Inspired by jam-art ( on Tumblr's ) art! See it at ( jam-art . tumblr . cerm /post/95105520318/kiss-art-challenge-5-fruk-kiss-on-the-neck )

Replace "cerm" with "com."

England's smile became tight when the man pulled out the sword. He suddenly felt a little more apprehensive, hands tied behind him, on his knees, with the man swinging around the sword.

"A sword?" he scoffed, trying to ignore the other man breathing down his neck. "What are you, a barbarian?"

The man didn't speak English, because he was a barbarian. Because he was waving around a sword and didn't have a proper gun. The crowd surged around them, jeering. England still didn't believe they had recognized him.

"You do not need to do this," England said, loud and slow.

"I think," the man with the sword said, smile as sharp as his blade, "you find I do."

"You speak English?" he asked, blinking. "Well, in that case, perhaps we can—"

The sword flicked to England's throat, and the man observed him. "I know what you are."

England was suddenly very aware of the other people around them. His soldier—his escort, a young fellow—had been dragged away to God's know where. He wouldn't have mentioned to anyone who England was.

England felt sweat forming on his brow, drip down his neck.

"I'm someone who can make your life very uncomfortable," England said.

"Only if you have a head."

England's lip curled. "Are you suggesting you're going to behead me? That wouldn't stop my men, you know. That wouldn't solve anything. It would only incite further violence." Maybe he had used vocabulary too advanced—

"It would solve something." The man crouched down in front of England. "You forget I know all about you. What you are…" He drew out the words, playfully, like England was a toddler. "I know what you do… I know you can survive a gunshot…"

The crowd still must be making noise, must be still causing a ruckus for his boys, but all England could hear was this man's voice. But this man looked like all the others, sword resting in his knees as he observed England.

"Perhaps," England said, slowly, but not because this man couldn't understand, "we can make a deal."

"Get out of my country?" the man suggested brightly.

"I'm thinking something more short term."

The man shook his head, tutting. "Nope! What is it you have people call you? Arthur? I know people like you, Arthur. People like you take, take, take. You dig a tunnel and don't expect it to collapse down on your head."

The tip of the sword tapped England on the head.

"But," the man whispered, leaning closer, "I know a secret. I might be able to shoot you in the head, but I know you'll wake up. But what if…" He gave another wicked grin. "You just don't have a head?"

He was slow close to England's face, he could have spat in his eye. He fucking wanted to.

England lunged forward, attempting to smash into the man. This petty, worthless—England was hauled back by someone in the crowd by the collar of his uniform—this petty, worthless little human who had the audacity to insult him.

"Fuck," England snarled, twisting, attempting to free his hands or his short or something, anything.

"So civilized," the man sneered.

And suddenly England himself grow cold as the man stood up, fear cold and clear like a bucket of water over his head. England tried to struggle away.

"No, you don't have to do this, no!" England jerked, but was held in place by countless hands, bent down on his knees, forced to stare at the dirt. "Get off—"

The sword must have been dull. It slapped against England's neck, didn't cut all the way through, crooked. For a second, England thought he was fine, until he took a breath and inhaled something wet.

…

A vague sort of darkness, half surfacing, sounds. Feet on stone. Horses. Blackness, murmuring. Gunshot, sharp through.

…

French.

"Of course, I told her that while I appreciated her opinion on my parlor, it wasn't needed. My eye for color is perfect. There is this artist—you would absolutely hate him—who had talked to me on numerous affairs regarding color theory—"

"Fuck," England rasped.

France's face swam in front of his eyes. "Eloquent as always. I see your complexion hadn't improved any, nor your eyebrows. They said they found you in a ditch, which probably didn't help things."

"If you're going to speak your language, for the love of God, please speak slower."

France laughed. England focused on trying to pick out where he was. In a bed, and a small part of him was happy. He was warm, and safe, and alive. Alive. God. He felt like a horse had kicked him in the head, but he was alive.

"They wrote me, you know," France said, sitting on the bed. "They tracked me down and gave me this letter, signed and sealed from the king himself, asking what to do with your body. I suggested they sew your head back on."

England wanted to laugh, but his throat was dry. "Worked."

"Well, I am brilliant, aren't I?"

A fire. England turned his head, blinked at the room. A fire. It was winter. He wondered if he was home.

"Where are we?"

France hummed, and it took England a second to realize he was running his fingers over the bandages on his neck.

"Some charming little castle in the rainiest part of your country."

"What are you doing here?"

The hand retracted, and France pouted. "Do you not want me here? I sailed all the way across our silly little channel to visit, rode for a solid day on horseback, put up with your—"

"Slow, please, my head is aching."

France made an offended noise at the back of his throat.

England sighed, let his eyelids flutter shut. "I would murder for a cup of tea."

"Well, I assume you are going to go on a murdering spree."

The room suddenly focused, and England sat up, all ears. His whole body complained, but he didn't care right now. God knows how long he had been in that ditch. Maybe he had started to rot.

"Why?"

France adjusted the sleeve of his outfit—something pompous and too bright for the gloom. "They might not have caught the man who was responsible for…" He circled England's head with his finger. "This."

"They what?!"

"It was a very troublesome riot," France said, slowly, unsure of his words.

England tumbled out of his bed. His legs felt like jelly, felt like they were someone else's. France sprang up and grabbed his arm, supported him.

"That bloody fucker cut my head off and they didn't catch him?!"