Kenzie: before any of you say anything, yes, I know this plot is way overused. Get over it. Anyway, I've had this thing sitting on my mind for days now, and I have to get it out. …and KD, I'm sorry! I should be working on Amnesia, I know! And to anyone who read my D. fic, Separation, I'm soooooooo sorry about the long wait. I've been trying, but with me starting freshman year and getting a good part in the high school play, I just haven't had any time! (Weak excuse, I know) Feel free to flame me as much as you want until I get those new chapters out.

Nashi: Kenzie-sama does not own anything, not even the plot. Well, bits of the plot.

The Red String of Fate

It had always been there; simple and unassuming, a beautiful string of red. It was invisible to all but the two who wore it, but the connection was always there. The string stretched and shrank, but never broke, never grew faded. It had always been Francis's favorite accessory, enough for the color to be added to his flag when the time came for said flag to be made. Back then, however, there had been no one on the other end of the string; instead, it stretched out into the heavens.

When the string had finally found someone to put on the end, it found someone much younger than Francis. The child's name was Arthur, an adorable little nation. The string fascinated him, and he added the color to his flag as well, stretching it across the blue and white expanse of fabric.

However often the two nations fought, they always knew that the other would be there for him. As swords clashed, fists connected, and words were shouted, they always remembered that none of it really meant anything. They would often stare into each other's eyes as the fighting abounded, apologizing mentally even as the words tore themselves from their throats, some cutting deeper than any sword. Deep in the night, they would nurse their wounds together, voicing the apologies they wanted to say so much during the day.

When Arthur first discovered what the string meant, he desperately tried to cut it. He used scissors, knives, his own teeth, and anything else he could find that might have been able to cut the seemingly frail thread. Eventually, though, he resigned himself to the thought of spending eternity with Francis. He even began to think about the good things that were sure to come with spending his life with the country of love. Kisses, romance, chocolates, and love were sure to abound, he told himself.

The first time Arthur told Francis he loved him was September 17, 1598. It had been a wonderfully sunny day, but it hadn't been sweltering. The two blondes had been fighting, but they stopped when they grew weary, favoring the option of collapsing in the grass instead. Under the light of the sun, they laid together, Francis's hand covering Arthur's protectively, his thumb stroking the curve of his palm. Arthur whispered something.

"What was that, Angleterre?" inquired Francis.

"Nothing," Arthur replied quickly. France looked at him for a bit, trying to work it out of him, but England refused to look at him, staring at the tree on the other side of his body instead. Finally, Francis lay back down, his thumb resuming the stroking. "…I love you…" murmured Arthur. This time, Francis heard him, and he leaned over.

"Je t'aime aussi, mon petit lapin," he said, kissing Arthur's jaw line, working his way up to his lips. Arthur smiled against his lips, working his fingers through Francis's wavy blonde locks as Francis rolled over and held him tight to his chest. You might think that, knowing Francis, things continued from there, under the cover of that tree, but you would be thinking incorrectly. No, the two were content to simply kiss, relishing in their love for each other. The next day, they would begin fighting again, but for then, they were happy just lying there, occasionally stealing a kiss or two.

Fast forward – the year is now 1781, the day after Alfred won his independence from Arthur. It had been a long, hard war, and Arthur was exhausted. Glancing at the string, he felt the sting of the knowledge that Francis had helped Alfred win the war, instead of siding with him, his own soulmate. Although politically he would be friendly with Francis the next year, the pain would remain until much later. To this day, an old echo of the stabbing, gut-wrenching pain remains whenever Arthur crosses over anything his eldest son left behind when he "moved out".

Francis worked hard at trying to regain Arthur's trust, but it was a difficult path that he traveled. Fights were even more common, while romantic moments were scarce. But one moment truly relived itself in his mind, over and over during the night. It always returned to him, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids: Arthur throwing his briefcase at him, the papers scattering as he screamed "I hate you!" It had been a bleary day, cold and rainy. Francis could still feel precisely where every paper struck his body, could still hear every syllable as they were spat at him. It always made him feel cold and alone, exactly as he had felt that day; when he began to think about these things, he always rolled over, relief spreading through his body as he saw the peacefully sleeping form of Arthur. It was the nights that Arthur was not there that scared him the most. Those nights, he would yell his apologies to the heavens, stopping only when his throat grew dry and his voice hoarse. He then took comfort in the little red string wrapped around his pinky; it served as his reminder that he was never completely alone. As soon as he would remember that, he could roll back over and sleep peacefully once more.

Matthew's childhood had been different. Francis and Arthur raised him together, creating a more well-rounded country with two languages and a lovely culture. As a result, when Matthew wanted to move out and become his own county, Arthur did not have nearly as hard of a time as he had had with Alfred. Yes, he was sad, but this time, he had Francis's shoulder to rest his head upon when the temptation to release his tears became too great to bear.

Fast forward once more – we have now arrived in World War I. If you have ever studied this particular war, you most likely already know that Arthur did not originally want to get involved in the war. No, he was perfectly content to sit out and let Ludwig do as he pleased; that is, until he threatened Francis. As soon as he made that mistake, Arthur jumped in and began fighting with all his might. In the trenches, they would tend to one another's wounds, much like they had been doing for centuries. They never questioned their victory, never wondered if they would survive. After years of fighting (and Alfred's sudden inclusion in the war), they finally defeated him. They were able to take a short rest until World War II, which I won't even delve into.

Fast forward one final time – we have officially made it to modern times. Arthur and Francis have taken a short break in their fights, but who knows how long that will last. In the dead of the night, Francis holds Arthur tight to his chest, whispering words of love and adoration into the top of his head. Arthur wraps his arms around Francis's chest, pressing soft kisses to the other man's flesh. For now, they are peaceful. For now, they are happy.

The red string of fate holds them tight, never once loosening, never once breaking, nor fading or growing tangled. Their fates are interwoven; that much has always been true. It's what they choose to do with it that matters.

For now, they sleep.