AWW... THIS IS AWESOME

This is fantastic! I encourage you to continue it.

Moonylitt-Tears, Paradoxkay thank you for your support :) I will definetly keep writing! If anybody has suggestions/ requests for a fic please PM me~

The second time Arthur Kirkland fell asleep, it was much more peaceful. The company of the sun had brought with it warmth and lights, and the injured nation was comforted. He let Francis take care of him without complaint; this time it was for need of a friend rather than a lack of comprehension. He also could tell- the Frenchman needed the contact even more than he did. Francis had always been the sensitive one, and any ordeal like this was difficult. Finally settling in a propped-up position in his lap, the English soldier had fallen asleep with a smile.

Francis was still frowning, concerned for his friend. In the brief hour he had been awake and lucid, he had explained the situation. The British army had taken heavy losses and was exhausted from constantly taking risky offensive moves. He scoffed, it was just like Arthur to do something of that sort. The man was built like a war horse, but just as stubborn as a mule. Having taken enough damage, he had retreated to the ruins of his city to be with his people and find comfort in his own territory. Francis sighed and stroked the Englishman's forehead, thinking. He wanted to get Arthur away, but he knew it would take a miracle to make him leave. Now that the excitement (if one could call it that- perhaps drama is a better word?) had died down, Francis was begging to feel his own wounds. The wear and tear of war was hard on most nations, but him and Arthur had been fighting with everything they had and more. he could feel days, weeks, and months of bruises and cuts throbbing. Stiff joints and sore muscles restricted his movement, and he could tenderly feel his freshly healed broken ankle and dislocated shoulder.

He sighed and looked at his friend again, he knew it would be difficult to heal in a place like this. Nations can get two kinds of wounds: wounds that reflect what is happening in their country, and wounds that are inflicted by other nations on the personification. Francis guessed another nation had given Arthur that brutal gash, and it would take longer to heal. He sighed and set his resolve. He would take Arthur to a safe place to heal, even if he had to kill him to do it. He shifted the nation in his arms and stood up, feeling his joints pop and his muscles creak. The Englishman did not stir, already exhausted from too many battles.

Arthur woke up slowly, wanting to stay in that soft, warm place forever. Soft? Warm? He peeled his eyes open, only to be greeted with a blurry vision. He saw white, something white. He felt the blankets that had been carefully draped on him, confused. Crisp linen met his rough hands, callouses dragging across the smooth material. A familiar scent that usually accompanied Francis greeted him as well. The sweet smell of soap from Marseille settled over the room. Finally, his vision cleared and the soldier looked around. White curtains blew gently in front of open windows. He saw a blue sky and rolling green hills. It was unfair how picturesque it was; if it was under any other circumstance he would have been overjoyed at the sight that was before him. There were no signs of his grey, drab, desolate streets. There were no remnants of the utter destruction and brutal disregard for life that ravaged his most precious cities.

The actual building that he was in was also familiar. It was a cottage in the countryside that the two had warred over once. The simple wooden walls and floor was brightened with flowers on the small table and a colorful overstuffed chair that was currently being occupied by a sleeping Frenchman.

"Francis!" Arthur barked.

"Ah~" Francis cooed as he woke up with a smile.

"Francis, you wine loving bastard! Why did you take me away from my city? You idiot! My people need me and I need them, are you trying to doom us all? I Was perfectly fine by myself before you came along and tried to commit a bloody homicide!" The slender French face fell. "You are such a wanker doing that. That was stupid... reckless... you could have died to get me here you idiot. If you die in this war, I'll kill you!"

Big blue eyes met green eyes. The injured Englishman looked sad and lonely, like Francis had already left him. "Non ma petit lapin {No my little rabbit}, I am not dying any time soon, and neither are you." He took his hands again, reassuringly. On his face was a look of brotherly love. "Who else would I be able to fight with if you died?"

Arthur coughed softly, but Francis swore it sounded like "Thank you."