Okies. This one is about, Fruk, and PruHun.

Rochu is in the previous one.

March 5 2012- Holy mother of God my grammar is so terrible and my proofreading skills are so terrible and my tenses flip like turntables and I have a tendency for writing run-on sentences don't worry I think I have proofread all 8 chapters pretty well and they should be a lot better.

"Okay, so is everyone here?" Prussia asked stupidly as he looked around the circle of friends, trying to take attendance.

"Yeah, I'm here," everyone replied to his pointless question simultaneously. Sometimes, they couldn't help but wonder how the hell a moron like him got to be the boss of their group.

Obviously, the absentee in question wasn't going to run down here all the way from his house just to inform Prussia of his absence.

Hungary, or Prussia's other, smarter half, was sitting comfortably on his lap. She shot him an "are you serious?" look, and asked instead, "So, why couldn't Francis make it today?"

"I believe that he is at home entertaining guests," Austria answered calmly, "I was speaking with him yesterday, and he told me that people from England were crossing the channel to visit his country."

Whenever that bastard spoke, all Prussia wanted to do was to rip that head with all of its perfectly trimmed hair right off Austria's neck. He could. He knew he could. But, Hungary wouldn't be too happy...

Everyone else "ooh'ed" at the new information and looked at each other curiously. It was not often that any of them got in contact with people from the northern islands.

No one knew what went on up there, other than that they had become quite powerful over the past few decades, ever since a new boss stepped onto the throne.

"Hm, it is kind of cool that Francis gets to meet them." Spain said, nodding slowly, "Maybe then England will come play with us too..."

Prussia shot him a death glare, but said forced himself to stay quiet. He was still quite annoyed with the fact that there were two new faces in his clubhouse. He had formed these alliances in the first place in order to defeat Austria, and now thanks to stupid Hungary, he got to see his fat, well-groomed face every day!

Seeing that Prussia had gotten a little upset, Hungary turned and took his hand. "But Gil, don't forget," she said hopefully, giving him a big wide grin, "The English are Christians, and I bet you'll get along with him very well!"

Forcing himself to smile back, he leaned over to give her a light peck on the cheek.

"Whatever," He shrugged, while Austria, who had been watching the couple for some time now, turned away.

Francis Bonnefoy had been looking forward to meeting this new friend. Since he had been hanging with ruffians like Prussia and Spain all his life, he knew he wanted someone different for a change. Don't get him wrong, he still enjoyed riding horses and fighting wars. But, those weren't the only things that pertained to France.

Which was why, the night before England's arrival, he had stayed up quite late planning all the fun activities they were going to do together. They were going to tour Paris and see the newly built cathedrals that he had spent hundreds of years designing. He was going to take him into his Louvre and bask in all its regalia. They were going to marvel at his resined furniture, stained glass windows, and those delightful Turkish rugs that he had recently purchased. Not to mention, he was going to make England sample his new-found talent in the kitchen, as he had told his servants the night before to prepare the freshest, most expensive ingredients for his guest's arrival. Yes, Francis just knew they were going to have a great time. England was going to see that the sun shined much more brightly in France than anywhere else in the world!

Sadly, he had not been expecting... this.

When Francis Bonnefoy first laid his eyes on Arthur Kirkland, he really didn't think too much of him. The boy was a bit shorter than himself. A whole head shorter, in fact. He was a little on the chubby side too, with small rolls of baby fat pillowing his cheekbones. His hair colour was of a dirtier blond than his own, and he had a pair of deep-set, emerald green eyes. The kid had no sense of style either. He was wearing but a loosely fit brown tunic over a plain black cape. Francis couldn't help but wonder why he still chose to look like the abandoned love child between Merlin and his old gardener, when his country, from hearsay, was a reasonably wealthy one.

Okay, Francis realized that he also was also wearing a tunic. But at least it was longer, blue, form-fitting, and, as he patted off a small smudge of dust on the one side, not filthy.

"Hello, England." France said pleasantly. Despite his previous crummy observations, he bowed deeply in politeness.

After resurfacing, he looked back at England who seemed to be reluctant in giving his reply. They awkwardly stared at each other for what felt like half a minute, their eyes locking, blue meeting green. Arthur's thick eyebrows had begun to furrow in what seemed like... confusion, or perhaps fear, while Francis was curious as to what could possibly have made the boy's lips tremble as if he was about to have a fit.

Is he alright? Did I scare him or something? Perhaps, is it because he doesn't even know how to properly reply?

"Hi," was what Francis managed to hear squeak out of Arthur's mouth. It sounded like a hiccup, a cough, an insignificant greeting.

How rude.

Then, without warning, Arthur's face spread into a wide, toothy smile... Francis was not kidding. The kid, just, out of nowhere, started smiling.

It was directed not towards Francis either, but at whatever was to the right of his head. Francis reluctantly turned, but saw that nothing was beside him. He looked back at Arthur and asked him what was he smiling at, but, the boy did not seem to hear.

Then, Arthur started speaking.

"Oh Uni, you have finally come to visit me! I thought I was going to be all alone with this French prick!" He squealed happily, jumping up and down and clapping his hands like he was four years old. He sprinted to the right of Francis.

Francis could feel a vein explode at "this French prick". Reminding himself of his place as the gracious host, he held his fist back from being shoved into the kid's face. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Arthur who was now locked in a rather... loving embrace with..."Uni".

"Um, England?" England paid no attention, and instead puckered out his lips to make like he going to kiss his imaginary friend.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Francis tried to shake him out of his trance, but to no avail.

Francis kind of felt sorry for the volume of air that Arthur was, arguably, molesting.

He did snap out of it after a while, and apologized half-heartedly to Francis, who took accepted it with a profoundly disturbed countenance. They decided to continued onwards, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Francis fed him some of his most beloved recipes, as he thought that there was no way anyone could say no to good food, not even a queer duck like Arthur. Tender minced meat with a sweet mustard marinade, sprinkled with ground hyssop. Dainty pastries with a sweet, warm strawberry filling. Deep, red wine fermented from handpicked grapes that were harvested from his own vineyard.

Who could refuse such a treat?

"Do you not serve boiled potatoes here?" Arthur asked bluntly, after ejecting a mouthful of chewed fougasse onto the clean rosewood table.

Francis facepalmed.

He had no idea what else he should do in order to fulfill his role as the host. The tour of the Louvre did not seem to interest him, as he unapologetically displayed his boredom with a series of exaggerated yawning and mumbling rudities. Arthur seemed to not be satisfied with Francis' cooking either, which he had personally prepared.

Francis raised a displeased eyebrow and took a slight sip of his wine. His altruism was not unconditional.

Arthur was even worse than Gilbert! Mon dieu, he didn't know why he bothered to become friends with younger kids. They were such imbeciles!

"Hey, frog."

Francis looked up. This was the first time Arthur had voluntarily spoken to him. "I would like to take a stroll outside. Your house smells like rotten dog farts, and it is worsening my asthma."

Francis did not care for the insult he had conferred, but agreed that he also needed some fresh air. So, he and Arthur walked out the back door of his house and into the garden.

It was a sunny and surprisingly warm autumn afternoon. The sky was a clear blue, and fire-red leaves carpeted the ground on which they walked, crackling under their feet.

It was also harvest season for many of the crops in his garden. The squashes grew exceptionally well this year, with dark green leaves, long tendrils and great tasting fruit. Though most of the flowers had already lost their bloom to the chilly mornings, his lilies stood strong against the frost, and glowed with pride under the waning sunlight. Their pedals were white, like snow. Francis supposed that in a way, it was as if they were beckoning winter to come sooner to take their miserable lives. Francis shook at his head at the thought, disagreeing with himself. His lilies stood for purity, beauty. Wonderful things.

Much unlike the fellow walking beside him.

The two hadn't said much of anything since they had walked out the door. Since it was civil protocol for him to at least attempt to make conversation with his guest, no matter how short-lived and insipid, Francis decided to comment on the pleasantry of the warm weather.

"It is quite nice outside today, isn't it?" He said mildly, turning to shorter, still grumpy-looking boy walking beside him.

"Too sunny," Britain grumbled, "Not enough rain. Crops don't grow well without rain."

He and Arthur were now nearing the edge of his property, which was fenced by tall stone walls that he had especially built to keep his home safe from violent outsiders. Two guards stood at the entrance, which laid at the end of a different, parallel path. A strip of untethered lawn divided the bulwark and the garden, upon which Arthur had taken the liberty to sit.

Francis followed him into the grass, and was planning to sit beside him.

"No, stop!" England cried shrilly, "You can't sit there!"

France shot up before his bottom hit the ground. "Why not?"

"Because you are going to squash Minty!"

"Who?"

"Minty!"

England grunted in frustration as he gathered up his other imaginary friend, and pretended to hold and pet it. He was telling it to calm down, and that he wasn't going to let the "smelly bastard" hurt it.

Francis decided that he had enough. Clearly, whoever was responsible for England's upbringing was completely, utterly incompetent. He was nothing but a rude, uncouth, impetuous little gangrel with absolutely no class, no civility, and was in no way deserving of his title!

France refused to be enslaved to his "guest's" wishes any longer!

Instead of saying something in reply, he chose to plop down mercilessly onto the unoccupied spot of grass that he had previously claimed, thus squashing Minty into a pile of bloody, fictitious goo. He turned to look at England smugly.

England looked like he was about to commit murder.

France cocked his neck up higher, flared his nostrils, and pursed his lips, looking even more smug, if that were possible.

England launched his whole body onto France forthwith, making both parties fall onto the grass with England on top. He bared his hands, and was preparing to choke the boy that was squirming under him. "You killed Minty! You killed Minty!" He cried hopelessly, fat tears squeezing out of his green eyes. France, who had much experience with physical combat, wasn't going to let him have the upper hand. France punched him in the face, and England kicked him back in the shins. England tore at his tunic, and France pulled out his hair in return. Soon, they had become a screaming, grunting, tumbling mess. None of them was going to let the other win, and both refused to lose.

After they had fought for a hundred years, or to them, a few minutes, France finally prevailed. Though, it was only because he seized a moment of weakness on England's part by chance. Otherwise, it had been a dauntingly close battle.

England sat up from the ground and wiped the bit of blood from his cheek, panting haggardly. France rose as well, combing his scalp with his hands, trying to get all of the grass shavings out of his hair.

"Good game, mate." England said heavily, still trying to catch his breath.

"Yes, it was." France agreed, placing a hand on his shoulder. Contrary to his refined appearance and mannerisms, France actually had spent much of his life fist-fighting, and was naturally skilled. But, this kid sure made this victory bloody damn hard. He was impressed. It was no wonder that England had become one of the most dominant forces in Europe in these past few centuries.

"What should we do now?" England asked, looking up at the night sky.

"Come, lets go see the rest of Paris." France replied, pointing to the back gates of the Louvre which led them directly to the streets of the city. "You do owe me for my victory."

"Very well then."

Smiling, France draped England's arm over his shoulders, and helped him to stand up. He was the fault of England's pulled ankle, after all. Walking ever so slowly, they made their way out of the garden, and into Paris.

They had been running for a while now, zipping through jagged windy paths and trying not to trip over any unsuspecting object in the dark. It all started with Francis teasing Arthur about his stubby little legs, which resulted in Arthur yanking the scarf right off his neck, and took off in a frenzy. Francis, who thought it would be fun to chase after him, had been running behind him ever since. Their feet shattered what was once a lucid reflection of the moon as they charged into an abandoned puddle, splashing muddy water onto their clothes.

They turned a corner, then another, and another, onto a wider cobblestone street.

"Watch it!" An old lady bellowed, as Arthur and Francis rammed straight into her cart of market produce and knocked a couple of potatoes onto the ground.

They didn't bother leaving an apology, since something else had caught Arthur's eye when he had looked up. What seemed like an orb of light stood in the distance, with a crowd of people gathered around it. Sounds of laughing, cheering, and music drifted into his ears. The music was light-hearted, joyous, much unlike the liturgical chants that Arthur had been accustomed to back home. Inadvertently, his legs carried him closer and closer to the crowd. How he hoped that there would be a real unicorn standing at the end of the path!

Francis followed him reluctantly. He held his guard up, for they were now in the darker corner of the city. He pushed past a few members of the audience, apologizing to them, and finally found Arthur, who was standing at the front row of the performance. He looked so happy, clapping his hands in rhythm with the tambourines, while watching a couple of gypsy women dance in the ring. For Arthur, it must be all very new, Francis thought, as he remembered that the English were rather reclusive and conservative in their ways. Seeing Arthur's jaw drop to the floor at one of the dancing girls who was swishing her naked hips, Francis couldn't help but burst out laughing. The thought of Arthur, of all people, getting stiff from watching that!

"Oh, what are you laughing at now?" Arthur yelled indignantly, not knowing how cutely his lips were pouting.

"It's nothing," Francis replied, trying to stomach yet another bout of laughter, "Say, do you not have people like this in your country?"

"Not that I have seen," Arthur shrugged, "Though I do spend much of my time at home. I am always so busy, and don't have much time to go out onto the streets."

Francis nodded and shifted his gaze back onto the performance. Right, he thought, smirking, Arthur was too busy talking to his imaginary friends to have seen much of the world.

After Arthur grew bored of the dancing, he moved on to follow the cortege of people that were now flowing into a large, underground tavern. Large clouds of smelly smoke floated out of the small entrance. Francis swore he could feel the ground shake under his feet.

"Well, come on," Arthur urged impatiently, "Don't be a coward, you had said we could tour Paris!"

"Arthur, I don't think-"

He grabbed his hand and ran, dragging Francis with him.

The tavern was crowded tonight. Drunks of all sizes, shapes, and ages were sprawled around on the dirty floor and makeshift furniture. There were people singing and dancing on top of the one big table that already had a broken leg. Though, Francis didn't think they cared, nor noticed.

It was just one of the many rustic bars in Paris in which vagabonds liked to frequent, nothing more. But what did catch Francis' eyes were how Arthur reacted to all of this. It was the first time that he had seen Arthur truly enjoying himself, and he was glad.

"Come, child." A deep, thickly accented female voice pervaded through all the noise. Arthur and Francis turned their heads to see an old woman sitting behind a booth. She had a wore a turban around her head, and large golden hoops hung from her ears, making her lobes droop. She looked advanced in her years, and by her peculiar manner of dress, Francis knew that she was a fortune-teller.

Arthur obeyed her command, and walked over to sit on the ground in front of her booth. Francis reluctantly followed, his hand closed around the tang of his sword. The lady let out a husky, mucous-coated laugh. "Worry not, France," She said, her dark eyes gazing into his, " for I do not wish to harm England."

"How did you know who we were?" Arthur asked curiously.

"I have the eyes of the ancients." She replied simply. She took a sip from her pipe and expelled grayish-blue smoke from her large nostrils.

"What does that mean?"

"It means she can see into the future." Francis replied, smiling. Having decided that she looked harmless enough, he sat down beside Arthur. Gypsies were strange in their ways, but they were very kind people, for the most part.

"That is correct," She said, "Give me your right hand, France."

He obeyed, and opened his palm for her to see. She ran a thick, rough thumb over the surface of his hand, furrowed her eyebrows in thought, and spoke, "You will grow to become an even more powerful nation, France. My best wishes go out to you."

France grinned proudly in return, content with what he had heard. Retreating his hand, he gestured to England, and asked, "Well, what about him?"

"Show me your hand too, child." She said to England, who did so.

She also examined his hands for a few seconds, before reaching her head down and squinting for an even closer look. England was becoming worried by her changing facial expressions. He also looked down on his hand, and decided that there was nothing wrong with it. The lady resurfaced a few moments later with a new-found glow in her eyes. Her wrinkly lips trembled with excitement, as she stuttered, "Y-you, my c-child. You will become... the greatest empire in the whole world."

Liz and Gil were walking back to his house after another successful meeting. Since her boss had given her tomorrow off, she decided that she would come sleep over at Gil's. It had been a long day, which was why she wanted to make the stroll take as less time as possible, so she could get home (her second home), eat, and go to sleep. But, as usual, she could count on Gil to make her life more difficult.

Ever since they had started their walk, Gil would stop after a few steps to pick flowers from the side of the road.

Every few steps, he would stop, bend down, and gather, not a whole handful, but a single flower to add to his bouquet. Though Liz was in no mood for his bullshit, she couldn't help but be surprised at what her friend was doing.

"What are you doing?"

"Can't you see?" He replied cheekily, waving his colourful bouquet in front of her eyes, "Just because you keep whining about having chest pains, that does not mean you are blind."

Hungary grunted, and continued to walk, while Gil continued to pause his stride every few seconds to gather a new addition. Finally, Liz had it. She was famished, thirsty, and more than ready to shed some Prussian blood if he was going to keep acting like this. He knew very well that she had forgotten to have lunch, and was in a terrible mood, and he was probably just doing this on purpose to irk her.

"Oh come on, Gil," she growled through clenched teeth, "Stop being a girl, and let's go."

"Well maybe I am a girl on the inside," he replied sarcastically, "Then, I'd be attracted to other men, and not you!" He beamed sweetly against her scowl.

That bastard was on to something, Liz could just tell. She swore that if he didn't cut his crap right now, he was going to taste some pain. She was in no mood for this. No fucking mood.

She raised her fist, and was about to walk over to kill her best friend, but was stopped by Gil suddenly dropping down on one knee, kneeling, with his flowers in hand. Hungary dropped her fist, which Prussia conveniently took and placed a soft kiss on the back of her palm.

Hungary shuddered at his lips touching her skin, and immediately retreated. "W-what are you doing now, Prussia?" She whispered hoarsely, green eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I got good news for ya," Gil dropped his voice into a more husky tone as his face grew into a very Francis-like expression, "Prussia thinks you are awesome enough to be his girlfriend."

"P-pardon?"

Liz had heard exactly what he said, but, she just wanted to hear him say it again. She hated how eagerly her face turned red like a tomato.

"You heard me," Gil was beginning to even look like Francis, "And if you refuse, you would be even more moronic than Roddy."

He winked at her and smooched his lips.

"Yes." she squeaked, turning her whole body away from him.

"What? I can't hear you!" He lied, standing up to hold her by the waist, still clutching the bouquet in his hands. Liz now knew that the flowers were not for his secret male lover.

"Okay, repeat after me, 'I am now awesome Prussia's girlfriend..."

"...I am now awesome P- Hey!" Hungary stopped mid-sentence, raised her arms, and was about to shove Gil into the next millennium.

Gil raised his own arms in defence, but her fury never came. He put his arms down and saw instead that Liz was blushing so much that he had become medically concerned for her. "You're an asshole," she said, avoiding his gaze.

Gil shrugged, "Meh, good enough for me." He freed a particularly pretty pink flower from his grasp, and tucked it behind her ear. She grumbled at her new hair ornament in dislike, but was silenced by a pair of eager lips crashing against her own.

Around them, a bed of colourful flowers had fallen onto the grass, as the hand who had been holding them was now running through Liz's wavy, chestnut locks. A chill of wind blew through the riverbank, making the dogweeds shiver from the cold.

I love these pairings...

This is the last time I write about my characters as children. The fic will progressively darken from now on.

Thanks for reading! Please review. I'll update faster if you do! xD