They both had them. Little tiny scars made from everything from going too fast in the throes of passion to fighting to take the other's life in the heat of war. Little tiny kiss-marks from apologies and morning spent after, tangled in the bedsheets. Hastings had left a nasty scar around England's belly, he noticed, and it had flared up recently. France kissed it better, though he knew that scar well, knew how badly he had tried to gut his now-lover, the pain and rage in England's eyes when he did still fresh in his mind even now.

Even something as simple as a few of his own ships sinking in the second great war had littered his shoulders with dots, little scars like someone had spun the tip of a knife in his flesh. After the storming of Normandy and Free and Duchy France's final unification, Arthur had given every little one of them a kiss, begging forgiveness for each little loss he had caused for his own security.

And Francis forgave him. He always did. Fumbling and muttering one moment and yelling and brushing him off the next, England may have only had a shred of predictability in him to begin with, but not a soul in the world could have expected the way his eyes looked so very green when he was about to cry from guilt and simple emotional repression. Like a lost kitten that had broken a leg escaping from a problem it had gotten itself into, France had scooped up the island nation and laid him down on the bed, marking forgiveness all along his chest.

And his decision was only reaffirmed in the morning, Arthur looking almost serene as he slept, but exuding that perfect and simple charm when he had woken up and rubbed his eyes like a child and asked for a cup of tea. He had looked even cuter when Francis had brought him French mint tea, and not his typical breakfast brew, lips pouted, brows furrowed, face turning red. Especially when France reminded him it was the only tea in the house and he was not about to go out and get more. In the end the little island learned his lesson, stayed inside his bounds, and drank his drink, complaining the entire way while Francis traced the crisscrossing skew scars along his back.

To most people, scars stayed and kiss-marks vanished, after enough time spent. A scar would blend back in but stay there forever. A kiss-mark would vanish from your lips moments after being delivered, or wash off in the next shower. But as with many things France thought this to be the opposite of the way he and England did things. Which was fine.

Because for them, a scar was only a scar. Immortalized in blood to humans, but nothing of importance to them. It would heal soon. And yet their kisses lingered forever. England could still feel the warmth in his heart from their Entente Cordiale's sealing deal. He still remembered their first kiss and their last, like both had happened yesteryear.

A scar stayed with the body, it seemed. A kiss stayed with the soul. France found no problem with this.