A new day. A new, original or not, insult to rile you up. This gentleman façade crumple so easily under my words and turn you right back into a little boy. Since the beginning of our time, I have been the one you could never tolerate. You're too kind and too cruel for this world and I'm the one that pushes you over the edge. You try, oh you try, to hang on, but every word from my mouth makes you let go. So at every world meeting you just can't help but yell at me.
But that's all you do. Yell. We can't fight each other in wars anymore; we do not dare to escalate our fights. So why, why did you hit me? My insult was normal; it should make you sputter out an insult back. Why are you staring at the mirror, like you're trying to find yourself? You're amazingly strong and hopelessly insecure. So I ignore the wounds. They're not the problem. I ask, "Why did you hit me?" I'll get an answer. You love getting the last word. The silence is grating ("Angleterre?"), your answer even more so. "I don't hate you". My hand hits your face before I can even register what I'm doing. With mirrored wounds, I leave.
I don't hate you. The words are ringing in my head and sneaking into my subconscious to create a nightmare. "I don't hate you," you tell me again. "I don't hate you," I say. So simple, yet so terrifying. It was no dream, but I start to question, "Is it a nightmare?"
A nightmare is terrifying. It leaves you gasping with a heart trying to run away from the danger. A nightmare isn't real. It makes you terrified of shadows. As much as I loathe admitting it, that was the truth.
"I don't hate you."
Neither of us does.
A/N Velveeta69 wanted to see France's POV and I got inspired, so here you go. Short, I know, but I think it would just have gotten worse if I made it longer. I'll probably make a third chapter as well, though I can't say when it'll be up.