White lights cover up everything
I want to face the end as who I am
Holding your hand in mine
Losing body heat.

xMine, Yours-Megurine Luka (English translation) watch?v=7EHlUu1QGdQ

It was a cold, wet day when it happened, which was fitting, France thought. The day when his knees landed hard on the stone ground and the Nazis loomed over him, guns aimed and ready to fire. Prussia was there too-of course Prussia was there. Prussia, unable to survive on his own now, relying on his little brother and following his every order.

Prussia's hand raised, "Wait. Hold fire." His voice was thick with something France couldn't identify. He'd once known his friend; this was not the friend he'd known. He looked up from the ground, dirty blond locks parting so that Prussia was in his line of sight. He didn't expect to see the sadness there-the pain that mirrored his own. Oh, right; he had been Prussia's friend too.

"Gilbert." France's own voice was unsteady and broken, strangled.

Before Gilbert could say anything, Germany was there, iminent and ruthless. France was on his stomach, shirt torn away and pain was ripping through him as something sliced his back. Prussia said nothing. Germany's stare was cold and unforgiving when he dropped the knife. The soldiers bound his hands, tynig each to a pole on either side so they were stretched out, and he could find no way to hunch in on himself. He could feel the blood dripping down his back.

He would later find out that the mark on his back, right between his shoulder blades was a swatstika. Gilbert wasn't looking at him anymore. France didn't notice the bloody palms belonging to the Nazi nation, fingernails digging in far enough to stab through his own skin.

"France has fallen. You were so great, and now, you have paid for what you did to me." Germany's voice was as cold and cruel as he was, "But you will not die-not yet. I'm going to lock you away, like a pretty little bird. Somewhere you can't sing anymore; I'll let you watch your people starve."

Prussia carried him into a building and cleaned the wound on his back, saying nothing. His hands were shaking.

Over the months, Germany kept his promise. Francis was locked away in a room, overlooking his grey country. He'd all but stopped eating, breathing, living. Prussia visited.

Oddly enough, it was the very same room that Gilbert had met him in all those years ago, when he'd tried to warn Francis of a coming war. (Francis had scoffed at him and assured that he and the allies had Germany in line.) Francis didn't fail to see the irony.

At first, his old friend never tried to say anything. He sat across from Francis, reading paperwork or smoking a cigarette. Soon though, the nation began to tell him things. Little things-nothing of the world or the war, but of his people. Of the little girl who picked a flower that morning, or the way the sun had made the window of the bakery sparkle. He talked about wishing for a beer and running out of cigarettes. Francis thought Gilbert must feel as broken as he did.

Despite everything, France couldn't look at Prussia without seeing his friend, without remembering all their nights out drinking with Spain or the pranks they'd pulled. He couldn't forget the wide smile of the man he'd come to love with everything in his own body,along with the third member of their trio. But Spain wasn't there anymore, no. (Too busy fighting his own war, a war within himself to see what was becoming of his best friends.) Those late nights, those intimate moments the three had shared together were always on the edge of his mind.

One day, Prussia brought him a flower. Most of the flowers in France were dead or dying, but this one, perfect lily seemed untouched. Gilbert named it Hope.

When France was freed, Prussia was not there. France was weak, despite Gilbert's efforts to keep him as well as he was allowed. He was nursed for a few weeks before he thought to ask about the Germanic nation's fate.

He was there for his friend's send off to Russia. Gilbert held his cheeks between his large, scarred hands and whispered to him, "I will see you again, liebling." He kissed France's forehead in one brief, tender moment that made even America look away. Francis could do nothing more than let his eyelashes flutter against Prussia's pale neck like some sort of butterfly kiss as he was pulled into a final hug. He didn't notice that he was crying until Gilbert brushed the tears away from his cheeks. "I promise."

France stood there, watching as Prussia was carted away. He was the last one left when the car disappeared over the top of the hill.

"I promise too!" He shouted, tears still falling, "I forgot to say... I promise too."