A/N: Another one of my rainy-day oneshots. I'm beginning to wonder if most writers have issues with depression on rainy days or if I'm just weird... And if most writers are so obsessed with FrUK that they spazz every time they see the capitalization done wrong...

Well, at least it had the decency to rain today.

A gray drizzle seemed to stretch on forever, raining wearily onto the street below. Dreary mist hung over the city, which was bustling as usual, full of people carrying umbrellas and shopping bags and wearing heavy coats to ward off the rain. All but a single man, sitting alone on a deserted sidewalk curb, sitting by to watch all the others hurry past. He was drenched to the skin, but didn't seem to mind it all that much. Today, his green eyes had lost their usual brilliant sparkle.

Today, England's heart hurt.

He hated that he was still so torn up over this, but try as he might to forget, it was impossible to erase from his memory. After all, when someone you love leaves you forever, saying that they hate you, it's hard to shove into the past.

Arthur had winced when he saw today's date, even though he'd already known from the sinking emptiness in his gut. Today was July the 4th—America's Independence Day.

No words had ever stung so deeply.

England sighed, looking down at the wet pavement before him. Bloody wanker.

Alfred would be celebrating right now, shooting off fireworks and throwing parties. But England was glad for the rain. It made him feel a little better to know that the sky was crying too.

"Angleterre?"

A soft French accent interrupted his thoughts, and Arthur looked up to see Francis standing before him in the rain, concern deepening his sea-blue eyes. But unlike everyone else, France didn't have an umbrella. And like Arthur, he was soaked. Drops of fresh rain slid down his face and darkened his blond hair with water.

He sat down on the curb next to England, a gentle hand coming to rest on his back. "Are you alright, mon cher?"

"I'm fine," England snapped, a little too quickly. "What are you doing here, frog? Come to say all the annual I-told-you-so's, have you?"

Francis shook his head. "Non, mon ami," France murmured. "I am simply here to listen. You look as though you need someone to talk to."

Yes, I do. "And where did you get that stupid idea?" Arthur bit back sharply. But France didn't falter; he only looked at England, patiently waiting for the problem to present itself. For a few minutes they sat like that, having an involuntary stare-war. England's glare strength was set all the way up on Guaranteed Instant Death, and yet that blasted Frenchman just met it evenly, earnestly searching his eyes for an answer. Arthur growled and looked away in grudging defeat, turning his smoldering gaze instead on the rain-soaked pavement.

"Now will you let me listen, cher?" Francis asked, still watching him with those deep blue eyes. Arthur shook his head, still looking away from the gaze that gave the uncomfortable feeling of France already knowing.

But all the same, he replied anyway. "Damned American," he muttered angrily. That told Francis all he needed to know.

"I know it was hard for you," France murmured in reply, the hand now rubbing warm circles into his rain-soaked back.

"And now you're going to tell me all the reasons why you just fucking had to help him," England shot back bitterly. He scooted away from France's hand, shaking his head. "Always making excuses for everything."

"I did not have to help him," Francis murmured. The words stung deep. "I wanted to. But now that I see what it did to you..."

"What're you talking about?" Arthur spat. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Non, you are not," Francis replied, meeting the green gaze that quickly darted away to look down at the wet black pavement. "I will not leave until you get over the Revolution."

England glared at him, exasperated. "Look—France, why the bloody hell do you care?"

"Because I love you," came the quiet reply.

For a full minute, Arthur was completely stunned, staring at the Frenchman who was sitting quietly next to him, looking down at the road in front of them. He didn't seem like France; France was always insulting him and arguing and annoying him to no end for his own amusement. France didn't have true feelings. France was... well, France.

"You're lying," Arthur said incredulously, scooting away and standing up cautiously. "You just want to get me into bed with you."

Francis didn't move, just sat there on the curb. "Non, Arthur," he murmured. "Je t'aime. Je t'aime plus que vous ne pourrez jamais savoir."

"You know I can't understand when you talk in that bloody frog-language. Speak English, dummy."

"Alright," Francis murmured, rising from the curb and approaching Arthur. "I will."

Just as England was beginning to wonder if it was a good idea to let the frog come this close, a warm hand slid behind his neck to hold him in place and a pair of soft lips met his.

Stunned, Arthur froze, his green eyes wide open as France kissed him more gently than he would've ever thought possible. But after a moment, he found his eyes slipping closed as he leaned into the kiss, feeling a hot tongue nudge at his mouth for entrance and parting his lips to allow it inside. But just as England began to relax and kiss back, Francis pulled away.

"I love you, Arthur Kirkland," he murmured. "Was that English enough for you?"

Arthur shook his head, unable to suppress a smile. "You bloody frogs, always talking like the British are stupid or something," he muttered, still grinning like a schoolboy. France laughed, taking his hand.

"You are very stubborn, mon Angleterre, if not stupid," he purred in England's ear. Arthur sighed irritably, smacking Francis very gently and making the Frenchman laugh again. "Come on," he murmured, giving England's hand a little squeeze. "Let's get out of the storm, oui?"

Arthur paused, looking up at the roiling gray sky and smiling softly. A few minutes ago, the clouds had been his only friend; now he had Francis, all because of the dim gray drizzle and the weary snakes of fog.

"Well," he murmured. "At least it had the decency to rain."

Review? Mr. Kumajiro loves you!

AUTHOR'S UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention (Thanks for telling me, Bookworm24601!) that you all want to know what the French in this means.

Je t'aime. Je t'aime plus que vous ne pourrez jamais savoir. = I love you. I love you more than you could ever know.

Thanks a million for all the reviews I've been getting lately; if it makes you feel how happy I am, I'd just like to tell you all that I squee like a schoolgirl every time I open my inbox and see one! Love you, mon awesome readers!