Every year it was always the same thing. Arthur would drag his heels, protesting in everyway he knew how, vehemently insisting that no, he most certainly did not want or need any celebration or ceremony whatsoever. He was immortal after all, and he claimed to believe that days like this were no longer special when one had lived for as long as he had. He didn't even really have a birthday; someone had just picked St. George's day and declared it to be significant to his life. The day of a famous death; rather morbid, he thought. Such was Arthur Kirkland's opinion of his birthday. Every year without fail, he would write a list and post it on the fridge a few days before the ghastly event, pointing at it whenever anyone who happened to be in his house so much as mentioned the 23rd of April. It was always a list of the same few things:

NO breakfast in bed.

NO fancy French food.

NO fancy food of any other kind.

NO gifts.

ABSOLUTELY NO PARTY OF ANY MAGNITUDE.

It had become more of a mindless habit in the last few years, seeing as how Francis, Alfred and Matthew blatantly ignored it no matter how many times he put it up.

This year was no different.

Arthur had been sleeping quite soundly, not eager to wake up in the least. It was a Tuesday, but thankfully his boss had given him the day off (the only perk of being a nation and having a birthday). The most Arthur had planned to do was sleep in, and then give the day to himself, tea, and perhaps a good book. Maybe later he'd go for a walk and enjoy the sun and the spring and the sound of birds singing in the trees. He certainly would not be acknowledging the fact that it was his birthday. However, Francis had different plans.

"Arthur, mon amour, wake up."

Arthur barely registered the soft voice that floated over him, his mind passing it ff as part of a dream, Again, the voice spoke softly, something low in another language (he knew it but cared not to translate the words for himself). Finally there was an imperceptible touch against his cheeks; lips, he knew all too well. He begrudgingly cracked one of his eyes open, his scathing look met with one of mirth. Francis smiled jovially at his lover, who closed his eyes, rolled over and swiftly pulled the blankets up over his messy blond hair. Francis chuckled as a mother would over her stubborn child, tugging at Arthur's quilted shield and finally getting him to expose most of his face. Arthur, still mostly asleep, mumbled insults and protests as Francis kissed his forehead, nose reddening cheeks before diving under the sheets and kissing him full on the mouth.

It was instantly too hot for Arthur's liking, what with Francis on top of him and the covers trapping them both. He was awake though; very much awake. He then remembered what day it was and promptly escaped from Francis' embrace (even he didn't know how).

"I was sleeping! Pretty damn well too, you bloody frog!" He hissed. Francis chuckled once again, inching closer.

"Aw, but it's your birthday Angleterre," France breathed hotly against England's ear, making the Brit shiver despite the fire burning in his cheeks (among other places). "Let me take care of you."

"But I don't want to be taken care o-oh…" Arthur began to protest, but his arguing turned into a moan of satisfaction as Francis' mouth trailed seamlessly from his ear to his jaw to his throat, leaving wet kisses everywhere it went. Arthur continued to sigh quietly his mind no longer coming up with the will to make his body fight. Suddenly Francis looked up into Arthur's eyes and grinned seductively.

"What was that Arthur?" He whispered. "Did you want me to stop?"

"Shut up and kiss me frog." Was all England could say. If it has to be my birthday, he thought as the buttons on his shirt were slowly undone, I might as well go along with it.

Later, when they had both showered (separately, mind you, Arthur would have no more encores thank you very much) he was ushered into the kitchen where his (now cold) breakfast waited for him. He drank a freshly made cup of coffee as Francis reheated the food (bacon, eggs, and crepes that Francis had of course made himself). Arthur half-hoped that all of the surprises were over.

"Please tell me that was the only thing you had planned." He muttered as Francis watched him eat (it was good, great even, but Arthur said nothing).

"What plan? I didn't plan any of that mon cher." France answered innocently. England glared and cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, the food was planned." Francis winked. Another glare. "That's all I swear! Well, that's all for now…"

Arthur was about to stab Francis through the hand with his fork when the front door burst open and America marched in, joined at the hand with Canada, carrying a bag and that bear of his.

"Yo eyebrows! Happy birthday dude!" Alfred yelled, strutting over and punching England playfully in the shoulder.

"Happy birthday Arthur," Canada smiled quietly, putting a wrapped gift on the table in front of him. "Sorry for arriving so unexpectedly."

"It's alright. Thank-you Matthew." England said politely, rubbing his tender shoulder. "Thank-you Alfred." He added, smoke starting to seep from his ears.

"Bro, is that bacon?!" America cried gleefully, eyeing England's plate hungrily.

"Oui. There's more on the stove, help yourself!" France replied cheerfully, ignoring the deathly aura emanating from Arthur's person. While Alfred scarffed down the rest of breakfast, Francis began discussing decorations (Oh GOD no not a party, Arthur thought dreadfully). Soon England was being completely ignored, at which point he stood, picked up the present from Matthew and snuck off to his library, unaware of the fond glance from Francis as he went.

The gift turned out to be a first edition copy of A Tale of Two Cities, a book that England had been searching for for some time now. Note to self: thank Matthew, Arthur thought. He put it with his other Dickens novels and stood back, staring at his collection proudly. A lot of the books were birthday presents- maybe birthdays aren't all bad, Arthur thought…

Several hours later, Arthur had re-read most of the Harry potter series and was staring blankly at some page of Order of the Phoenix while daydreaming about Francis. More specifically, Arthur was wondering why Francis was doing all this, why he planned these special birthdays for him year after year even against his wishes. Normally he would guess the seemingly obvious answer; he just likes to piss me off. But somehow Arthur knew it wasn't that. It was something else, something that wasn't sinister, something he didn't understand. He knows I don't like it, but for some reason, he thinks I secretly do…

"Arthur, Arthur wake up, I need you out here for minute." France called from the door. England bolted upright in his reading chair, almost forgetting it was still his birthday and there might still be a ghastly party waiting for him outside the sanctity of his library. He yawned and got to his feet, allowing (but just allowing) Francis to take his hand and guide him down the hallway to the living room.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Everyone shouted. Arthur reeled; literally everyone he could think of was there. All of the nations of the world grouped together in one place, looking a lot happier than they would have at any world meeting. And they were all here for him. Part of Arthur wanted to laugh, another to cry, and another to drag Francis into the bedroom and do unnameable things to him (both good and bad) for planning all this. There were streamers hanging in every corner of the ceiling, balloons floating in the air, confetti falling everywhere. It was, he would admit, all very lovely, as birthday parties go.

"Arthur," Francis began, lifting a glass of wine and getting everyone's attention. "I know you hate your birthday." He began, a little bit of something sad in his eyes. "I know that every year you put up a list of things you don't want. I know you hate celebrations, and you detest being the center of attention, and I also know it's because you think that you don't deserve it. But I'll let you in on a little secret Arthur; you do deserve it. This room is full of people who think you deserve it. And I think so the most. Tu es mon Bonheur, Arthur. You are alive; and that, to me, is the best reason to celebrate."

Arthur stood there, blushing fire engine red, completely at a loss for words, with tears (please don't let me cry in front of everyone) in his eyes. The way Francis was looking at his made him shake all over, and he felt as thought there could have been no one else there in that moment; but the fact that there was somehow made Francis' words clearer- you are alive; and that, to me, is the best reason to celebrate.

England jumped into France's arms, kissing the man (with witnesses present and everything) consequences be damned. A huge cheer went up from the group, and everyone sang happy birthday (in a gloriously out of tune multilingual chorus).

"Joyeux anniversarie mon amour." Francis whispered in his ear, smiling and kissing him once more.

Birthdays really aren't that bad.