He groaned softly and shut his eyes tightly, focusing entirely on his erratic breathing. His lungs throbbed painfully with every inhalation, and his stomach twisted painfully every time he moved, or tensed his abdominal muscles. He hadn't spoken for days, save for the odd groan of pain here and there. His house was silent, and he hated it. Hated the silence. Silence reminded him of death. Death was silent. They went hand in hand together. They both crept up on you in the darkness to lay claim to your soul.

He was going to fight death until the very end.

The thought made him chuckle morbidly. Was it not only a few weeks ago that he had been declared a coward? Someone who would rather run than fight? Oh, how stupid he had been. You could only run for so long until you're pushed up against a wall.

Sighing, France shifted around uncomfortably, trying to get into a better position. His stomach twisted into painful knots as he moved, and he grimaced. Death was certainly taking its sweet time getting here.

He'd accepted his fate a long time ago, when he realised that his near-regular strikes had become more violent, his people falling increasingly ill, and he, himself, feeling himself grow weaker. Three days ago, he'd lost the ability to stomach anything solid. Now, all he could keep down was water. But he hadn't stood up in a few hours, now. There was no willpower to do so. His charade was coming to a close; and not in a good way.

He wasn't going out with a bang, surrounded by friends, or even sometimes-friends. There was no one. He was alone.

Utterly alone.

With that fear, came anxiety. Where did nations go when they die? Was there a special heaven and hell, dedicated to him? No one knew. It had been a long time since anyone else had died. His stomach was already knotting up from his noiseless shifting; the pain doubled as his heart thundered in his ears. It was beating too fast and hard. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins, thickening into syrup. That would be the first contraption to fail. Maybe his heart would explode in his chest, and kill him instantly. That would be nice.

He eventually settled down and closed his eyes again, trying to calm his unsteady breathing. The air was like ash. His heart still pounded in his ears; it was loud enough to cover the impatient footsteps stomping up the staircase, as with the door that was suddenly opened. France's eyes were closed and the house was dark. Both his eyesight and hearing had dulled significantly, anyway.

Only the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder made France's cerulean pools snap open, staring into the deep, worried abyss of a pair of shining emeralds. He stared blatantly at him, uncomprehending. His mouth moved soundlessly, the gears in his head grinding away slowly to formulate a question, his own voice a crude, hoarse ghost of what it had been.

"Quest-ce que vous faites içi?" England's eyes widened and he pulled away, frame trembling with anger. His emerald orbs, full of expression, began to kindle.

"... What am I doing here? What in the bloody hell do you think I'm doing here? You missed the meeting, you sodding prick. I came to look for you, seeing as no one else seemed to give any inquiry as to your whereabouts. It was utterly frustrating." A flush immediately spread to his cheeks and he looked away.

"... N-Not that I was worried about you, or anything. Just didn't want to have to take notes for two people." France smiled softly, watching England patiently. So that was it. He'd missed a meeting; God forbid that ever happen.

"Don't worry, Sourcils. You don't need to do such a thing for me, I won't need them." England paused, as he frowned. A part of him huffed in anger at the familiar nickname, while the rest of his mind trembled with confusion and worry. Sure, none of them really needed the notes, but it was something everyone did as a sort of courtesy, for the host and whoever ended up speaking at these meetings. For France to reject the unmentioned offer was incredibly worrisome.

"Bullshit, you don't need them. I left them in my car, s-so I'll be back in a moment." He spun around on his heel and turned to leave, but France's voice caught him off guard. He hadn't spoken much, but he sounded so... broken and weak. While France was considered to be someone who liked to look after himself, he was by no means weak. Never. England bit his lip and turned back around.

"I honestly don't need those notes, Arthur. It's a waste of paper. File them, or... something." The Frenchman ended lamely. England huffed.

"Do you want water or so – Bloody hell, France!" France's entire body suddenly spasmed, his breath hitching as his limbs froze up, his eyes rolling to the back of his head before he blinked, bringing them forward again. He curled up slightly, eyes wide, mouth wide open. Blood began trickling out of his nose and out of the side of his mouth, beginning to pool. The Frenchman gagged and coughed, the blood projectiling itself towards England; spattering him with crimson. His stomach felt like it was shrinking; his heart beating at ten times its normal speed. He didn't like this. It hurt. It hurt so much.

England wasn't sure what had happened, but it scared him. He had never seen France in such a state; curled up, eyes wide and bloodshot, voice nearly gone, blood seeping from his mouth and nose. In nearly an instant, his skin had gone from a light peach to chalk white. He had begun to shiver and his lips were turning a faint shade of blue at the edges.

He looked dead.

The Brit approached him slowly and cautiously, pressing a hand to his cheek and pulled it away as a stream of cold ran up his arm. There was no more body warmth there. He exhaled slowly, before he pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and began to dab at France's mouth and nose. The pink was quickly changing colour. The Brit's eyes watered in confusion.

"... What's happening to you, France?" France blinked up at him with sad eyes, struggling to form the words, though eventually he did speak.

"I... I'm dying. Ça fait mal." England froze, the handkerchief resting on France's mouth. He was dying? How? Why? He hadn't noticed that he began to cry, until that same handkerchief came up to weakly wipe the tears away. He didn't dare speak, and took the Frenchman's hand in his, crying harder. France waited painfully, legs kicking out randomly periodically. Eventually, England calmed down and he knelt, still holding on tightly to France's hand.

"H-How? How do you know?" France smiled patiently.

"How could I not know? Look at me; I know I am not very beautiful anymore." England shook his head in silence and held onto France's hand tightly.

"F-France. Francis. Listen to me, please. You're f-fine. Just fine. You've handled worse, and you're such a bloody infuriating nation that you can't just roll over and die stupidly like that. I've known you for far too long to have you give up on me like that! Can't you fight it?" France coughed again before speaking.

"I've fought for as long as I can. Some things are even out of a nation's power." France's eyes were beginning to cloud, and England snapped his fingers in front of them. The Frenchman blinked sluggishly.

"... Hé. Angleterre, can you do me a favour?"

"... What?"

"Can you kiss me? You're always had... wonderful lips." England narrowed his eyes, mouth slowly curving down into a scowl. His cheeks lit up at the same time.

"Kiss you? Are you daft? D-Don't be stupid, why would I do something li-" France interrupted him quickly.

"Je vous plaire. Please. Let me rest with no regrets." The Brit bit his lip, and huffed, finally relenting. His cheeks burned in embarrassment.

"Fine. Bloody frog. But just a peck." England leaned down and gave France a quick kiss before he pulled away, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, frowning. France's lips were chapped, too. And freezing cold; his own lips tingled from the cool feeling. France sighed in peace and closed his eyes, nuzzling his cheek against his pillow.

"Merci. I enjoyed it." The Brit huffed and sat down on the edge of France's bed, watching him quietly. It was still hard to believe that he was dying – seemed impossible. He was a nation, right? And if he died, then that meant that his people were dying, too. Or... leaving. Now that he thought about it, strikes throughout the country had become more severe, their violence going over and beyond his own riots in London back in twenty-ten. There were also more French-speaking people in the United Kingdom than there had ever been. More people were leaving than were entering his country.

He was dying from the inside out.

"You're a lot worse off than you look, aren't you?" France smiled slightly.

"Oui." England looked away again.

"... I won't miss you. You know that, right, you sodding git?" France hummed quietly.

"Je sais."

"G... Good." Eventually, England let go of France's hand. His own had begun to grow cold, and he rubbed them together to warm up. France's room was cold, too. And all of the electricity had been disconnected. The two were silent until a whimper caught England's attention and he blinked down at France in alarm.

"What's wrong?" The Frenchman glanced around with two milky irises, eyes watering.

"Angleterre? W-Where are you? Did you go home?" A pause, and another whimper. England frowned.

"I'm still here, France." The Frenchman's hands were balled tightly and his teeth chattered as he spoke, his voice nearly nonexistent as he spoke in broken syllables. Each sound was higher-pitched, as the French nation fought to hold back sobs.

"A-Arthur. Please. Please answer. Je ne veux pas mourir seul." Then, the dam burst and France broke out into a fit of sobs, tears mixing with the blood still draining steadily out of his nose and mouth, France himself coughing harshly as he choked on it. England cried out in alarm and shook France's shoulder gently, trying to get the nation to respond. He tried calling out to him. Nothing.

France had gone blind and deaf. He could barely feel anything; his skin was numb. He felt alone, wrapped in a blanket of silence and darkness. Death was finally coming. Death was here.

England was on his feet in an instant, wrapping France up tighter in his blanket and scrambled to get under him, holding the much less muscular frame of his French counterpart tightly. He was so light. France began to writhe, begging – pleading – in a rough, faint voice not to be left alone. Not to die alone. His resolve had crumbled and all that was left was a broken, dying man.

England took to stroking France's hair. That's what France did for him when he was a child, right? He tried to ignore the limp golden strands that stuck to his fingers. However, France felt something run across the back of his head and he fought to concentrate on it. They felt like fingers. Soft, but nimble. With a purpose. He moved to reach up for them, but his hands were wrapped in blankets and he was held against something sturdy.

Cheek pressed against cheek in a helpless gesture to comfort the man, but now that France seemed aware of England's presence, he had quieted and kept as close to him as he could. England made sure they touched, whether it was a palm against the back of his head or the cheek-to-cheek contact. It was the last sense that France had left.

Turns out, that France only had a few minutes left to live after he lost his sight and his hearing. It was nearly instantaneous, but not unexpected. His head lolled to the side, and that was it. England set him down on the bed; quietly, gently, like a baby, and closed his milky hues. He covered the deceased Frenchman up silently, eyes cold as he worked. He would not cry. Not here. Not when he already had.

He pulled his cell phone out in silence, texting Germany. He would not be present for the meeting tomorrow. Nor would France be. Never again, would France be present for a meeting. He put his phone away after a moment and eyed France with a reserved smile. His head had tilted back to one side, blood beginning to dribble out again. His mouth had filled with blood. It was so painfully obvious that he was dead, and England couldn't stand it. It was shameful, even for someone as perverted and infuriating as France.

England took a moment to glance around the room. There was a wilting rose in the corner, but it would suffice. He worked quickly and efficiently; used the soiled handkerchief to wipe away the rest of the dried blood, then stuffed it in France's mouth to get rid of as much blood as he could. By the time his hand came out, it was coated in red, though England did not care. He laid France down on his back and brought the bloody covers over him, pulling his arms out. He intertwined France's hands and took a few, careful moments to pluck out the thorns from the rose before sliding it into his fingers.

It seemed better. More... dignified. Though he wasn't wearing a fancy tuxedo, or anything equally expensive, he seemed much more refined than before. England sighed softly, and placed another quick kiss to France's lips, as compensation for earlier, perhaps, before he left the room. Nations would be here soon, knocking on the door, demanding what happened. England was sure of it.

I'm such a heartless beast. I laughed as I wrote this. Maybe I'm just mad?

Also, sorry I'm not translating anything, but I'm an incredibly lazy person. If you can't figure it out via inference or google translate (God forbid!), then sure, leave a review with a question. But I assume we all know that 'oui' means yes.