You think we should tell Britain we have this?" China asked.

"Why ruin our fun?" Russia answered.

"Well, it might entice him to come and see us again."

"Hm, I don't think that's a good idea." Russia confessed "When I saw him earlier he looked like he was having a bad day."

"Well, that's what happens when you associate with fools – just being in the same room as the idiot trio ruins my day."

"That's not very nice." Russia scolded gently.

"I'm over 4000 years old!" China pointed out "I am so over 'nice', I don't even remember the last time it bothered me."

"You're nice to me."

"No, I'm not." China corrected "I'm myself with you. You just think I'm nice because you have so few friends."

"You're right." Russia agreed "You're not nice."

The two laughed. Without shame, China sat himself on Russia lap.

"We need to plan our next step!" he declared "Britain will be ours in no time if we target his weaknesses!"

"Most of them have become independent." Russia pointed out.

"The trade he has with us both is extremely valuable." China plotted "I'm sure we can find a way to turn that to our favour!"

He wished it would rain. Rain would be perfect. But it didn't. That fucking blue sky stretched on and on, cloudless and serene for miles around. It didn't feel right. He wanted his rain.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Britain was alone. He had managed to leave the hotel with surprisingly little fanfare – it seemed he wasn't the only one getting sick of events, many of the gathered nations having scarpered for the day. There was a light breeze as he walked along beside the river, jacket draped over his arm. The trendy shops and cafés seemed to continue forever – he missed his countryside and greasy spoons. He missed the mooing of his cows and the friendly locals outside his country pubs. He missed his home.

His heart was heavy, his head buzzing with everything and nothing all at once. This should be simple. Why wasn't it simple? He always believed that everything could be solved if you just thought it through, that there would only be 'problems' when you had to deal with irrational people. The other nations weren't irrational, so why wasn't this simple? No matter how he thought about it, the answer never came to him, lost in 'yeah but's and 'although's and 'except for's. The only conclusion was that he was the irrational one, and if that was the case, it was his own fault he was egging this out.

Bullshit. He sighed. Complete bullshit. If love were something simple, poets and playwrights would have grown tired of it long ago. Instead, it kept finding new and devastating ways of turning peoples lives into messes. He couldn't think this one through… but what else was there?

He wanted to talk to France. More than anything, he wanted to talk to France. He wanted to ask him why – why did you turn your back on your friends? Why did you open this can of worms, when you knew what would happen? Why now? Why not talk to your friends first, if you really felt you couldn't hold on? Why haven't you returned my calls?

Why did China only start acting up when Prussia and Spain got involved? Why is America acting this way, when Canada and his other former colonies were acting the same as ever? Why is Russia involved? Why did this have to happen? Why did they all like him? Why did he have to stay here and deal with this? Why couldn't he go home?

He sighed heavily, sitting down on the cobbles beside the waterbank, head heavy with 'why's. Every answer he could think of bought him back to France – this mess started because of him. Britain was happy living in ignorance, keeping his relationships the way he liked them – his good friends, his colleagues, his family… Had France known? Of course he knew about Spain and Prussia, he had just chosen to betray them, his oldest friends, for… for what? For him? For 'l'amore'? It made him laugh bitterly. France always treated love like a commodity, something to be used and thrown away when you were done with it – that was the reason Britain had never allowed himself to love him before. Britain knew that when he loved, it was everything, all encompassing and devastating, and it would break his heart irreparably to be used that way, so he never took the chance.

Why had he taken it now? What had France done differently this time that made him finally give in? Was it because he had been serious, not flirting or joking or inappropriate, but looked him in the eye and told him straight? Was that his new trick? What an extent to go to, he thought bitterly, for a commodity. To destroy centuries old friendships for something you intended to throw away. It hurt his heart – why hadn't he listened to that voice in his head? If he had just turned France down, this whole mess could have been avoided.

"HELLO, SPACE CADET!"

Britain flinched as he realised he was the one being called. He had been so lost in thought that everything else had melted away. He looked around to see who had called him.

"Have you suddenly become deaf, mon petit lapin?" France teased, arms crossed over his chest as he leant down to his level.

Britains brain froze. His heart stopped. Only one thing came to mind.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Grabbing the sleeves of the jumper France had tied over his shoulders, Britain leapt up and punched him in the face. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. Luckily (?) for him, he wasn't unfamiliar with the Brits fighting style, and as he used the sleeves to pull him back for the second blow, he pushed aside his fist, and with nothing to stop him, crashed into the other man, sending them both flying backwards into the river.

"I have nothing to apologise for!"

"Well, here in France, when we punch our lover in the face we tend to apologise!"

"Well in England, we don't stab our best friends in the back by breaking promises and causing chaos across the entire EU because we couldn't keep in it our pants!"

France was taken aback.

"Lapin, that is oddly specific." He joked.

Britain growled at him as he ruffled the towel through his hair, muttering swears under his breath. Luckily, Frances house wasn't too far away from the river Britain had wandered to, and the two had trudged back, sopping wet, in silence. Freshly showered, Britain prepared himself for battle. He threw his towel at France.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" he yelled at him "Why didn't you tell me about this? What the devil were you playing at?"

"I was thinking that I love you!" was his immediate reply, as if he had rehearsed this argument already "I was thinking that for the first time, I had something that was worth risking everything for! I was thinking that as long as you and I were together, nothing else would matter! I am sorry about Spain and Prussia, I truly am, I never meant to hurt them, but why should I be forever miserable so that they can be happy?"

"So as usual, you were only thinking about yourself!"

"I was thinking about us!"

"How can I believe you?!" Britain yelled, exasperated "If you can turn your back on Spain and Prussia so easily, how can I believe anything you say? How long before you turn your back on me as well, run off with some pretty girl? How can I believe anything you say is true?!"

"Because you came first!" France insisted, walking forward and taking his hands, looking desperately into his eyes "You're talking about Spain and Prussia like we have always been together, but you came first, Britain! You have always been the most important!"

"Don't give me that!" he countered as he tried to pull away.

"It's true!" France refused to let him go "Behind all our fighting and squabbling, there was always love! It may not have been the same as the love we have now, but it was always there!"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear it!"

Britains voice was betraying him, shaking with emotion when he wanted to sound mad and serious and in-charge. He couldn't look at France, screwing his eyes shut and turning his head away as his heart made mockery of his head. With a gentle hand, France pushed the locks of hair behind Britains ears before turning his face back to him.

"Britain." He cooed, barely above a whisper "I love you. I'm not saying that just because I can – this isn't some fling to me."

"Stop it!"

"Non. As long as we are alive, I shall never stop."

France kissed him gently. Britain didn't try to stop him – he wanted to be comforted. He wanted to leave all the shit and chaos behind. He wanted to choose France, despite the nagging voice in his head. France deepened the kiss, slipping in his tongue, and wrapped his arms around him, drawing him against himself. His body was warm, his arms comforting. With a gentle push, France had Britain on the bed, leaning over him.

"I love you, Britain." He purred again "If my words cannot reach you, I shall let my body convey the strength of my emotions."

The phone wouldn't stop. Britain tried to ignore it, but it carried on and on and on. Japan called him. Canada called him. America called him. Spain called him. Prussia called him. Enough already! He was tired, and enjoying the quiet and the softness of Frances elegant bed. Why did they keep calling? Why couldn't they let him be? Now China was calling him. What was going on? He looked at his phone, seeing that every single one of them had left a message. With a groan, he accessed his answerphone. Immediately, his heart stopped.

"Britain?!" Japans voice screamed at him, desperate and panicked, with a roar behind it that he couldn't place "Where are you?! Please! Please, answer your phone!"

The line went dead.

"Britain?! Britain, can you hear me?!" Canadas voice begged "Where are you! Please, get to-"

Dead again. What was that noise? Americas message was just coughing, that noise again, and the calling of his name over and over again. That was enough. Quick as a flash, he pulled on his clothes and ran from the house, grabbing the keys to Frances car.

The hotel was on fire. The smoke could be seen from miles around, an orange glow filling the air, like the devil himself was trying to break through the earth and claim the building. The heat was unbelievable, so hot and dry that Britain could barely stand it. He stopped the car suddenly as he saw his fellow nations, huddled and staring at the inferno from across the street. He jumped out, not caring that his car blocked the view of the cameras and rubberneckers that had gathered, and ran to them.

"Britain!" Japan yelped in sheer relief, throwing his arms around him as he came close enough "Britain! Thank god you're alright!"

He was assailed by several other nations, throwing their arms around him and calling his name and crying.

"What happened?!" Britain asked Japan, who had yet to let him go "How did this start?"

"The doors…" he answered, voice and body shaking in shock and relief "The doors were all locked. Russia… he had to break them down. The doors were locked!"

Britain threw his arms around Japan as he started to freak out.

"America wouldn't leave until he found you!" he went on "Russia had to go back in and get him!"

"Japan-"

Behind Japan, China appeared, placing Russias coat over his shaking brother.

"It's okay." He soothed, wrapping his arms around him "It's okay. Everyone's alright."

Japan couldn't stop shaking. In the crowd, Britain spotted Russia, leant over a singed and coughing America, rubbing his back, both dishevelled and covered in soot and plaster. Spain and Prussia carried Romano between them, whose bleeding leg was bound in a crude splint. Germany held Italy close and he, like Japan, couldn't stop shaking as he stared at the fire. Seychelles and Hungary dove around the crowd, taking names and handing out blankets while Belgium bandaged up the burnt and wounded. What was this?

Britain looked at what was once his hotel, now no more than a spire of hell itself reaching for heaven. What the hell had happened?

Just when things seemed to be sorted, the plot thickens! What started the fire?! Why were the door locked?! Where's the smut!? Ok, maybe not the last one... the plot thickens next chapter!