He had somehow found himself here, in one of the last places that he could ever expect himself to be in. A red, blue and white blanket wrapped around his shivering figure, and a cup of tea placed in front of him, it looked as though everything would now be alright. But the drops of rain that still hung stubbornly on his golden tresses now fell against the linoleum table, reminding him of the events that came to be – that never came to be.

Just because I'm here all the time, it doesn't mean you can take me for granted!

He was later aware of a shaking gesture, coming from his shoulders that continued down to the rest of his body. He blinked groggily, finding himself facing the same cup of tea that seemed to have lost some of its steam.

"Oh, did I fall asleep?" He asked, although the answer to his question was quite obvious.

He heard a chuckle next to him, and as he looked up, his emerald eyes were met with piercing blue ones. The male's expression was full of mirth, but in his eyes lay something harder, sturdier – and more defensive. "Oui, mon Angleterre. I thought you were a gentleman, non? 'Eet 'ees quite rude to fall asleep at someone else's table."

He didn't even have the heart to argue and retaliate; instead, he merely offered a gracious nod. His eyes were trained on the cup of tea before him, transparent. Because of this, he missed the expression of pain that flitted temporarily against his companion's features, for it was quickly replaced with one of joviality.

"Now, now, it can't be 'zat serious. Chin up – ah, 'zat is how you would say it, non? – Angleterre. 'Eet 'ees much too boring seeing you like 'zis." The male chuckled once more, a low, throaty sound, his mouth stretched into one of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Again, there was no response from the other side. He was concentrating on the tea, a tea that no doubt would smell ludicrously of roses and whatever other sort of perfume the frog wore. It would be tasteless and tacky, just like the owner. But then again, tea had never failed to make him better. Maybe if he reached out for it, and took a sip, it would be.

His hands refused to obey him.

France frowned at the immobile man that was England, his own fingers wringing themselves in an effort to do something, anything. He opened his mouth to remark, but it was at that moment that the other began to speak.

"It's kind of fucked up, isn't it? How all of a sudden, someone just wakes up and decides to never talk to you again. No reason. No explanation. No words said. They just leave you hanging like you never meant anything to them, and what hurts the most is how they made it look so easy."

You can't just walk away from me. Get back here and face me like a man!

A visible shudder passed through him, and he instinctively crossed his arms and pulled the blanket closer to him, to absorb what little warmth they could offer. Almost instantly, he blanched at the smell; the aroma was too strongly of his hated rival that he choked.

It reminded him of where he was, and how desperate he was. It was shameful.

France pouted, unsure. "Surely, you over-exaggerate, mon lapin. 'E would not just walk away like 'zat-"

Another shudder came from the man in front of him, and he had to pause. These, he could tell, were not the right words, and so he kept his mouth shut.

He sighed, shaking his head. What was he doing, pouring out his feeling to this frog? It would gain him nothing, but it would gain the other some ammunition against him in the future. He shook his head, staring once more at the tea that swirled softly.

He didn't know what made him do it, but the next thing he knew, the cup was shattered against the floor, the tea spilled on the immaculate tiled floor.

A gasp came from his companion, but he could only offer a sneer towards the horrified expression on the blonde male. "Angleterre! What do you 'sink you are doing? You've made a mess!" He scowled, before quickly dashing off to the pantry door and pulling out a mop, broom and dustpan.

"Look at that. Once it's broken, you can't fix it."

The tea was now soiled on the floor, dirty and unforgiving… like him. Without another word, he pushed himself up and walked away, leaving the Frenchman gaping at him and wondering just what in the hell had pushed his adorable little England into this confused state.

You've used me, sucked me dry, and you won't even thank me?

He still smelled of tea, somehow. Lying on the bed that was France's room, he couldn't will himself to occupy the guestroom. The lingering smell of tea brought forth memories he wished to forget, but he knew it wasn't just that. It was that he wouldn't forget.

He always thought the feeling was reciprocated; he thought wrong. It was at that awkward moment when he thought he was important to him… but he wasn't. He had merely deluded himself all those past years, those past centuries. He was stupid.

All he could remember were those sky blue eyes, and that cheeky, annoying laugh that often made him blush more so than necessary. Suddenly, a storm had clouded them, and he was left soaking in the rain… soaking in the rain as France had found him.

Did I mean nothing to you?

He was standing there in the alleyway, allowing his body to be drenched in the rain that he so loved and hated. It ebbed and flowed, but now, it was just his heart that flowed out of his chest, along with all the feelings of love and attachment.

He could drown standing there, for all he cared.

"Would you like to catch a cold, mon Angleterre?" Those were his words, remarkably sarcastic but flirtatious at once. But his tone of voice was too familiar, and he had not shown any visible reaction, but this did not seem to deter the man. He could hear footsteps behind him, and suddenly, the rain stopped around him – an umbrella had been erected.

He still did not move, his thoughts too lucid for his own good, staring at the bag of tea that was now by his feet. He had planned to arrange a cup of some once the meeting had gone over well, but it had not. Instead, now it lay there on the floor, damp and absorbing too much rain for its own good.

The Frenchman sighed, unable to comprehend what had happened but guessing as to its origin all the same. He shrugged. "You know, I do not quite get what you like about 'zis weather so much. It is so… droll."

He said nothing, letting the rant reach his ears but not reacting.

France took it as a sign to continue.

"Not to mention, 'ze females 'ere are… not as desirable as my women."

Again, there was a lapsing silence.

"Ugh, and do not make me start wiz' 'ze tea. Tea 'zis, tea 'zat. 'Ave you never 'eard of coffee, mon Angleterre?"

The silence grew, and France was almost beginning to think the other had died. Still, he found this somewhat amusing, but he did have a point.

"And… your cooking? 'Orrible! Absolutely 'orrible! I 'ave never tasted anything so disgusting in my life!"

He said nothing more, but nodded, if minutely. These were true. All those accusations against him were true, but he had just been too stubborn to admit them. He waited, held his breath for more self-degrading remarks, but was surprised by a movement behind him.

Full lips were placed by his ear, and he would have cringed, had it not been for the familiarity this body offered. This was not the first that this proximity had been engaged.

"But you know, mon Angleterre, even if I had a million reasons to leave, I would still look for one to stay."

He blacked out.

No, I'm not holding on. You're the one refusing to let go. Let go, let me go!

It was cold in that room, and even the blanket that had remained secure around his body offered little protection. Plus, it smelled like tea. Everything here, for some reason, smelled like tea. He couldn't fathom why, but he had forgotten why he was even here in the first place.

France knocked on the door, just in time to hear a wracking sound coming from inside. He pushed it open, blue eyes lit by the dim hallway light. He watched as the other shook, looking as though he was suffering some sort of spasm. He rushed forward, dropping the robe he had draped over his arm.

He didn't even remember when he started crying; he only knew that at that moment, he was. He also didn't know it, but at some point, he felt warm arms embracing him, and he leaned into them involuntarily, instantly hating himself for being so weak.

"'Eet never gets easier, you know," the other murmured in his ear, "but you just get better. You will get better, non?"

No. He wouldn't. Not even in the arms of someone he had grown up with, a temporary caretaker. He would die alone, he wouldn't get better. Not when his heart had been ripped so viciously from his heart. He shook his head then, showing his answer.

"'Eet does. Now, shush, go to sleep."

He nodded, but did not comply. His eyes were wide open, but facing opposite the other man, whose own body was curved to fit his precisely… as if it was meant to be.

And then, France hummed a lullaby that brought forth memories of their childhood.

"Little child, be not afraid. Though rain pounds harshly against the glass like an unwanted stranger, there is no danger. I am here tonight. Little child, be not afraid. Though thunder explodes and lightning flash illuminates your tear-stained face. I am here tonight."

He fell asleep with tears running down his face, but not before he felt warm fingers wiping them away. He couldn't remember the rest of the song.

You only used me!

He woke up, disoriented and groggy, but as cold and unfeeling as he had been the night before. No longer were the warm arms enwrapped around him. He felt empty, but didn't know why.

It was like a love hangover.

He arose, hearing clinking from the kitchen downstairs, and he sighed. Shaking his feet, he climbed numbly out of bed, heading towards the source of the noise. There, he found the Frenchman whistling happily to himself. When he entered, it was as though the other immediately sensed him, as he turned around with a smirk on his face almost instantly.

"You know, as much as I love 'ow attached you are to me, I 'sink I cannot simply let you 'ave my precious blanket."

He blinked a few times, confused, before he realized that the same blue, red and white flag was still draped around his shoulders; he had held on to it unconsciously. He nodded, but he shrugged it closer to him, keeping his eyes down as he settled into a chair.

Again, he missed the flash of pain that flitted against the Frenchman's face.

"So, I believe 'eet 'ees tea again 'zis morning, mon cher?" The other asked, grinning, before setting a saucer and cup of the steaming liquid in front of him. "Try not to break my china today, oui?"

He simply nodded, uncomprehending. The tea looked more appetizing to him today than it did yesterday, but there was no denying the fact that it was still grossly repelling to him. Maybe it was something about the smell.

The sound of water dropping made him blink, surprised. He thought it was the faucet, but then, it continued, and for some reason, his face was warm. He looked up, then at his hands, which then gingerly patted his face. Eyes widened in the embarrassing realization that water was flowing from his emerald orbs; had he fallen so low so as to lose control of his own body?

Angry, he pushed himself back from the chair, one hand still gripping the blanket firmly. France moved forward tentatively, poised to catch the tea set if it so came to that. For a second, he could relax when the other moved into his metaphorical corner of silence, but then, his eyes widened, arm raised to smash the tea set once more.

He lurched forward, catching the other in a full, frontal embrace.

This seemed to cause the other to gain his senses, if temporarily.

"Let go of me, you bloody git!" Insulting as it was meant to be, it didn't seem to hold the same anger and irritation as it usually did.

Emerald eyes grew wider when the other shook his head, refusing to relinquish his hold, but instead pulling him closer. He was frozen, stunned, his one arm lifted still awkwardly from his intended action. Then once more, the other whispered in his ear.

"You know, mon petit lapin, people cry, not because 'zey are weak. It's because 'zey 'ave been strong for too long."

His eyes stared at the white ceiling, his nose inhaling the aroma of tea. These were what his senses showed him before his vision faded into a blurry mess, and he felt his lungs collapse and his eyes fill with tears that now brimmed so fruitfully. They fell onto the blanket, and onto the Frenchman's back, whose grip tightened ever more.

He released a sound of pain, an escape, before collapsing to the floor, where the other held him as tightly as he had before.

He was right.

How long can I stand this? I'm not a saint, so stop fooling around.

He hadn't know when it had happened, but the next thing he knew, he was back out on the streets, naked feet splashing on the concrete, clothed in nothing but pyjamas. He was panting, a red flush on his face at the realization of what he had just done.

Suddenly, there was the smell of tea again, and somehow, he found his feet tangling themselves against the flat ground, and he fell face first on the concrete. There he lay, where it had all began, where he wished to just be washed away with the current.

But, like before, the footsteps trailed after him, and he flinched as the rain stopped pounding on his face, and a soft hand pulled him up into a sitting position. He refused to look at his rescuer's face, but instead stared at the tea bag in the very same alley when he spoke.

"Why can't you just sod off, you git? I don't need you here."

"'Ow are you?" came the reply, which threw him off for a second.

"I'm fine."

Then the chuckle came. "I read somewhere that that really means, "I'm dying inside, but you wouldn't care if I told you." Maybe it's because I care?"

"Why should you? Leave me alone, frog."

"Because I do."

A heavy pause. He sighed, before fidgeting uncomfortably. Even without making eye contact, he knew that the other was studying him, waiting for him to say something or make a move. He had been too blind to see what was there now in front of him, too stubborn to see the obvious.

"I remember the song."

"Quoi?"

He took a deep breath. "The song you sang before."

"Oui, I sang it for you when you couldn't sleep."

More heavy silence.

"… And someday you'll know that nature is so. The same rain that draws you near me falls on rivers and land, on forests and sand, makes the beautiful world that you'll see in the morning."

"Oui."

He heard a shuffling sound from beside him, before feeling a familiarly scented blanket wrap around him; it was the one he had refused to let go of since the very beginning.

"Hey, idiot."

"Oui."

"I love you."

"Oui." This time, he could see the small, sad smile on the other's beautiful face, soaked in the rain.

… "I know. Now let's get some tea, shall we?"

Because I know, you sometimes put up walls not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break down.

I will break them down for you, little child.

A/N: Er... not sure where this came from... but here's my first FrUK oneshot. I was supposed to make it longer but I got lazy, and this here is the result, so I'm sorry if it's not up to par. Please do leave me some comments and suggestions as to how I can improve my writing!~

Also, credit to various artists and authors for the quotes and song lyrics I've used here. They were all my muse for this. Thanks for viewing this, dear readers!