Haunted by nightmares of the past, France awoke in a cold sweat. He laid completely still out of habit, trying to control his ragged breathing. Blue eyes sought out the sleeping form of his companion- a tired smirk crossed France's face. England was asleep.

France sat up, pushing his hair back. However, his eyes were drawn once again to England's prone figure. Strange thoughts leapt through his mind, inching closer to the younger. I could kill him now. But I never would. Why?

His fingers reached out, tracing a path down England's jawline, more affectionately than he intended. Quickly he withdrew them as if he'd touched poison.

That's exactly what England is. A poison.

France covered his eyes, leaning back against rock, trying to calm his heartbeat. No, he told himself firmly. Stop mistaking simple companionship... for something else.

Frustrated, France pushed himself up, deciding that a walk would cool him off. He trudged through the thick brush, thoughts hanging over him like a dark cloud, remnants of a conversation last night and nightmares hounding him.

He was lonely. That was simple enough to deduce- he'd been alone for so long, been alienated by other countries for what felt to him a century. Naturally, he'd latch on to England's companionship, as he'd do with anyone's companionship- or so France convinced himself.

The way he gazed at me, kind and gentle. Giving me his portion of water. His eyes always searching deeper, as if he cares about the things I can't say-

A shout shocked France out of his thoughts- before he could react, foreign hands were pushing on his chest, sending him flying. With a pained grunt France slammed against the bark of a tree, breath escaping him in a moment of panic. Shocked blue eyes focused on the figure approaching him.

Brown hair, brown eyes- he was a personification, France was sure, and probably a new one. He hissed, "I mean no harm-"

"I know you're helping him," the personification interrupted, lips curled into a sneer. "This is my country you're in."

Cursing under his breath, France realised that his boss's nightmare had come true- the personification of Serbia stood before him. That could only mean that the Austrian Empire had declared war on Serbia over the Archduke's assassination.

"I have to return to my territory. Now."

Serbia scoffed, reaching for his pistol, when A dagger buried itself into his hand. Screaming, Serbia reached for the knife in shock- just as England slid to a halt in front of France, one arm out as if protecting him. "Don't you dare touch him," he snarled.

France was sure his heart leapt out of his chest, even as England gripped his wrist and the two took off running.

The harsh sound of panting echoed in France's ears as they raced through the dense forest, branches whipping their faces, until France felt his throat burn. He stumbled to a halt, England's fingers still tight on his wrist, England's breath close to his face, England's body inches from his own-

"Who the hell takes walks in the wee hours of morning!?" England snarled. France's throat felt as if it were on fire, so he simply watched England rant, trying not to wince. "I can't believe your idiocy sometimes. Bloody fool. Ignorant tosser. Going to get yourself killed..."

His voice had become softer, green eyes carefully watching blue. France stared back, a jumble of shock and relief and want showing on his face. He'd never be able to mask himself, his emotions, like England did. The younger's fingers clamped around his shoulder, finger pads against his neck feather-light. France couldn't withhold an unpleasant shudder as the past flashed behind his eyes, when he'd been smaller, Rome leering above him, iron grip on his shoulder-

England pulled back and turned around coldly. "We know that was Serbia. That means Austria has declared war. Which means-"

"We have to get back," France breathed, regaining his composure. "My country will declare war."

England turned, and for a moment, France saw a glimmer of emotion- regret. "I know."

They circled around, making their trail hard to trace, and France eventually grinned. "I have a fabulous idea."

"Lord, take me now," England muttered under his breath.

"As you wish," France flirted, lips quirking as England spluttered curses. "The Triple Entente. Remember? We allied with Russia."

England hummed. "And?"

"Once we get to a town, we could call him for help."

"Do you think he'd come? Not only is he preoccupied with Austria, he himself is only..." England trailed off, eyes darkening. "Only a teenager."

France had heard those words before, perhaps a century ago. Trying not to pick at old wounds that France suspected were still bleeding, he murmured cautiously, "You of all people should know not to underestimate a young country."

England didn't reply. Assuming they would discuss his idea later, France forged ahead of England slightly, sniffing the air.

"What the hell are you doing?" England huffed, borderline amused at the hound France had become. He followed the other until they broke out of the heavy wood and into a clearing.

A lake surrounded by trees met England's surprised eyes. France smiled triumphantly and turned to England. "Never underestimate the French, darling."

Rolling his eyes, England fished for their canister, plopping down beside France at the water's edge. As he filled the bottle, France pushed his hair back behind his ears, wishing desperately for a hair band in this heat-

Burning, sharp pain in his shoulder made France cry out, stumbling forwards. He yanked out a knife embedded deep into his shoulder, feeling black start to crowd the corners of his eyes. England was in front of him in seconds, whipping out his pistol and firing repeatedly into the forest.

Trying to focus on the knife to stay awake, France realised it was one of England's knives- the same one he'd hurled at Serbia's hand.

Furious shouts sounded within the treeline- Serbian police (and the nation himself) were hot on their trail. England glanced behind his shoulder at France, yelling, "We're sitting ducks out here!"

As both sides continued to fire, France hissed into England's ear, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

Gripping his arm, France led England, sprinting for the cover of the trees on the opposite side of the small lake. Once they broke through, they took off through the forest at a faster pace, France allowing England to lead the way, calling out directions.

And France suddenly realised how perfect England's national animal mirrored this ridiculously strong Empire.

I have the lion of Europe on my side.

"The train!" England gasped out, pointing ahead. The large train cars started to pick up speed, loud rattling and heavy smoke clogging ears and eyes. The two had no time to lose, and coughing, they raced alongside the train, England yelling, "There's an open car!"

France's eyes caught his, and England actually gave a coy grin. "After you, princess." He grabbed France's wrist and forcefully attached his fingers to the metal handle protruding beside the open car.

Glaring caustically at his companion, France gracefully swung himself up. He debated whether or not leaving England behind, but his conscious won, and despite his shoulder burning, he extended a hand for England.

Their arms clasped, eyes connecting, hair flying every which way. England finally swung himself up, landing firmly onto the train car beside France. They watched the Serbian police break through the woods, all confused as the train rushed by, having lost their trail.

Finally, they were safe- for the time being. Although they were well on their way out of Serbia, the entire Austrian Empire lay before them. England's face was printed all over wanted posters, and France suspected his would soon be beside England's.

He groaned, wounded shoulder pulsing, staining his vest and long sleeved shirt beneath it dark red. England turned towards him, green eyes catching sight of the mangled shirt. "Sit," he ordered, voice firm and palm even firmer on his chest. France smacked his hand away but obeyed, sitting on the wood beneath. The younger knelt down in front of him and started unzipping his vest, sliding it off his shoulders. His breath puffed close to France's jaw as he muttered, "Who wears a long sleeved turtleneck in the summer?"

His green eyes caught France's, glowing playfully. It caught France's breath, watching as England's nimble fingers worked his shirt off, careful not to brush the fabric against his ugly wound.

Uncertainly, France watched England gaze at his chest, at the noticeable scar that ran across his abdomen jaggedly. "Revolution?" England asked, voice quiet.

France shook his head, and although everything in his gut told him not to trust another nation, he murmured, "Rome."

After a small hesitation came England's question. "What exactly did... Did he do to you?"

France stiffened, looking away. "It's none of your buisness." England studied him, eyes searching, dissecting everything France's face gave away. But he didn't press. Instead, he searched through their backpack, pulling out the canister and a roll of cloth to bandage France's shoulder. Before he started, he turned back to France, fingers grabbing his hair.

France readied to strike him because the hair was off-limits, bastard, but hesitated. England's fingers were gentle, pulling his hair back behind his head and tying it with a band, brushing against the back of his ears to gather every stray hair. Now that his hair was out of the way, England turned, ripping part of the cloth off, dabbing it in the water.

"This may sting," he murmured, lifting it to France's shoulder, but all France could feel was the warm hand on his other shoulder, the sides of their legs pressed ever so slightly against each other, England's warm breath on his neck-

He shivered slightly, hoping that it looked like a shudder of pain. England didn't seem to think anything different, eyes drifting up to meet his, then drifting back down to the wound. He cleaned it well- France wondered how his fingers could hold so much strength yet be so gentle.

"How strong is your sense of smell?" England asked, lips quirking as he started to bandage France's shoulder.

"It's always been like that," France said. "Each and every individual object has its own scent."

"That's weird."

"Is not. You wish you could have my nose."

"It kinda reminds me of a cat," England hummed, tying off the bandage with ease. "There. Done."

"Thank you," France murmured, their faces close. England swayed a bit, eyes half-lidded and peering momentarily at his lips, before sitting up straight and backing away from him.

"I did it for myself. I didn't want to have you whining or crying." He clenched his jaw and swung his legs over the open side of the train car, watching the trees fly by.

France sighed and pulled his shirt back on, using his vest as a pillow for his head as he laid down. "Hey, since I've answered two of your stupidly personal questions, it's my turn. Where did you learn how to fight the way you do?"

England angled his head back, green eyes glinting. "I fight just like everyone else-"

"No, you don't." France stared at him, and England looked away silently. France supposed he wasn't going to get an answer when England suddenly spoke up.

"1876. A reconnaissance mission gone wrong. I was sent to study and kill an assassin, but he found me, and I couldn't blow my cover. He recruited me, branded me, and taught me..."

"How to fight?"

"How to kill," England corrected quietly. "And after a year with him, I finally completed my mission. I killed him the way he taught me."

France stared at him, unsure whether to be terrified or amazed. Unnerved by the silence, England continued, "But I've honed his method into something less destructive. I... I'm not a murderer."

"I know," was all France could say. They sat in a long silence, watching the scenery outside of the moving train. "You said he branded you?"

England's eyes were carefully neutral. "Do you want to see?"

"Well, you've seen my scars. Time to even up the playing field."

For some reason, France thought he saw hurt flash across England's face, as if he thought France was treating this like a game- but his default expression was back just as quickly as it had gone. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, and France's throat went dry.

It wasn't an actual burn mark- it was a tattoo, spanning across his back in between his shoulder blades. France's breath caught, and he felt the urge to draw the intricate pattern before him and the sexy man before him, his mind added.

Alarm bells started ringing in France's mind. He was not developing affection for England. He needed to stop. They hated each other- more importantly, England hated him.

That didn't stop France from tracing his fingers down England's back, mesmerised by such strong shoulders, such a lean figure, and what France wouldn't give to trail his fingers around his waist, to feel England's muscles-

England angled his head slightly, glancing back at him with half-lidded eyes. France's warm breath puffed against his neck as he murmured, "It's incredible."

England slid his shirt back on quickly, making sure France didn't see an inch of his chest or stomach. "I think your idea, about getting help from Russia... I think it's a good idea."

France had no idea why his heart backflipped, but ignoring it, he grinned pridefully, "My ideas are always spectacular!"

Rolling his eyes, England crawled closer to France, resting beside him against the back wall. France tried not to laugh, because even though England was a master of controlling his face, his body betrayed him, and right now it was ridiculously obvious that he was cold, the wind blowing into the train causing goosebumps to trail over his exposed arms.

France tentatively wound his arm around Arthur's shoulders, ready for the slap that would follow- instead, England's head rested on his shoulder, eyes closed.

Oh, but he must be tired, always staying up to guard me at night. France bit his lip to contain his smile. He remembered the way England's hand shot out in front of him, making sure France was safe behind him.

England's hair was close to his nose, close enough that he could catch his overpowering scent- cinnamon, basil, hints of salt spray from the ocean. It was the most defined aroma out of all France could smell- it always had been, and it still was. And yet, he could never correctly define England's scent- there was always something else to his aura, something elusive.

He didn't plan on telling the younger. Gazing down at him as he slept, France supposed that once Russia came to help them, everything would go back to normal- England would hate France, and France would continue to hate England, no matter what happened over the course of one week. It left France with a bitter taste. He didn't want this seclusion- just them- to end.

We only ever get along when we're alone. Why do you have to be so hard to decipher, Arthur?

Perhaps it wasn't that hard to figure the British Empire out. Coarse, bitter, cynical on the outside- a defense mechanism for the kind and caring and desperation for love on the inside.

And France fancied that somewhere along those lines he was similar, too.