"…but no matter how I pleaded, no matter what I did or said, they refused to release me!"

"Oh mon dieu, really?"

"You poor darling!"

"What did they do to you?"

"Truly terrible things," France said with a sip of his wine. "The cell in which I was imprisoned was cold and dark and constantly wet, and my only companion was a man who had been an enemy of mine in times long past."

"Ooh," cooed one of the women who was sitting beside him. "That must have been awkward."

"But it still does not explain why you need this!" another pointed out.

The long-haired nation looked over at her, removed the crutch from her delicate hands and examined it as though it were a terrible weapon.

"It is… unpleasant," he explained, then slipped it onto his arm and stood up, leaning on it heavily. "I do not wish to disturb you with the details, mon chers, so with your permission I shall take my leave and-"

"No!" the ladies cried.

"Please don't go!" said one, taking hold of his crutch.

"We want to know, please?" whined another, gently cuddling his leg.

France looked down at them all, their wide bright eyes and cherubic faces. He couldn't bear to deny a lady.

"Are you enjoying this?"

"Well," he said with a smile, "as I cannot decide which of you ladies is the most gorgeous-"

They giggled in happy embarrassment.

"-I would be delighted to explain."

He lowered his body back down and landed on the chair with a soft thump.

"It was not long after I had been captured," he said, "and as I had explained before, I was horrendously confused. I had no idea who captured me, I had no idea what for, and I had no idea what they wished to do with me. The one I shared my cell with had been there for longer than I had, and he was teetering on the edge of despair. He still bears a large cut upon his right cheek running from his ear almost to his nose. It was a wonder that I could not see his teeth on the other side."

"Let's see how much you enjoy this."

France shuddered at the memory.

"Our captors enjoyed assaulting us," he continued. "Usually it was only punches and kicks and insults which I could improve in my sleep, but once… I presumed it was their leader, for he was the largest and brawniest of the group, but sadly he was not an imbecile. He made sure to render my cellmate unconscious before concentrating his attacks on me."

"Such a brave man," said one of the women, stroking his soft blonde hair.

"I only wish I could have been," said France. "But I was frightened. I was a coward. I allowed him to press me against the wall, clutching me around the throat, to the point that I could barely breathe or even see what was happening. He began to rub the blade of a blunt knife along my leg. I regret that I was born with the mind of a pervert, and… well, it began to show itself."

One of the ladies shuffled away slightly, but all of the rest started giggling.

"And when he began to suspect that I was… well, that I was enjoying myself, he took the knife and plunged it into my leg."

There was a collective gasp from his small crowd.

"The entire blade," said France, indicating a spot on his right thigh. "All the way up to the hilt, right here. My friend removed it, but it was difficult because the blade had become jammed in the bone!"

One of the girls looked close to crying.

"And when I finally persuaded a doctor to examine it upon leaving that wretched place, I learned that the damage to my nerves meant I may never walk properly again," he finished. "Hence, the crutch."

He didn't know why he hadn't tried this before. Ladies loved a man who was strong and brave, yet not afraid to reveal his emotions. This tale of woe was winning over these women like never before.

So why didn't it feel right?

"I apologi-"

"Non! Don't bother, just help me get it out."

"Hai. I will try."

He took another sip of wine as the girls gossiped around him.

"Nngh-"

"I apologise, the blade appears to be jammed in the bone."

"Get it out!"

"Please try to remain still. I have never done this before."

He stood up again, once more leaning on his crutch.

"Je dois aller, mademoiselles," he said, "it is getting late and there are many matters which require my attention."

His statement was met with variations of "no!" and "please don't go!" but he bid farewell to the beautiful young women and carefully hobbled out into the cool night air.

"I think it is dislodged."

"Then pull it out!"

It was a pleasant evening in Corsica – just warm enough not to be considered cold, just cool enough not to be considered hot. France didn't know why he didn't come here more often, especially since it was close enough to be considered a part of Italy.

"Merci, Japon, I am eternally- what are you doing? Stop!"

"I am sorry, France-san, but I have been captured and dishonoured by the enemy. This is the only thing I can do."

"But you don't know who the enemy is! Japan, STOP!"

It had been too close. The point of the knife had been this far from his stomach and had definitely pierced the smaller man's dirtied, bloodied white uniform, and when France had seized his hands…

"Surely there's another way. You don't have to die!"

"But… but it is the only…"

"No it isn't. Somebody is sure to come and find us. We will escape! And then you have all the time in the world to restore your honour. You don't have to die!"

And then his fingers fell limp, allowing France to place the knife on the ground…

His phone rang. He pulled it out with his free hand and answered it.

"Bonjour?" he said.

"Big Brother France! I was hoping you could pick up. It's me, Italy!"

"Hello, Italy!" A smile spread across France's face at the sound of the adorable young man's voice. "It is so nice to hear from you again. How have you been, mon cher?"

"Ve~ I'm doing great!" cried Italy enthusiastically. "I can finally use my left arm again which means I don't need Romano to push me around all the time! And I found out that Kid was on a mission in Europe and I thought I could meet up with him and we could get pasta together!"

"Kid?" asked France, more than a little confused.

"You know: the Grim Reaper who took care of me when I was in Death City?"

"Oh, of course!" said France, memories returning of a stern young man with stripes in his hair and a very nicely tailored suit. "Give him my compliments, will you not? He was such a nice boy when he was not worrying about my wounded leg."

"I know, I know," Italy replied, "he's got a really big thing for symmetry, you see. And why don't you give him your compliments yourself?"

Now he was properly confused. He looked behind him, just to make sure Italy wasn't back there, and turned to face forwards again.

"Excusez-moi?" he asked. "I am not certain I understand, Italie. Are you telling me that you are in Corsica right now?"

"Not just in Corsica," said Italy. "I already met with Kid in a restaurant across the street. I can see you!"

France cast his eyes around the semi-busy road, searching for a happy face and an adorable little hair curl. He located it in an Italian restaurant, just a little way down the road from where he was standing. Italy was seated, still in his wheelchair, grinning like a lunatic with sparkling caramel eyes wide open and waving like a wild man at a football match. Across the table from him was a well-dressed youth with stripes in his hair and a embarrassed look on his face.

"I see you too," he said happily, giving a brief wave of his crutch. "Are you two discussing anything special?"

"Ve~ we're just catching up," said Italy. "You wanna come in and join us? I'll order you some really nice pasta!"

As France watched, Kid leaned forward and said something to Italy, then sat back in exasperation at an apparently unsatisfactory reply.

"Kid says it would be okay so long as you don't try to stroke his hair again," Italy reported.

France didn't reply this time. He just smiled to himself and started to hobble across the street.