* Heads up - this chapter is the first reason of several to come that this fic is rated T. Enojy!

Seychelles stood in front of the cave, the one she had used as a makeshift bedroom for as long as she could remember. Only now was she realizing, after all this time, that she had finally outgrown it. She couldn't even stretch herself out completely, and she stared numbly at nothing in particular in response to this realization of, well, of growing up.

So, that night, she slept amongst the tortoises.

The animals blinked at her curiously, their nightly business interrupted, as she tried to make herself comfortable in their dug-up, conveniently sleep-shaped nests. Used to her presence, however, the bale didn't even mind when she started talking to them, fueling the desperate urge to cast her feelings from the overwhelmed recesses of her mind, by any means possible.

"I honestly don't understand, guys," she whispered to the tortoises. "Do I truly want more from him that just friendship?" And…why am I so cared to find out?"

She frowned at the gravity of this question. She was scared. But of what?

Suddenly, with a shiver, she was reminded of France's relationship with England, and how much they seemed to hate each other with a burning, fiery passion. This led her to think of his relationship with Canada, the exact opposite: loving, caring, and important enough to fight a war over. And speaking of wars, Seychelles' thought train continued its journey and lit upon the relationships these Nations had with each other: France and Prussia, France and Austria, France and America, and everything in between; they were always changing.

Her frown deepened. Despite how much she had grown in the past fifty years, only now was she beginning to realize just how young she actually was. All of these relationships France had had, all of these experiences, all of this change hugely outweighed anything and everything she had ever experienced in the entirety of her 'short' life. And this knowledge terrified her. It terrified her that she was just another piece, just another shiny gem that France, England, whoever saw as something fresh and pretty, something to take advantage of. Like she was an object that they took interest in for as long as she was new and exciting and not a moment longer.

Seychelles exhaled as this epiphany struck, the Giant Tortoises paying her no mind. This was why she so treasured France's friendship, but shied away when anything 'progressive' was implied. Which was inevitably going to be the case, considering it was France, for goodness sake.

France meant the world to her, he could teach the world to her, but he could also, if she were to attach herself utterly and completely to him, take her world from her, just like he probably had with countless Nations and colonies along the treacherous path of history.

And Seychelles knew she would be a part of all that one day – strategic relationships, marriages, affairs with personified countries – she knew it was inevitable. But not yet. She was not yet ready for her heart to break for another's benefit.

So, she decided, friendship it would be. For the next while at least. No use coming to any solid decisions after just storming away from the one that would ultimately solidify those decisions in the future.

There. She could sleep now. She would find France tomorrow and work on improving their friendship before deciding on anything else.

And, with that comforting thought in mind, she drifted off to sleep, surrounding by the munching of tortoise mouths and the swaying of her special palm fronds.

I I I

Seychelles woke to slender fingers winding through her hair. She smiled, despite the intimacy, and opened her eyes. She was met with France's eyes gazing down at her, stupidly, radiantly blue. His hand moved from her hair to her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before withdrawing, coming to rest on his lap; he was sitting next to her, leaning against a rock.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he purred, charming as always.

'Salut, France," she murmured back to him, not quite sure where or how to continue and what should she even say?!

He 'heh'd,' smiling resignedly and looked away from her.

"I guess there's not much to do now that you've managed to learn so much on your own, ma chérie…"

Seychelles frowned at the melancholic tone of his voice, and it only deepened when she realized it was kind of…true. When they had spent time together previously, France had always been teaching her, guiding her, answering her questions. Now that they were together once more (as equals?), what was there now to do? What did Nations do to pass the time?

She was about to ask France this particular question, but stopped herself, realizing he would probably just answer it with something sexual and completely unnecessary.

Sensing her discomfort, France shifted and scratched the back of his head, the uncertain smile still lingering on his face.

"I am, ah, sorry for behaving so unattractively last night. I've…been through a lot recently."

Seychelles sighed at his last words. She thought for sure that he would have made a joke concerning how against his culture it was of him to be unattractive. She rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and looked over at France, saddened by the vagueness of his excuse.

She thought for a moment before rising to a kneeling position, her blue dress pooling overtop of her legs. She placed her hand delicately on France's cheek and kissed the other, feather-light, before moving forward and embracing him, placing her chin on his shoulder. He wasted no time in returning the embrace, leaning into her touch as if it was the first compassion he had been shown in years.

Considering his recent past, Seychelles thought glumly, it probably was.

"France…" She spoke lightly, not wanting to jar him from whatever happiness he was feeling. "I am unbelievably happy that you've come back to me, I really am. And I just… I want you to know that I'm your…friend, and if you ever want to talk about anything I'm here for you, okay? Just – just so you know. I don't want any hard feelings; I just want you to be happy."

She grimaced at this sappy choice of words, and struggled to end the speech on a strictly platonic note, just as she had decided last night.

"I'm here for you France… 'cause that's what friends are for."

She inwardly scolded herself at how 'not right' that sounded. Why couldn't she find the right words?

She heard France sigh, and to her dismay, couldn't tell if it was in appreciation or frustration.

"Ah…oui. Oui, c'est vrai. Merci, Séchelles."

She sighed herself at the sound of his halting, lack-luster response and briefly tightened her hold around France's broad shoulders, before letting go and looking into his eyes, smiling sadly.

I'm sorry I can't (won't?) give you what you want.

She shook her head abruptly and stood up, catching France by surprise. She held out a hand to him and grinned, banishing all negative thoughts from her mind. He smiled quizzically and took her hand, standing and brushing the dirt off of his black pants (she couldn't help but notice his loose white shirt, tucked perfectly into those pants, showing off his sailor's build).

"Come on, France!" She laughed and swiveled around, hands behind her back. "If there's one thing I managed to teach myself by living on this island my whole life, it's how to have fun here!"

She kept smiling, a juvenile spark lighting her eyes once more, and France only just realized how much he had missed it.

After a slight pause, France (finally, finally!) grinned right back at her and began to follow her into the trees.

"Bien sûr, ma chérie – tu as ma confiance."

I I I

After a while, Seychelles dared to hope, things were slowly returning to normal – to how they were before (France had left her alone for fifty years).

True to her word, she took France all around her tiny world, showing him what it meant to have fun in Seychelles. They did everything: hiked, cliff dove, swam with rainbow coloured fish, talked, and simply existed with one another. She even convinced France to accompany her and Quincy to one of the Commandant's ships so that she could learn even more, this time about ships, sea life, and what it meant to truly explore.

She smiled apologetically back at Quincy as France immediately whisked her away with a flourish and a soft, but firm hand on her back, explaining in rapid French the names of each part of the ship, from bow to stern, helm to spars to main-mast and everything else in between.

After a month, however (a whole month!), of France's achingly familiar company, Quincy gently reminded him of his duties to his own country, and how he was going to be needed there sooner rather than later in order to deal with the mess his people were currently stuck in.

He was to join Quincy and his crew on a routine trip to Mauritius, and would then continue on from there back to Europe, while Quincy returned to his duties on the island of Mahé. He would have only three more days here, while the necessary preparations were made, and then he would accompany them, because "you know as well as I do, France, that as hard as it is to leave something or someone you love for your responsibilities, there is now no choice in the matter, and this return trip is a finality you cannot escape."

France sighed and looked down at Quincy's hand as it squeezed his shoulder, before it returned to its owner's side.

'Someone you love.' Hmph. All the experience he had ever had with love (oh, Mathieu…) had ended horribly for both parties. Which was terribly depressing considering he was the embodiment of the country of love, goddammit. So, he adamantly refused to accept that Quincy had clearly made the assumption that he loved the little colony, because that was just not allowed to be true. He…just couldn't afford to fall in love again.

He had to admit, if only to himself, that Quincy was a fine Frenchman, quick on his feet and intelligent, and he was glad, albeit a bit jealous, that this man would be the one taking care of Séchelles.

And speaking of Séchelles…

His gaze wandered over to the cliff side, where she wandered occasionally to complete her 'homework' assignments France would give her, including English, French, and ship anatomy in each language…

He sighed longingly, like the hopeless romantic he was, and quickly tried to transition said sigh into an awkward throat clearing, as if to prove to himself and to Quincy that he wasn't undeniably in love with that wonderful girl with red ribbons in her hair, because he just couldn't be.

He tried to smile in response to Quincy's puzzled face, but it came out as more of a grimace. He sighed once more, this time resignedly before pulling a full bottle of red wine from within the mysterious and distinctly French depths of the one bag he had managed to save from the wreckage of La Flêche.

"Thank you for your help in arranging this voyage and your, ah, kind words, Monsieur Quincy. But I think I need a drink."

I I I

Seychelles smiled as she heard France make his way through the entrance that lead up to the sea-side cliff, the very same one on which they had…kissed for the first time. And hopefully the last, of course (of course?), Seychelles thought to herself, bemused.

She quickly composed herself, turning to face the on-coming Nation, and froze, smile slipping from her face as France stumbled through the entrance, cursing, an almost empty wine bottle clutched in his shaking hands. He reeked of alcohol.

"…France? Are you okay?"

He answered by downing the last of the wine and placed the bottle meticulously against a rock, as if unsure that he would have been able to do so without smashing it. He straightened with an 'oh hon hon hon hon' and made his way slowly over to where she sat, plopping himself down beside her and flashing a flirtatious, alcohol induced smile her way.

He looked out into the setting sun, due west, as if searching for something. Then, to Seychelles mild shock and horror, his smile disappeared and he started to cry. Not normal tears, that plead for comfort and reassurance, but overly depressed, floundering tears that just screamed 'I'm drunk and I have no idea what I might say.'

Seychelles sighed, and because it was France and because he was her stupid friend, she placed a hand over his and opened her mouth once more to ask him if he was okay and –

"J'pense d'Mathieu."

She froze, and it was with a herculean effort that she kept her hand where it was. He breathed out, shoulders shaking, and the immediate vicinity was filled with the smell of aged French wine.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed France's hand, wishing that she did not have to be included in this conversation, especially considering it was a drunken conversation complete with crying and longing for another person, and that person was not her –

Seychelles derailed her thoughts, forcing herself to be there for her friend. She had promised him, after all, that she would be there for him if he needed to talk.

"Why's it, ma chérie, that ev'ryone I love's always taken from me?"

He trailed off in a dramatic whisper, his words slightly slurred, and groped beside him as if reaching for more wine. Finding none, he hiccupped and continued.

"'Course, tha' means you're prob'ly gonna be taken from me too."

He swayed and shook his fist at the ocean, and suddenly shouted, "Va t'faire enculer, Angleterre! T'es un voleur, un con et, et j't'desteste!

Seychelles recoiled at the sudden vulgarity and withdrew her hand from his, wishing she was somewhere else, far away from this poor, suffering, not to mention drunken man.

But wait… what he said… Considering he had definitely loved Canada, and England had taken him away, did that mean that he loved her too? Now? Had he moved on?

Before she could really think on this, France's shouting died down and he turned and threw himself around the Nation-to-be sitting beside him, as if looking for the closest means of comfort and consolation regarding Canada's absence that he could find. Seychelles wasn't too sure how she felt about this; the over-load on alcohol was certainly enough to set her mind on edge.

However, she sighed and rolled her eyes, putting her arms around France's back and trying her best to whisper soothing thoughts into his ears, really at a loss of what else to do.

After a while, the Nation's pathetic cries died down and his shoulders stopped their incessant shaking. After a while, the warmth of his embrace actually started feeling really nice. After a while, Seychelles almost forgot about the bottle (bottles?) of wine addling with his usually very coherent mind. After a while, France began to move his hands from her back to her sides, moving them up and down the curves of her body (since when did she have curves?) in a very suggestive manner.

"F-France?" Against her better judgment, she let him continue.

"Oui, dis mon nom, ma chérie…"

She blinked at the low, husky tone of his voice, and when his lips touched her neck, soft and sensual, things really started spiraling out of control. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, first on her neck, and then moving slowly, slowly across her collarbone, the tops of her shoulders, her cheeks, her nose, and her –

Oh.

And before she could even protest (did she want to protest?) his lips were on hers, no hesitation whatsoever, as he claimed her mouth with his own. He had turned to face her and his hands were still moving, touching, caressing her sides, her arms, her chest…

…Oh.

And before she even knew what she was doing, she was moving against him, catching his lips with her own, her inexperience working to her advantage as she simply pressed forward and joined this dance.

The initial adrenaline rush momentarily dulled all senses, and at first she forgot to realize the sour taste of alcohol as her tongue traced trails across his teeth, his lips. He purred against her as she placed one hand on his shoulder and the other on the side of his head, entwining her fingers through his soft, blonde hair. Her eyes were still closed.

Teasingly, he captured her lips with his and placed a hand on her chest, pushing her down to rest beneath him, almost falling over himself in the process. This jerky movement jarred Seychelles somewhat from her trance-like reverie, and she opened her eyes, the solid figure of France towering above her. The smell of alcohol once again washed over her, and for the first time since this all started, she couldn't decide if she wanted to push him off of her, or submit to his pleasant ministrations…

He bent down to kiss her once more, one hand in her hair and the other moving across her leg, her knee, the inside of her thigh, and then –

Oh.

And something in her body jolted when he touched her there and her eyes flew open; she truly looked into France's gaze for the first time that night and was met with something horribly familiar – that gaze, that lecherous, lustful, almost inhuman gaze, that same look she had seen in her dream so long ago – and as much as she wanted (needed?) to explore this feeling that she had never felt before, she realized just how much France was not France, but just some drunken Nation who was still getting over his past lover, and Seychelles remembered that she was not ready for this, not really, not in this way – why, oh why did he wait until he couldn't see straight to do this to her, why –

"Arrêtes-la, France," she mumbled against his roving mouth, hating herself for sounding so breathless at the thought of just what those fingers could do. But this was not right; it was far from perfect, far from respectful…

But he wouldn't stop, didn't move, even after she pushed at his chest, and this was starting to frighten her. He moved his hips against her, and she involuntarily arched against him before coming to her senses, not wanting to be forced into this, and on top of a cliff, for goodness sake.

"Arrêtes! S'il te plait, arrêtes!"

France paused, confused, and Seychelles took advantage of this to push her way out from under him, dodging his clumsy hands as he tried to snatch her away again. To her dismay, he began to cry again, desperate, heartbroken tears.

"Non, non, non, s'il t'plaît, Mathi- Séchelles, ne m'quitte pas, ne m'quitte pas."

Seychelles stood up and backed way towards the entrance, tearing up herself now as he crawled towards her, shaking her head, wanting nothing more than to take his hand and kiss the heart break away from her Nation's face, but she had caught that slip, and knew that he was too dangerously on edge to be near right now. And he had tried to… Why had he tried to…?

No, it was too much – she had to get away.

One last look at his lust-glazed stare confirmed her previous thought, and with a small, whispered "désolées," She whipped around and ran from the cliff side, France's small, slurred "s'il t'plaîts" echoing in her ears.

She ran and ran, her tears flowing freely. She couldn't decide if she was running from her problem or escaping from something that could never be truly hers. And the indecision was killing her.

She eventually, after making sure to cover her tracks, took shelter under a rocky overhang, hiding herself from the rest of the island and the dangers that lingered there. Sniffing, she drew her knees up to her chest and tried desperately to quell the throbbing between her thighs.

She did not sleep that night.

I I I

Seychelles watched from the beach as France left with Quincy two days later. She had not spoken to him since that night. She watched as the men weighed anchor, and set sail. She watched as France turned, found her gaze, and tipped his hat to her.

Their shared gaze betrayed nothing but sadness.

She watched as her Nation sailed once more out of her life. Their eyes did not leave one another's until the ship disappeared around the island.

She had never felt so alone.

AN - Phew! Did you know that the last scene was the original idea that stuck in my head two and a half years ago that started me writing this beast? And now I've finally written it! Fuck yeea!

So you are aware, this is Empire times, and Nations are not fluffy, happy, modern day Nations. They are ruthless and confused, and fright wars, and get things stolen from them a lot. So whatever romance that happens, is going to be a little dark, fortunately/unfortunately. So you know. Please review to tell me if you like it!

Translations : Salut = hello

C'est vrai = that's true

Bien sur, tu as ma confiance = of course, I trust you.

J'pense d'Mathieu = I'm thinking of Matthew (the abundance of apostrophes is supposed to show mumbling because he's drunk - hope that's clear...)

Va t'faire enculer, Angleterre! T'es un voleur, un con et, et j't'desteste = Go fuck yourself, England! You are a thief and an idiot, and I hate you!

Dis mon nom = say my name

Arretes-la = stop it

Ne me quitte pas = don't leave me

No historical notes for this one other than it is routine for ships to go back and forth from Seychelles to Mauritius for move supplies.

Thanks for reading and again, please review! I need to know if I'm sucking or not. :P Thanks!