This is a one-shot created at 4 AM after about two hours of trying to sleep and four hours of a Youtube fest of sad videos because insomnia sucks ass. Anyway, late nights/early mornings is when the creative juices flow best.

Though I should really be focusing on the AP work.

Eh, not my concern.

Also, before I get yelled at, I AM SO SORRY AMELIA I REALLY DO LOVE YOU. BUT I HAD TO MAKE YOU AN ASS. I'M SO SORRY.

All the Hetalia females are very precious to me. They are my children. But she had to be an asshat for the story. I am so so so sorry.

Pairings: Fem!US/UK, Unrequited FrUk (maybe)

Warning: It is really and ambiguous ending. Do not come here expecting cuddles and love. It will not happen, and we will both be sad.

Another Warning: I am not continuing this story so don't even try to ask for a proper ending with confessions and kissing or a fight because I wrote this to remain ambiguous for the reader's pleasure. Do with it what you will and enjoy!

"I am in love with you."

Was what Francis said out loud to thin air, waiting outside the apartment building for his best friend to emerge from.

"Funny thing, love, considering I'm in love with you," he spoke again to himself as if talking to the man himself. Which he would probably never do.

But he was practicing. For when he could.

"You know-" he began before he heard the telltale call of his friend, smiling carefully as his British friend joined him at the front.

"Ah, good morning, amour. Are you finally ready?" Francis asked exasperatedly, wrapping his arm around Arthur's shoulders casually.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes, allowing the arm to stay there as they walked. "Oh, please, Francis. If I took half the time you do getting ready, you would be out there until dark."

Francis just laughed in reply, as he was expected, instead of pulling the Englishman in for a kiss.

Really, how do you tell your best friend of three years you are in love with him?

You didn't. It was a horrible idea and could only end just as horribly as the plan suggested.

Like Arthur and a kitchen kind of horrible plan. The result would only be fire and smoke and the fire department being called - for the fifth time that month - to put out a small kitchen fire - really how do you set toast on fire on the stove?

Francis paused where he was walking, watching Arthur go ahead absently.

Unless... Unless it was more Francis and a kitchen. True love meant to be from day one. One look at each other and there were sparks - the good, happy, fluttering kind, not the fire-starting, ignition source of disaster kind.

If Arthur had been in love with him from day one and Amelia was just an excuse, an outlet for his emotions like Francis did with his - many in number, oh God, he had just used them all - lovers and bedfellows. Maybe Arthur had been trying to hide and avoid his feelings because he was so terrified of being hurt like he had been in the past.

"Oi, Frog, are you coming or do you need alone time with the tree?" Arthur called, hands on his hips with a single raised - beautiful and elegant and perfect, no matter what anyone else said - eyebrow showing his expectation.

"Ah, oui, mon ami. Simply became distracted by the beautiful view of the park, no?" Francis replied wistfully with a smile before catching back up. He wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist - gaining a light hit and nothing more - and basked in the feeling that was no more than a cheap filler, no better than the people he had used.

Really, it wasn't like he was an unfortunate mess of a man. About a six out of ten on a good day, Arthur a seven out of ten on a bad day. But why wouldn't it work?

They slid into opposite sides of a booth, opening their respective menus - an English restaurant only selected because Arthur aimed his gleaming emerald eyes at Francis and the man was lost- and analyzing the food options.

"Ah, hold on, I need to use the loo. Be back in a moment," Arthur spoke up before slipping back out of the booth for the restroom, leaving Francis to his thoughts.

Gazing dreamily across the way, he imagined them snuggled into the table ahead of him, latched onto each other and sharing sweet kisses as easily as they shared the menu in front of them, disgusting passersby but not really giving a hint of really caring, too enveloped in each other to bother.

Arthur returned as quickly as he had left and snapped Francis out of the dream, talking loudly about the "fine choices" the restaurant offered.

They returned to Arthur's home to decide on clothing for the bar later tonight, as Arthur wanted to look "dashing" for Amelia. Even if Arthur looked beautiful already.

Not that Francis would ever say a word out loud other than the typical playful flirting he used to test the waters.

Francis figured, why not change clothing? You never really could regret a change in clothing, in his own opinion.

Besides, as much as the Frenchman denied, Arthur had a very good sense of what was stylish. He did not keep up to date on the latest trends, but that was alright.

Francis sat on the couch after looking around the room, waiting for Arthur to emerge with his "outfit of choice."

They could move in together if either ever confessed. Be the cliche gay couple of the apartment complex who baked cakes and cookies for new neighbors, owning three cats they loved dearly. And maybe, eventually, they could move to the suburbs, adopt children, live the "American Dream," white picket fence and all.

That is if Arthur accepted any sort of confession.

Worst case, Arthur could jump from the window or pop a cyanide pill - like the spies in his precious 007 movies - at the mere mention of "love," as he was prone to run at the word almost ritualistically.

Say "love" around the Brit and you might as well have shot the relationship.

Unless you were Amelia. Then you could shoot the Brit himself and he would forgive you a million times over.

Arthur popped out of the room in brown slacks and a pressed green shirt, turning slightly for Francis to see completely. He sent him back just as quickly, calling for that "lovely green sweater-vest you adore so much, lapin!"

Or, probably the worst of them all that Francis didn't even want to think about in the slightest, Arthur could just cut ties with and quit talking to him.

God... Francis did not know what he would do if Arthur abandoned him.

Arthur reemerged in the same brown slacks, switching the green collared shirt for its white replica, beautiful green pullover- that matched his eyes so wonderfully - over the pressed white shirt.

"Ah, perfect, Angleterre," Francis said with a careful smile.

The Brit hummed quietly, admiring his reflection in the mirror. "It does look quite good on me, doesn't it? Now, come on, Francis, up. The bathroom is all yours. You can take five hours to get ready."

Francis smiled before sauntering into the bathroom, sending a wink Arthur's way.

If Arthur did leave him, he could always Facebook stalk him. Arthur was inept at technology, but at least Amelia and Francis managed to post pictures onto his profile.

Glancing behind him one last time, spotting Arthur fussing with his extremely unruly blond hair, Francis knew no amount of Facebook stalking would ever compare to the real thing.

They had arrived at the bar, Francis and Arthur automatically attaching themselves to bar stools as they downed drinks. Well, Arthur mostly downed them, in all honesty. Francis was content to watch from the sidelines with his glass of wine, basking in the flirtatious attention Arthur paid him in his tipsy state.

That was until Amelia had entered the bar. Then all hope was lost.

The wine became less an enjoyment then. At some point, he just bought an entire bottle.

Watching Arthur interact happily with Amelia made Francis wonder.

Should he ever tell Arthur the truth?

Because, honestly, Arthur was happy with the loud woman. He always returned to her no matter the endless pain and suffering she caused him.

Would it be really better for Arthur if Francis just kept his emotions bottled up and stored on a high shelf until it became dusty and was long forgotten?

It would shatter Francis completely in the most achingly slow way only love could do, but Francis had never mattered to himself. It was always Arthur, even before there was an Arthur to be his everything.

Let it chip away at him until the Brit's wedding day, where he would be the best man and get far too drunk for his own good and confess his undying love right there on the dance floor at the reception.

Yeah. That would go over well.

A man approached the bar and accepted a glass of beer, glancing appreciatively at Francis before giving him a wink and sauntering off to rejoin his buddies at the pool table in the corner.

See? Francis should get over the idea of Arthur and pursue more available, less heartbreaking people.

But, as the saying goes, the heart wants what the heart wants. And the heart is a petty, greedy, masochistic being hiding in so near the surface it was untouchable yet so scarily vulnerable.

Downing the last remnants of the wine bottle in a way his sober self would never allow, he handed both the glass and the empty bottle to the bartender, biting his cheek and furrowing his brows.

No, no. He would not be that person. He deserved happiness, not to become the home of a cannibalistic heart.

Watching Arthur and Amelia flirt in the corner tore at his soul, just as it did every other time he watched and pondered and wondered just what the fuck Arthur was doing with a woman like her.

She took his heart out and danced on the remains, watching with glee as Francis picked up all the pieces and sewed it delicately back together, only to watch Arthur run back to Amelia and have the cycle repeat like some disturbing rendition of the circle of life.

Arthur caught his eye from the corner, grinning widely and rushing over when Francis waved to him. Probably to tell Francis of some horribly kind and thoughtful thing Amelia had done for him.

He was sure Amelia was an alright woman to those that knew her. But Francis felt this seething rage one only felt towards those who hurt those you loved, no matter how forgiving the mutual object of affection is. A hate that would never have a chance of being covered or forgotten.

"Francis, Amelia was just telling me this wonderful story," Arthur said happily, latching onto Francis's arm the way he did only when he was tipsy and going into the explanation of a dramatic story Amelia had told him mere seconds before.

Humming and nodding and agreeing at his assigned places - like an intricate play being performed for the actors alone - Francis watched as Amelia moved from the corner she was previously in to begin chatting up the man from the bar, pressing her fingers against his chest as if it did not betray Arthur to his very core.

When the story concluded and Arthur wished to return to Amelia, Francis simply shook his head with a thin smile. "Ah, mon ami, it seems I should get you home, oui? Amelia just met a female friend of hers and I believe we should let them bond," he lied almost as easily as he shattered his own heart, guiding the Brit outside the pub door easily in his mildly inebriated state.

The Brit danced down the sidewalk in front of Francis happily, going on about imaginary friends and Amelia, as he was prone to do.

Francis placed his hands in his pockets and watched Arthur with love clear in his eyes. He couldn't do this anymore. He had to tell him. Arthur had to know.

If he didn't tell, Francis would watch from the sidelines, a ghostly specter, as the overwhelming disease called love tore him apart and murdered him in the slowest, sweetest possible way.

"I'm in love with you," he called forward with a hopeful, fearful look.

Arthur paused in his step and turned around with a wide, rare smile, staring at Francis as if he had said the most obvious thing in the world and even giggled quietly, before the wording really, really sank in, and his face fell into one of confusion and shock and terror.

"What?"