He very much enjoyed the feel of another's hand in his.

Being the Country of Love is a wonderful existence. Love is beautiful, stunning, all consuming, and being the embodiment of such a title brings nothing less than pride and pure exhilaration of living it day in and day out. It is a sensation that hums and thrums from his soul, to his fingertips, to every move he makes in unison with the beat of his heart. Thump-dump, thump-dump the musical organ plays within a chest. Love is life, which breaths into fresh silky roses, scented with promise.

Love is to be shared, passed on, and experienced. He boasts in being Love's advocate; he could give words to the smell, taste, and vision of Love.

And somewhere in the deep, long history of him and Love, he pictures Love as a woman. Neither beautiful nor ugly; strong yet graceful. With sword held high and skill to fight, yet a countenance of pure, clear smiles.

But if there is one thing Francis Bonnefoy has learned with his affair with Love, it is dangerous. Love breaks hearts, distorts, and kills. Love will be for but a fleeting moment, and then it may very well leave you alone and bone dry. Love is the blood of men on the battlefield, greed, and sorrow. The hearts stops its music; roses whither, fade, and crumble.

The woman has died so long ago, he is certain. He has never seen such a smile since.

Yet the touch of a hand, palm to palm, is something completely, utterly refreshing. Where Love is fleeting, a hand upon his says so much more. Whether it be fingers entwining (dear sweet Antonio; passionate in all that he does), palms cupped and folded (Gilbert is the ever always grab and take with no flourish or mind; though that was part of his charm). Or be it a forceful grab of the writs as he is dragged, with lingering fingers close to his palm bushing ever so slightly (Ah his Rosbif, his Eyebrows, his Angleterre how he loves him), or clumsy little tugs at his digits, calling his attention this way and that (His lovely little boys, no matter how big they grow, they will always be his boys).

He cherishes them all, more than Love can ever give. Love never speaks to him like the holding of a hand does.

I see you.

Here I am.

You're not alone.

I trust you.

See, you are alive.

The warmth and closeness of another; willing and wanting. Calloused from war and trenches; caked with mud and oil – turmoil, death and disease makes the heart waver, yet your hand in mine is more powerful than any drug or weapon against the pain. More smooth and soft like the fur lining winter coats - The first snow has fallen, and it is a splendid sight indeed, and without the shy hand tugging on his, he would imagine the sight would be very lonely indeed.

So small a thing taken for granted. Yet it is what keeps his world shining with lights, the scent of fresh bread, and the taste of fine wine.

Yes, he very much enjoys holding hands. And every now and again, he would search out a hand to accompany his, just to keep the feeling alive.

The heart plays its symphony, and with your hand held in mine, I feel I'm dancing in a pas de deux that only I am aware of.

Notes:

- The Woman France is thinking of is Jeanne d'Arc (Joan of Arc)

- "little boys" refers to America and Canada; because France is always such a Papa.

- "Calloused from war and trenches; caked with mud and oil – turmoil, death and disease..." - It can be anyone really, but I had Arthur in mind.

- "More smooth and soft like the fur lining winter coats - The first snow has fallen..." - at this part I was referring to Canada.

I don't own Hetalia.