"Francis you know damn well what we need to do."

It was an overcast, windy day in London, the skies above rumbling with the ever present threat of rain. The heavens had already opened twice that afternoon, the damp chilliness making the constant icy slivers of wind colder than the heart of the greediest loan shark. Francis always felt so out of place here, as if he was an aristocrat visiting the desolate homes of the pheasants. He checked himself at the thought; in the old days he never thought twice at the notion of looking down at humans (a part of him even enjoyed it), but now things were different. The immortal had never really thought so much on the notion of life and death, and why should he? He had no reason to, seeing as how he was part of the race of nation, a people literally dependent on the welfare of their respective countries. As long as his people still thought of themselves as the French, even under times of takeover he would still be alive. Weakened, but alive. So why did the thought of throwing himself out of the window to the gritty city streets below seem so appealing?

"Are you even listening to me?"

Francis finally glanced away from the world outside, gazing into the clover eyes of his lover. Arthur was scowling in that certain way of his, arms crossed in a huff as he glared at the Frenchman from across the room.

"I swear, you've been spacing out ever since you got home. Are you feeling all right?"

Those eyes he loved narrowed, annoyance that always seemed to be swirling in those depths doing a poor job of masking the anxiety within. Francis finally gave a robotic nod, a smile brought on by centuries of practice rising to his lips.

"Oui, I'm fine. I apologize, I thought I saw something outside."

A lie, a fairly weak one at that, but it seemed to appease Arthur. The Parisian seemed to always wear his heart on his sleeve, but after lifetimes of seduction and tactics to get woman to join him in bed, he had learned to be an expert liar. What was he supposed to say when they uttered those three fatal words but say he loved them back?

"Fine then. As I was saying earlier, Germany finally lost it. I always expected Russia to do something like this, but…" the Englishman trailed off, obviously more than a little frustrated and confused. "You'd think the lad would learn not to test his luck twice after his last failure." Heaving a tired sigh at that, he tossed the newspaper in his hands over to Francis. The Frenchman caught it easily, his eyes never leaving his lover. What was Arthur thinking about…?

For a moment, the Brit gazed around the spotless living room, as if checking to be sure any aforementioned Germans weren't lurking around, trying to listen in on their plans. Finally, after making sure the coast was clear, he sighed again, falling heavily down into a slightly overstuffed armchair. At that moment, running a hand through his messy, punkish hair and staring off into space, Arthur seemed much older than a mere twenty five. Francis almost laughed at the thought. Twenty five? The Brit was centuries old, only a bit younger than himself. He had become so absorbed in his own thoughts he almost fell into the human error of thinking the Englishman was just a young (although old fashioned) man instead of the nation of England. Something must be wrong with him…

"Well? Are you going to stand there all day with that stupid look on your face or are you going to read the blasted paper?"

"Oh, sorry. Got distracted again."

Francis shook himself out of his reverie, taking a seat across from the glaring Brit in an identical chair and forcing himself to look at the paper.

HITLER INVADES POLAND!

The headline, splashed across the top of one of Arthur's insufferable British newspapers, commanded the Frenchman's full attention. He frowned deeply at the sentence, skimming the article while his mind raced. He had known about the invasion before the papers, of course, but seeing the news in his hands so clearly made it seem all much more real. Honestly, he didn't want to believe it. Francis had always proclaimed himself to be a lover, not a fighter (which was mostly due to his abysmal military career) so the notion of war frightened him enough. And so soon after the Great War… He didn't want to fight again, never for as long as he lived his immortal life, never pick up another gun or knife or sword again.

"Francis, you know we have to fight. We can't let power like this go unchecked."

For once, the Frenchman was silent, deaf to the words of his lover. His gaze tore from the paper in his hands to the crowd of humans walking in a never ending stream below.

He was deafened by bombs and gunfire dropping from the sky in a cruel parody of rain, falling from the heavens as if from an unforgiving god.

The roar of battle almost burst his eardrums as he stood beside his fellow soldiers, mere boys defending their country with the hope to finally become men.

The dying cry of a boy who had smiled at him over breakfast as he fell to the ground rang in his ears as he watched him fall to the ground, blood bursting from where shrapnel had ripped through his chest.

The quiet noise of crying, praying, as prisoners died from bullets aimed at their unprotected foreheads, the sight of the impact like the blooming of the most vivid summer rose.

An entire generation of men wiped out in a mere four terrible, hellish years.

"Francis…?"

For a long, terrifying moment, the Frenchman was silent, eyes no longer focused on the minuet actions of humans below. He could feel the burden of an entire nation on his shoulders, the weight crushing down, suffocating him into a near oblivion. But he wasn't oblivious. He knew exactly what was going on, who he was, what he was supposed to do and what would surely happen in the future.

Not for the first time, he longed for his childhood.

That idiotic innocence of youth, when he believed he was invincible.

The days when all he cared about was what the current fashion was, what he was going to eat for dinner, what to say to annoy that strange, golden haired kid living across the channel…

But those times were gone.

"So we'll declare war, then?"

The room fell back into silence. Francis glanced over at the Englishman, eyes begging for him to lie, to pretend that war wasn't necessary, that they could just act like nothing happened…

"Yes."

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Author's Note:

Yeah, that was a small hiatus… Sorry about that, by the way! I'm on vacation right now at a nice beach, so it's a bit hard to get on. Actually, this chapter's theme was supposed to be Heaven, but after writing it I just stared at it for a long moment and ripped it up. Didn't like it. Now I'm starting over, and the next three chapters have already been written so expect them to be typed up soon.

As for historical background, on September 1st, 1939 Hitler lead Germany to attack Poland (with the agreement of the Soviet Union to do so). On September 3rd of the same year, France and England declared war on Germany. And about that headline on the newspaper… Not too sure if that is an actual headline. Probably not.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, the countries of France, England, Germany, Poland, or Russia, or any other trademarked thing you may find here.

Also, sunburns hurt.