author's note: slow update, again! But good news I end school in a matter of days so I will have a lot more time to write.

disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia

The wine cellar in France's house contained was like Prussia's diaries, they dated back to the country's first birthday. They also contained enough wine to last till France died. However, after the world meeting, France didn't try to be a hero like America and find Canada. He didn't go have a romantic dinner with anyone like Germany and Italy or Spain and Romano. He didn't even mess with England or flirt with anyone. France went home, cried, and drank 1/32 of his wine stores and then passed out on his faint couch.

When France awoke, he had in the worst hangover he had ever had. But that part was the only thing that made sense, he did drink a lot of wine. Nothing else did, like how he had gotten there, what he was doing, or why his two friends weren't there. Normally, France wouldn't get that drunk without both Spain, Prussia, and an awesome party. His friends weren't there though.

Then, an enormous headache hit him, and so did the reason why the members of bad touch trio weren't together. Prussia. The meeting. Canada. His fault. All of it. France wanted to break every single wine bottle that littered the floor, there were a lot of them, over his head. Unfortunately, that would only bring him momentary pain, and a great lot of suffering to the humans in his country. Then it would heal up and he would be fine, except for maybe another major headache.

France cried out in distress, and his cry rang through the empty hall of his house, mocking his pain. He couldn't believe what he had done, well he could but he didn't want to. He didn't want to believe that he was the downfall of his best friend.

Why had he even agreed to the idiot England's stupid bet? Oh, wait, he knew that too. He was trying to prove that he could beat England at something England was good at. Since England isn't good at many things, a scone eating challenge was in place. It was that or who could cook the worst food, which France couldn't bear to even try to cook worse than England. To do so would be extremely shameful to himself and his country. Then, of course, when he had lost to England, why had he kept his promise? Since when had he ever kept a promise?

France, you stupid imbécile! How could you do this? He puzzled over the question he had posed to himself. There had been so many alternatives to this horrible ending. France could have stopped all of this, but he had been too stupid to realize it. He could have not come. France could have not signed the paper. He also could have helped Canada when America leaped at him. The list went on and on. He could have helped Prussia escape from the Allies. He could have made a scene like Canada to stall so Canada could have escaped. France was tugging on his neck scarf with his teeth as he shook his head and cried.

This rude reality had set in. Now, Canada hated him. Now, Spain probably hated him. Now, his efforts to be nice to Germany are futile because he had just killed Germany's brother. Now, Romano hated him, for Spain's sake. Worst of all, Prussia had died without France being able to set things straight with him.

They had a shifty past before the whole BTT thing and France had never been able to become true best friends with the Prussian. This disturbed him the most. Knowing that now all his friends didn't love him, heck, hated him now, was the top most horrible thing for France. He loved being loved, now everyone hated him so much.

It was all his fault. He looked down at his chest because he had taken notice to a damp cloth pressed there. He had unconsciously bitten off the end of his pink silk necktie. France slowly got off the faint couch so he could change his scarf. Just because I'm in a hangover, doesn't mean I have to look it! With that, and also because he thought picking an outfit and grooming himself might cheer him up, he staggered over to the stairwell. France grasped tightly to the railing and pulled himself up the staircase. It was hard and slow, for France in his drunken state. When he finally got off the staircase, he lumbered over to at the island in his fabulous kitchen.

All the appliances were stainless-steel, the stove was first class and so was the sink and the dishwasher. He didn't have a microwave because he believe that it wasn't true cooking to use it. He had 4 different ovens, two stacked on top of each other in different locations. He often needed many when baking dinner, cakes, or just about anything. He also had like walk in freezer/refrigerator stock full of all types of things. Simple things like eggs, milk, butter, but also things he used for more extravagant dishes. Cow intestines, brains, livers, and just about any other part of a cow. Skinned pigeon and rabbits, all kinds of sea creatures and snails.

England had once gone into his freezer and passed out from the sight of all the meat. America was pretty mad but it wasn't France's fault that they had come to his house for lunch, he hadn't invited them over. This problem, was his fault. It wasn't England's or China's or Russia's, it was France's fault.

France held back tears as he plodded over to the medicine cabinet. He took a headache pill, a pain pill, and also a sugar pill, just to see if it would help. As the medicine kicked in, France felt a huge wave of drowsiness wash over him. Unfortunately he was too far away from the chair to sit down before he collapsed to the floor and fell asleep.

France awoke and looked at the clock above the stove, 3 o'clock he had been sleeping for four hours. He was still drowsy, why had he awoken. France sat up and looked for the source of his disturbance. Sitting on faucet, two little birds chirped noisily, one yellow and one white. The white one was his, and the yellow one was Prussia's.

"What? Is this some kind of terrible joke? I know it's my fault, I don't need anymore mean rappels! Who sent you? I bet it was England!" France ranted. He stood up, completely forgetting about his headache and went to shoo the birds away. When he got there, his stomach lurched from the sudden movement and he bent over the sink. Instead of hurling, France found a letters and pulled it out of the sink. It was damp from a puddle in the sink but otherwise fine. He couldn't read the return address because the ink had run and the address been ruined by water. France stumbled to the office down the hall to get his letter opener and his reading glasses. Once he had retrieved the thin glasses and sliced the seal of the letter, he released the paper from the envelop. It was folded neatly but inside, the writing that dressed the page was as messy as America's bedrooms had been there)He could barely make out what it said but he finally did manage to decipher the writing.

Dear France,

If you are receiving this letter, I am dead. I have been killed and won't come back. I planned to leave the world knowing how I felt and this is your letter. France, I am aware that you were most likely instrumental in my destruction, but I don't want you to kill yourself about it. It would be unawesome if both of us were dead. I, the awesome Prussia, am sure you had no real control over my death. Anyway like thanks for being an awesome friend through the ages. Well, being my friend most of the time. We had little unawesome disagreements but that was in the past. Now that I am dead I need you to tell Mattie that I love him. Dying wish, fill-full it or my spirit will haunt you. Abschied für immer von den Preußen genial.

France couldn't and didn't want to read the letter again because his gushing tears had stained the page and smeared the ink. He felt like he could drowned in all his tears. It was all his fault.