Francis walked through the broken streets remembering Arthur's fleeting grandeur. He was desperately trying to find supplies that would help him save his friend. Not to mention, he had to get out. He couldn't let the younger nation see his knees wobble, his hands tremble, or the dead look in his bloodshot eyes. The less responsive the Englishman became, the more worried Francis was. He didn't want him to be passive, damnit! He wanted him to fight with every fiber of his being, like he was created to do. The French soldier shook the dark thoughts from him head and continued his search. Small fires lit his way, and spotlights illuminated the air, thick with dust and debris. He picked his way over fallen building like it was nothing, keeping his mind fixed on one goal: to save Arthur.
He returned to the church after what seemed like an eternity, bringing good tidings of food and medical supplies. He sat next to his fallen friend, who stirred only slightly in a fitful sleep. He carefully lifted up the man's shirt and inspected the already soaked-through bandages. Sighing, he produced rubbing alcohol from his bag of finds and began to clean the infected wound again. "I'm sorry mon cheri." He whispered when Arthur began to fight the pain.
He cracked open an emerald green eye. "Get your hands off of me, pervert." There was no conviction in his voice, but it made Francis smile. For a second, he could pretend they were in a time before the war.
Throughout the night, Francis watched over the soldier. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead, and his cheeks turned a rosy hue. He changed the bandages on the wound several times, cleaning it thoroughly. There were no more bombs, and Francis was left alone in the silence. Even the fired had died down, and with his friend fading he felt like the last person on Earth. It was by far one of the longest nights of Francis's incredibly long life. His thoughts drifted to what they left behind as the nations grew up. Innocent teasing sparked bitter fights, which later softened in their old age. Through their many arguments and skirmishes, the two nations ironically had no shortage of similarities.
A whimper brought him back to reality. Arthur's fever had worsened, and he was shivering in his sleep. Francis knew the fever was just as dangerous, and he would have to break it. He gently lifted up the injured man's head and coaxed him to drink more water. When he opened his usually sharp eyes, they were glassy and unfocused. "It's okay, you are with me cheri." The Frenchman frowned at the lack of response, but continued trying to lower his temperature. He laid a cold, wet rag on his forehead and waited anxiously.
"Maybe you just need some air." He said to the unmoving form. Walking over to the closest window, he steeled himself as he wrapped a rag around his feminine hand. "Forgive me." He looked up and away and punched the window, delicate and meticulously made stained glass shattering outward. Night air rushed in, swirling around the church like a phantom. The way the dust danced, it was almost like Francis had company. He laughed bitterly to himself.
The sky began to grow pale, but the usually welcome sight did not bring any hope to Francis. Arthur had not gotten any better. Indeed, after the night he was looking much worse for wear. The older nation poured more water in his mouth and roughly cleaned the wound again, hardly confident in the Englishman's ability to even open his eyes. He replaced the rag on his forehead and waited again. Hopelessly, Francis wondered how long his friend had been in the church before he had arrived. Shaking his head, he sighed and looked back to the sleeping face. Nations couldn't die, right?
Arthur's sleep grew more and more restless, and his breaths became ragged and uneven. He shivered and whimpered and tossed around, both hot and cold. Suddenly he thrashed out, yelling in his sleep. The sudden movement startled Francis from his sleep-deprived daze, and he jumped up. "Merde! {Shit} Cheri why?" They were both having a fit. Arthur's breath hitched, and once again there was the silence which the Frenchman feared."Damnit Arthur, fight if you want to be out so bad!" He uncorked his water flask and, with a very French flourish, threw it on the Englishman.
Suddenly the world seemed to shake and transformed suddenly, the sun bursting up like fire from over the flimsy wooden wall. Shades of deep azure blue and ruby red were thrown across the room. Shards of stained glass leapt to life as the church was flooded with magnificently brilliant color. For the Frenchman, color was louder than even the bomb shells that had been falling on them like deadly raindrops.
Arthur sat up suddenly, gasping, green eyes as hard as diamonds and burning with determination. Sweat rolled down his strong face and was illuminated like liquid gold; his fever had broken. "What the fuck you bloody bastard! You're trying to kill me, I knew it!"
Francis, standing over Arthur, started laughing. In the newfound morning his pale blonde hair shimmered like a halo and his blue eyes sparkled. The sun hit his pale hands and face, making him glow almost like he was an angel. He didn't stop laughing until there were tears in the corner of his eyes, and by then Arthur was laughing as well.