Rochu is the next one. This one is on Fruk.

I am so sorry guys. I know I promised in the story description to keep Fruk on a down-low, and I've failed you all. xD

England's knees faltered as he collapsed into a muddy puddle on the side of an abandoned street. His legs were numb from hours of running under pounding sleet, and so was every part of his body.

It was over. England had lost America.

His mouth tasted like bile, and his heart threatened to break free with every beat.

England chuckled. It was no wonder that he wasn't able to chain down his bastard son. He couldn't even keep that wretched ball of flesh between his ribs from rebelling.

That idiot boy, there was no way he could have had the wit to rally up the soldiers, infest their minds with liberal filth, and incept a revolution. There was no way Alfred could have done anything other than scream, whine, and throw tantrums like a jungle beast.

No, if it hadn't been for France, England would have defeated America and sent him on a chariot ride to hell.

America had been a sweet boy, once upon a time. He had a nice smile, and though his laugh could give a dead man a migraine, at least he was manageable. England gave him food, immigrants, and a vibrant little economy, which easily got him to behave until he got hungry again.

But when America grew up and learned how to talk, everything came crashing down.

Yes, England would trade for a well-tamed Canada anyday.

But, he vehemently denied that his own parenting skills were inferior to that of France.

No. No. No!

There was no way he had been a bad parent! He gave that rascal everything he needed! It was America who was too greedy, and let himself fall into France's lap like a dog. Yes, England admitted that sometimes he could be a little demanding. But, that was only because he couldn't bear to see America hurt, or make a fool out of himself!

Sometimes, England thought maybe he should just quit living in the outside world. England was so tired of trying to fathom the dirty, sneaky minds of people. The Flying Mint Bunny was a much better friend, and didn't need anything other than to be fondled with every once in awhile. The Flying Mint Bunny would never seduce his son, sell him weapons, probably do some other unspeakable things to him!

England shook his head vigourously, as if that would dry him of the cold, sticky rain. How he wanted to collapse into the puddle in front of him and sleep off this pounding, throbbing, blinding headache!

Fuck, he had not been able to sleep well ever since the night when France kissed America. England knew, knew that they had been planning to usurp him.

For the past few years, all Francis had done was talk to Alfred, who seemed to be blissfully innocent from all of this. While Arthur, green with envy, went through all means possible to cut off their relations.

He, on multiple occasions, invited Francis out for coffee or a stroll. But, Francis politely declined all of his offers, while taking the bouquet of roses that Arthur had shoved in his face with a goofy smile and shutting the door behind him.

Though, Arthur wasn't really sure of his true motive for doing this. Perhaps it was only to save an innocent child from being preyed upon by Europe's most notorious sex criminal...

Arthur laughed humourlessly. Having been friends with Francis Bonnefoy for centuries, he should have known that he would stick to little Alfred like a bee to honey. That sly old fox, he'd only prey on little boys because he was too much of a coward to rise up to a real challenge!

England gripped his shaking fists until he drew blood. Staring at his own reflection in the filthy water, his lips stretched into a tight grin. Oh yes, France was going to get it the next time. No one made a fool out of Arthur Kirkland, and left him to rot like a lonely widow!

"Delightful weather, isn't it?" France's melodious voice wriggled into England's ears like maggots.

England jabbed his sword into the ground for support, stood up slowly, and walked in front of Francis until the collars of their coats touched. Though France was a head taller than England, he was as thin as a coat rack. If England really wanted to, he could snap him in half effortlessly.

He had always thought that France's only redeeming trait was the colour of his eyes. Though today, all he could think about was ripping them out and boiling them in a cauldron.

But of course, he chose not make those thoughts readable on his face, and maintained his serenity.

England put on his most dazzling smile, and replied to his previous remark with an even more pleasant tone, "Why yes, Francis, darling. It is raining, so you wouldn't have to bathe again for the next decade."

"How you imbrue me, Arthur!" France cried, pretending to be in pain, "Ever since I met you, I have made it my utmost mission to wash everyday, so you wouldn't complain about how I smell like a British caveman!"

England shook his head and smiled, trying to not display his anger. He extended a hand and ran his fingers through the other's hair, while tugging hard enough to make it hurt, just a little.

"So, dear Francis, please do tell of your intentions for visiting me on this fine, fine day—"

France mumbled into England's ear, "Well, dear Arthur, do you not remember the battles we shared back in Europe? You had sifted through the ruins to come visit me afterwards. Now, it is only in a gentleman's best interest to do the same."

France's words, like little fangs, bit into England's pride. It stang, as much as England didn't want it to.

He had meant to make a more intelligent comment. But, all England could come up with was, "Well, tell me, Francis, why did you choose Alfred over me? What does he have that I don't?" England found himself clutching France's' collar, rattling him, almost lifting him up from the ground.

"Get off me, Arthur." France's breath ghosted his face.

England got off him.

France stepped back and straightened his outfit. He said, slowly and clearly, "I have already pawned half the world, for your sake. What more do you want from me? A wedding ring?"

France stood still, looking into England's acid-green eyes for what felt like... half a minute? (He rested his hand on his pocketwatch, and was counting the ticks.) Before he had a chance to break the silence, a pair of lips tackled into him. France's eyes shot open to see England clutching his face, pushing his smelly, wet mouth against his own.

France decided to wait patiently to let England's finish, while enjoying the bitter alkaline taste of his tongue that he knew all too well. But, England seemed to hate his lack of response, and vengefully sank his teeth into the other man's lip. France growled in pain, and pushed him back. Blood dripped from his mouth and down his neck, soaking the white lace on his collar.

For a long time, England refused to even look at him. His face had reddened to the roots of his ear. It was raining even harder now, the drops hitting the ground like artillery.

Francis licked his lips clean, and said before walking away, "Well, you better not stay out here for too long. You don't want to catch another cold."

Oh England England England... Your temper... What to do?