Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated :) Disclaimer~ If I owned Hetalia I probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction about it.

Despite the thunderous sounds of shelling outside, it was incredibly quiet inside the church. One could even say deathly silent without it being an exaggeration. The continuous mortars shook the foundations, sending debris cascading through the air from the rafters. The dimly-lit church was simple, with wooden floors and rough hewn pews which had been pushed towards the walls. The oak doors hung off its hinges, and the altar had been knocked over. A dusty cross lay forgotten on the floor.

The silence was shattered as heavy doors burst open with a groan and a crack. A man in a French soldier's uniform stumbled in. His shoulder length blonde hair was falling out of a loose ponytail, curly wisps of hair clinging to the sweat which gathered around his soot-streaked but fair face. With shaky hands he held a flask of water to his parched lips and looked around, dropping his bag with a definitive clang. In the hours of quickly fading light, the church was full of weak golden rays of sun. The soldier walked to the end of the church and righted the fallen cross. He turned his back, before sharply whipping around and dropping his heavy pack. Behind the altar, curled into a ball was a man. A tattered army green jacket had been thrown over him, and his standard issue pack was being used as a pillow. Thick eyebrows were creased in either pain or concentration- he couldn't tell.

"Oh, Angelettere!" The man in a soiled British uniform did not move. The taller French soldier quickly knelt down by his fallen brother. In a flurry of movement, he had moved the Englishman onto his back and was obtrusively prodding to find a wound. The man on the floor hissed in pain and weakly batted the Frenchman's hands away. When he did not let up, he groaned and grasped his stomach. Slender, soft hands reached out for sturdy rough ones. "Arthur, it's me." The French accent was almost as gently as the man as he pulled back calloused hands to reveal a large wound. To the Frenchman, the world was explosively loud as he undid dull brass buttons to reveal a blood-soaked bandage. The thick soles of his boots caused the wooden floor to creak as he unceremoniously ran to the other end of the church to retrieve his luggage. He returned to his friend's side with a bottle of alcohol and a first aid kit.

As he began to unwind the rough fabric which bound the soldier's stomach, bright green eyes shot open in panic as he shuddered. "Francis you Bastard!" His voice was wild.

"Shhh, it's only me. It's only me." He worked faster, noticing the dying light. Francis struggled not to retch once the bandages had been removed. Angry red skin framed a large rip, full of stray shrapnel and dry blood. Puss and blood slowly oozed out of the deepest part of the wound. With no warning given to the injured man, he uncorked the alcohol and poured it in, drawing an agonized cry. Every muscle tensed as he combated the mind numbing pain which burned him like fire. It wasn't until after he stopped shaking that he realized some time must have passed. A small, hand-held lantern was propped up on the dusty floor and the blonde Frenchman was bent over something.

"You! Frog! ... what did you do to me?" He struggled out between ragged breaths.

A haggard face came into view, a smile tugging at the corner of his feminine lips. "Don't be such a child, Arthur." He held shining tools in his hand. "Now be still, this will hurt." Before he had a chance to prepare himself, Francis had dug in again, scouring the wound for shards of rusty metal or splinters of wood. Arthur knew better than to struggle, but sometimes a flinch would slip past his iron will. Francis paused long enough for Arthur to hear the familiar snip of scissors, and knew what was coming next. He tried to relax as the other nation stitched his flesh as calmly as a noble lady practicing needlepoint. After what seemed like an eternity, the pain stopped. Reality seemed far away, and Arthur let his head fall back (when did he sit up?). Francis wiped his hands and carefully dressed him in new bandages. "Are you injured anywhere else?"

When Arthur didn't answer, Francis pressed a metal flask to his lips. "It's only water." With a defiant look, he took the flask and drank greedily.

"I'm fine." He heard Francis smirk as he settled back down. "What where you even doing in England, you wino?"

His voice was drowned out by a bone-shaking boom. Screaming civilians, boots on the ground, and the sound of buildings turning to dust roared though the air. Francis protectively threw himself across the younger nation. There was a pregnant, heavy pause until another blast shook the church. Arthur groaned, but it was lost in the chaos and noise. A chunk of wood fell from the ancient timbers, spraying the two nations with fine shards of glass and dust.

Instead of darkness, the two were cast in an eerie red glow. Francis looked at his charge; Arthur had closed his eyes and was breathing heavily. They both knew the deep-rooted agony of loosing citizens, and this was striking Arthur right in the heart. Francis carefully slid his willowy arms under the other man's stocky frame and lifted him up, pressing him against his chest in an almost possessive manner. The dynamic French face showed clear signs of concern towards the Englishman's unresponsiveness. He gracefully walked over to the nearest available pew and laid him down, sliding a backpack under his head and throwing a thick blanket over him. Quickly falling asleep, he did not notice the loss of warmth as Francis stood up and exited their sanctuary.