I swear, these chapter are getting shorter each time. Sorry about it, really. I'm sure I had a lot more planned out, but after I got busy with other stuff, I guess I forgot some of it. Oh well, I guess. Anyway, here's the next chapter!

France was lounging on the couch, sipping at a glass of wine, thinking about his horrible luck with colonies. He couldn't believe that little America chose England of his big brother over him—the country of love and amazing cooking. The new nation seemed like the type to fall head-over-heels for anyone with an ounce of cooking abilities, but America had still chosen England. Also known as, the literal worst cook in the world.

He sighed. America looked like he'd grow up to be such a handsome nation, and with the right person raising him (i.e. France), he'd be an amazing lover.

There was still hope for Canada though. Although England once claimed the shier nation as his own along with America, it was obvious that England usually forgot about Canada altogether. It would be an easy matter to swoop in and snatch Canada away while England wasn't looking.

Canada was a strange kid-nation, in more ways than one. Sometimes, it was like he wasn't even there, and when his presence was known, he was helpful and unassuming, preferring to keep to himself and that baby polar bear he loved so much—the one with the name he hadn't yet decided on. Much different from his brother, who wrestled buffalo and made enough noise for both of them combined.

Stranger still, France was fond of the kid. He loved Canada in a different way than he felt for anyone else—human and nation, man and woman. France had a genuine desire to protect Canada like a fragile flower, and simply watch him grow into something beautiful. Whenever France thought of Canada growing up, he couldn't imagine trying to sleep with the unimposing nation, as he could with every other.

These feelings were unfamiliar, but not altogether unpleasant.

France was pulled from his reverie by a knocking on his door. No, knocking was an understatement. Whoever decided to visit him was obviously trying to break down his door, the loud booms resounding through the house.

He stared at the front door with open-mouthed shock. Who was so intent on seeing his that they felt the need to destroy the door to do it? For a while, he simply sat, watching the door and listening to the frantic banging, racking his mind to try and figure out who he pissed off lately. In his opinion, he'd been relatively good. Except for that incident involving that man at the bar with his girlfriend that he seduced. But that guy had been a wimp, and didn't seem like the type to try and break into a house in anger.

There was a slight cracking sound as the wood began to give away. France paled slightly. This would probably be a good time to open the door, before his visitor broke in like a raging bull and murdered him.

He approached the door warily, reaching for the doorknob cautiously. The second he twisted it, freeing the door to open at will, it slammed open, nearly killing France as it swung by. He jumped out of its way, but was slammed into the wall by his mystery visitor.

"Ah, m—mon ami! What brings you here?" France couldn't keep his voice from trembling as he tried to great Spain, who now had him pinned against the wall.

The look on Spain's face sent shivers down his spine. "Where's Romano?" he growled, standing so close to France that there was no space between them.

Normally, the position they were in would send waves of pleasure through France's body, but Spain was downright terrifying when he was angry. A quick glance revealed a bloodied ax in Spain's hand. The Spaniard meant business.

"Romano? Why would he be with moi?" France asked, slightly relieved that Romano was the cause of his friend's murderous intent, since France currently had nothing to do with Spain's precious little plaything.

That flutter of relief was literally squashed out of him as Spain pressed hard against France's chest, demonstrating his absolute desire to crush the life out of France.

"Don't play dumb!" he shouted, making France wince slightly at the volume. You ordered an invasion on my house while I was sick and stole Romano when my back was turned!"

"Mon ami, I didn't order any invasion to steal your little toy," France said, for once wishing there was more distance between them.

Spain's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why should I believe that? You're always trying to kidnap Romano," he said.

France made a vague hand motion to indicate the room, with what little movement he could do. "Do you see any half-nations currently tied up and lacking sufficient clothing?" he asked reasonably.

His friend, oblivious as ever even in his anger, actually looked around the room, searching from the floor all the way to the ceiling, as if he thought France would tie someone to the chandelier to hang above them (which, now that France thought about it, was a wonderfully brilliant idea that he'd love to try next time he got his hands on England).

"No," he admitted.

France nodded, almost sagely. "Then I did not kidnap your precious little toy, mon ami" he concluded for Spain.

Spain didn't react to France referring to Romano as his 'precious little toy'. He only gave a guilty little chuckle, some of the anger and murderous intent dissipating. "I guess not."

"Now, if you wouldn't mind giving me a little space? As much as I love being so deliciously pressed up against you, that bloody war ax of yours isn't really one of my fetishes, as surprising as it may be," France said, placing a hand on Spain's chest and pushing against him.

The Spaniard allowed himself to be pushed away. "Ah, right, sorry about almost using my ax to rip you to shreds, and then allowing you to heal to repeat the process until you told me where Romano was," he apologized sincerely.

France winced at the image. "I feel bad for whoever took the cute little South Italy from you."

Spain tilted his head, his eyes quickly flashing from confusion to dark fury and back again. "Why would you feel bad? Are you on their side?" His grip tightened on his ax.

Quick to remedy the situation, France held up his hands disarmingly. "No, no, mon ami! I would never be on the side of anyone you're angry at. That's just suicidal. Because, frankly mon ami, you are absolutely horrifying when you're mad. You could obliterate horror itself if you were angry enough," France said honestly.

There was a pause as Spain tried to decipher what France had said. Finally, he seemed to understand the gist of it and gave a genuine smile. "Ah, thank you~!" he said, in the most cheerful voice he used all day.

France shivered slightly. "Don't mention it. Really, don't ever speak of it again. That's just downright creepy, even for you," he said.

Now that the remaining adrenaline he'd built up on the way to France had drained away, Spain felt the full effects of his reckless actions. He swayed dangerously and fell against the opposite wall. The only thing keeping him from falling was his ax, the blade digging into the hardwood floors so he could prop himself up with the handle.

France winced at the sight of his now-ruined floors that matched his newly ruined front door. "Are you ok, mon ami?" he asked, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from the deep scratched wood (oh, he'd spent so much money on that expensive wood, to impress the women, and sometimes men, he brought home) and focus on his ailing friend instead.

Spain laughed weakly, his head lolling back against the wall. "Ahaha, of course. It's just my economy," he said unconvincingly.

Trying not to cry and bite despairingly (and dramatically) into his handkerchief (it would be so expensive to get that wood replaced, not to mention the cost of installation, and he could already feel the burning hole in his wallet), France sighed and wrapped a consoling arm around Spain.

"Well, if you're sick, you shouldn't be spending so much energy breaking down doors and threatening innocent nations, you know," France advised, only half-serious with his advice.

Spain pondered what the Frenchman said for a few moments. While he was thinking, France took the opportunity to play with the annoying buttons on the front of Spain's shirt, experimentally popping a few of them open. There was no reaction from the Spaniard, so France took that as a green light and tugged at the shirt to open it completely in one go. Some of the buttons ripped off and clattered to the floor. He paid little attention to it, but Spain noticed the sound and looked down.

"Ah, my shirt got ruined again," he said in that slightly confused tone, like he wasn't sure how exactly it happened.

Leave it to the Spaniard to only notice the minor facts. Not that France minded, as he shrugged and slid a hand over Spain's now-bare chest. "I've told you plenty of times to just leave the shirts unbuttoned, so this problem doesn't happen," he said.

Spain almost pouted. "But whenever I do, Belgium gets red like she has a fever, so I thought the sight of my chest might make her feel sick," he said reasonably.

France sighed. "It doesn't make her sick. You just don't understand women," he replied.

That statement confused Spain more than it should have. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked.

France waved his question off. "Never mind. Just focus on who could have Romano, since it's obviously now me," he said.

Spain blanched. "Right. Who do you think has him?" he asked.

"As much as I love being the one you look up to, I have no idea," France said. "Nor do I see any reason to help you get back that cute little colony."

The Spaniard grabbed the front of France's shirt, his eyes filled with desperation. "Please, France! Who do you think has him? I need to get Romano back before he gets hurt!"

France thought about the way Spain nearly killed him for suspecting that he had Romano, and it gave him a great idea. One that would get him a precious little colony in return. "Have you checked in on England yet?" he asked.

Spain shook his head, and France's excitement grew.

"Well, then, I guess that's your next stop," France said with a grin. "In fact, since I'm such a great friend, I'll even go with you to help look for your precious little Romano."

Spain's face lit up. He launched himself at France in a gleeful hug of gratitude. "Oh really? Thank you! You're a great friend!" he said to the surprised, but pleased, France.

"Don't mention it, mon ami. I'll be glad to help."

Soon, Canada would be his.

Um, yeah, that ending was definitely not supposed to happen. I guess France will have a greater role in the story than I originally though. And I guess the story will have more chapters than I thought, too.

Oh well. Until next time, ciao~!