Thank you so much for your continued support! I can't believe how many people are reading this! My cynical little heart overflows with joy! With that in mind, have chapter 6, where nothing much happens, but a lot in it is true!

London in Winter.

The British winter is miserable in a way that is hard to describe without coming off as hyperbole. The sky is always grey, like a low concrete curtain stretching as far as the eye could see. The air is close and warm, but a chill wind blows at all times, around every corner and over the hills and buildings. Despite the grey sky, it never seems to rain, but every morning the ground, vehicles and benches were dark and wet. You never saw the sun, but somehow there was still light for a few hours during the day.

It had been a long time since France had spent the winter at England's place – their countries may only be a channel apart, but the difference between them in terms of the weather was incredible. England in winter was just too miserable for him: it was unrelenting dank, and after just a few days he felt like he would never see spring again. London was especially miserable – the old grey buildings, cold and damp, backed by the solid grey sky, full of sullen people darting about from place to place with no beauty around them to behold. It was no wonder…

Britain hadn't gotten out of bed for 3 days, except to use the bathroom – and not for showers – before crawling back into his pit. France had tried asking, nagging, yelling, and using threats and physical force, but nothing seemed to be working. On the second day, sick of trying to negotiate, France had pulled him up by his shirt and demanded he get out of bed, he was met with a single word of reply:

"Why?"

Britain's emerald eyes lacked any emotion as he said it. He didn't fight or yell, or try to pull his shirt away, just stared at France blankly. His face was pale, the bags under his eyes deeper than they had been before. When his shirt was released, he simply fell back down to the bed and rolled onto his side, staring at the wall. France didn't know what to say – the Britain he was used to was so fiery, so full of life and argumentative, seeing him so listless and resigned… he had cried. Actually cried. Once he had dried his eyes, he made some lunch, but Britain didn't eat. He hadn't eaten for a while. With no other source of information, France went back to the internet.

'Just kick him out!' seemed to be the consensus, along with 'he's faking it' and 'he just wants some fucking attention!', none of which were all that useful. Sure, he could 'kick him out' of bed, but then what? Britain was a grown man, France couldn't just throw him over his shoulder and drag him to the playground to cheer him up. And what would he do when he was out of bed? Sit about on the sofa and do nothing, staring into space, instead of lying in bed doing nothing? He seemed to have no energy, no drive – he didn't even want to drink tea. For a few days before he took to his bed, he picked up his needlework a few times, but just ended up staring at it. He stared at the tv blankly, not taking anything in, and picked at his food, hardly saying a word to France.

As his internet search continued, he just got more frustrated. His English was good, but by no means perfect, so he couldn't understand the medical sites which might actually be useful, and everything else he found seemed to be opinion – ill-informed and quite worrying opinion, at that. France slammed the laptop closed in disgust. After wandering about the flat for a bit, we went into Britain's room and laid down on the bed with him. After a moment, he pulled the smaller man into his arms, and the fact that he didn't fight back only upset him.

To cheer himself up, France tracked down a fancy French department store that had a branch in the centre of the city. Britain still refused to get out of bed, so he went alone. Being surrounded by luxury and beauty cheered him immensely, and hearing the beautiful people speaking his language was like music to his ears against the harsh tones of the Londoners. He bought a lovely silk scarf, hair wax and a pair of suede gloves before flirting with one of the pretty shop assistants.

"It's just like that, isn't it?" she laughed with him "How do these British cope?"

"Perhaps that's why they are so stocky – it keeps them warm!"

As the flirtatious laughter continued, the girl laid her hand on his arm.

"The first few years I was here, I couldn't stand the winters!" she confessed "So dark and dreary all the time! I got so depressed, I just didn't want to get up in the morning."

"Ah, is that so? What a travesty for such a beautiful girl to be so sad."

"It was, mon cher, all I wanted was to go home to Brittany."

"So how did you cope? Did you seek out works of great beauty to lift your spirits, such as moi?"

"Oh, my, no! There is very little in London that can be called beautiful!" the girl said bluntly "No, I bought myself a SAD light."

"Sad… as in…upset? Mon dieu, how do you upset a light?"

The girl laughed flirtatiously and led France across the floor to the electronics, showing off a range of bizarre, flat lamps.

"Not sad, cherie, SAD. S.A.D. It means 'Seasonal Affect Disorder.'" She explained "The lack of natural sunlight in the winter causes chemical changes in the brain that mimic, or can lead to, symptoms of depression."

"My, my, you are a great intellect as well as a great beauty!" France continued to flirt, not picking up on the sales pitch "What a pity you are stuck here, instead of basking in the sunshine of the Riviera!"

The girl laughed in agreement.

"Until I can save enough to go visit my papa there, I will have to make do with this." She went on "The SAD lights mimic daylight, giving off a bright white light instead of yellow like a normal light bulb. If you keep it at your side while you're working at your desk or watching tv, your eyes will pick up on the daylight and the hormone levels in your brain will adjust."

"Really? That's pretty good."

France took off his lover hat for a moment, remembering his responsibilities as a big brother and taking a look at the price tag. He nearly choked in shock by what met his eyes.

"Five…hundre…" he petered off, not able to even finish the word.

"Oui, they are a little pricey." The shop girl admitted coyly "But they are very good. Shall I tell you more… over coffee?"

"I'm not sure what's worse." Britain commented, talking into his pillow "The stench of cheap perfume, or that fact that I can't tell if it's a woman's or yours."

"Mon dieu, Chanel number 5 is not a cheap perfume!" France spat bitterly at him "And Mademoiselle Louise would not wear the kind of cheap stink-water your British ladies seem to adore."

"So you did get laid."

"A gentleman never tells."

"You aren't a gentleman." Britain reminded him, trying to pull his covers up over his head, but France standing on his bed pinned the sheets in place "What are you doing anyway?"

"I bought you something~" France bragged

"I'd rather you didn't."

"All done!"

France stepped back to admire his handywork – it wasn't in his nature to by 'handy' (it was in his nature to pay/coerce/bully others into being handy for him), but he had to admit that he did a pretty good job attaching the bracket to the wall. He pulled the lamp out and pointed it at Britain on the bed below, flipping it on and immediately bathing him in bright white light.

"What the hell?!" Britain swore at him "What the hell is that for?"

France dropped the screwdriver on top of the messy head, and while Britain was cursing him, sat square on the small of his back.

"It is a SAD light, mon ami." He pointed out "The light will make you feel better."

"And why did you put it here? I'm trying to sleep!"

"For two reasons, mon petit lapin." France explained "It will either annoy you so much that you will have to get out of bed to beat me, or you will lie here under it so long that it will change the chemical balance in your brain through the power of artificial daylight!"

"That's retarded! And get off my back! You stink like cheap perfume and cigarettes!" he paused for a moment, clock ticking in his head "She was the woman who sold you this piece of shit, wasn't she?"

"Perhaps."

"God, I hate you!"

Britain's whole body went red, and he buried his face in his pillow again. France couldn't help but be happy that he was finally getting a reaction out of him.

"Well, I kind of had to buy it." France admitted, sitting back a bit "I bought something expensive for myself, so I had to buy you something nice so that you wouldn't be mad."

"Why would I be mad? I don't give a shit what you buy."

France just smiled, waiting for Britain's thought process to tick over. He didn't have to wait long, though, as a shuffle, scuffle and 'oink' bundled its way into the room. Britain spun around as best he could with France still sitting on him to look at the floor. On the floor, a snuffly nose and two little black eyes looked back up at him. Britain just stared at it.

"That's a pig." He pointed out.

"Oui, it's a pig."

"Why did you buy a pig?"

"Because it's cute."

"What…!? Wha... WHAT?!"

Britain lost it, throwing France off him and grabbing him by the shirt.

"Why the fuck did you buy a pig?! What is this, the fucking middle ages?! What the fuck are you going to do with it?! How could you bring a pig into my house?! What the fuck are you going to do when it gets huge and shits everywhere?!"

"Ah, but that's the best part, mon ami!" France sang "She is a micro-pig! She will never get bigger than a foot tall!"

"But….why?!"

"Mon dieu, they are the latest fashion! No one has dogs or cats anymore, they have adorable pigs! Look at her adorable face! Don't you just want to kiss her?"

"NO! Get that beast out of my house! And animals are not fashion accessories!"

"Britain, you will hurt Fifi's feelings if you carry on like this."

"Fifi…fi…fifi…FUCKING FIFI?! WHY THE FUCK NOT?!"

Britain's brain shut down. He grabbed his covers and hit the pillow with force, pulling them up over his head and curling into a ball.

"And turn off that fucking light!"

France kept smiling: angry was better than nothing. It was nearly dinner time, so he got off the bed to go to the kitchen. Fifi snuffled around his feet like an adorable puppy, making little 'oink' and 'sniffle' noises. With a moments thought, France scooped her off the ground and plopped her on Britain's bed before leaving the room.

The fucking pig was on his bed. Pig. On his bed. He could feel it shuffling about on the mattress, nudging his legs with its nose and falling over on its little legs. He really, really didn't want a fucking pig on his bed. Besides the fact that having a pig on your bed was disgusting, he felt like he didn't want anything coming near him – people you could yell at until they went away, but animals weren't as controllable. He didn't even dislike pigs – he had even kept them in the past, when it was common to keep livestock, but they had been proper, half-ton oinkers that you ate after a while, not these fru-fru bastards. And 'Fifi'? Seriously?!

Stumbling up to the head of the bed, Fifi sniffed about Britain's head and hands, licking his fingers until he moved them to expose his face. Fifi continued to sniff at him. She was a pinky-white little thing, with the occasional brown blob on her hide, and a tuft of coarse blonde hair on her head. No wonder France liked her – he had a thing for blondes. The pig made a satisfied noise, suddenly dropping its hind and lying down on the bed next to Britain's head, snuggling up against his neck. Was this piglet really going to stay tiny? Britain huffed, knowing that he was never going to get around his weakness to animals, and scratched the piggy gently between the ears. Fifi snuffled happily and flipped her ears about.

Dinner was just being laid on the table as Britain made his appearance, still wearing the same pyjamas he had been for nearly a week, with Fifi under his arm like a Chihuahua.

"Your pig wants feeding." He said plainly.

"So does mon petit lapin, I think."

Upon seeing the pigs food, Britain put her down on the kitchen floor and proceeded to give her her dinner before sitting himself down at the table. He stared at his food for a while.

"It's not pork, is it?"

"Non, its lamb. How can you not tell?"

Britain just pulled a face. France laughed.

"No wonder your cooking is so bad, if you can't tell the difference between lamb and pork!"

"It all looks the same when it's cooked!" Britain insisted.

"Only when you cook it, mon ami."

Britain picked up his fork and started picking at his meal. France slowed down his rate of eating and sipped on his glass of wine. They didn't say anything much as they ate, with Fifi shuffling around her new space excitedly.

"Can't believe you bought a fucking pig."

"You love her, I can tell."

"What are you going to do with her when you go back home?"

"Dress her in a little bow and heels and take her to the cafes, so the beautiful ladies will flock to us!"

"You're an idiot."

"Made you laugh."

Indeed, Britain was smiling, albeit begrudgingly, as he picked at his food.

"I was thinking, mon ami." France began.

"I doubt that."

"Ah ha ha, your sense of humour is most droll. As I was saying, I've been thinking – we should leave London for a while."

"Why?"

"Because it is tres miserable in the winter, that is why! Even I feel depressed in this place, I cannot imagine how you must be feeling."

"Go back to the continent then."

"If I thought I could get you to behave yourself at my home, I would not hesitate to take the ferry from Dover this very afternoon, but I know how you get all conquery when you're in another country for too long."

"'Conquery' isn't a word."

"Don't you have a house in the Lake District?" France went on.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, we should take some time off before the conference next month. It would do us both some good to get away from this place."

"After you just put your light up? Seems like a shame."

"I put it up once, I can just take it down and put it up again!"

"You don't have to. It already fell off the damn wall."

"Mon dieu!"

What time was it? He didn't know. Britain stared at the ceiling. He hadn't left his bed for days, and now he felt trapped in it. It wasn't comfortable, no matter what position he was in, but he had no strength in his arms or back. His head felt so heavy that his neck couldn't hold it up. He hadn't thought about anything in days, but his head was full, like it was stuffed with cotton wool, pressing against his temples and the back of his eyes. He was too hot. He was too cold. His eyes were fuzzy. He was so tired, so tired, but wide awake. The only thing he could compare this feeling to was a fever – there, but at the same time absent.

He finally got up. Everything was heavy. His head was both heavy and light, taking all his strength to lift, but rolling about easily on his shoulders. He wandered about the flat a bit, loitering in the rooms, but not really going anything. He ended up in the bathroom, not entirely sure what he was doing there. The cold porcelain of the bathtub felt good. Quietly, he put the lid of the toilet down and sat on it, staring at the floor.

Nothing went through his mind. He stared at the floor tiles. Everything around him was silent and delicate, like a fine crystal bell that would shatter if it ever rang. He knew his mind wasn't right. He just sat there, staring at the floor.

After a moment, or maybe an hour, the hall light went on and France appeared in the doorway. Britain looked up at him, but again, nothing ran through his mind, so he stayed silent. France looked concerned, but said nothing. After a moment of looking at each other, France stepped into the bathroom and sat himself on the floor before Britain. For a while, they just sat there, not speaking, or even looking at each other.

Finally, France stood up again. He wrapped his arms around Britain shoulders, lifting him gently, and took him back to bed.

My fellow people of Britain - how the fuck do we put up with our winter for so long? I live in the countryside, so its not so bad, but I can't imagine how awful it must be to have to be in London all winter...

So, as I said, nothing much happened in this chapter. Although I don't know if there is a fancy French department store in London (frankly, I've never looked for one), SAD lights definitely do exist (and they are horrendously expensive), as does Seasonal Affect Disorder. Many people in England suffer from it without knowing, simply thinking they get sad in the winter. While people who have it tend to cheer up when the days get brighter, it has the capacity to be just as crippling as depression, especially if you already suffer from it.

Why micro-pigs? Doesn't that seem like the kind of pet France would have? That or Poland. Micro-Pigs are, like, totally in right now!

Serious time - while that last scene may be a little hard to understand for people who haven't been touched by depression, its actually anecdotal. A few years ago I had a bad spell of depression, and ended up sat on the toilet staring at nothing for 45 minutes at 3 in the morning, when my brother came and sat with me. We didn't say anything. I don't know if he remembers it, but I always will... sorry to be a downer...

ANYWAY! Next chapter takes place in the Lake District. I admit its a filler chapter (or is it?!) while I mull over how to handle the conference chapter. In order for the story to work, someone needs to be a complete asshole, but I don't know who to pick... what I need them to say is out of character for everyone! All suggestions welcome...