A/N: Went to a writer's conference yesterday, which was amazing fun, and this turned out to be the result of one of the 'writing exercises' they made us do. It's amazing what comes from a walk in a public park; it's not my best work, but I think it's pretty good. Fluffy and cute and somewhat heartbreaking. So yeah, enjoy!

Hugs from Maple

Two men stand alone in the field, laughing, standing side by side as the breezes rush in their faces, playfully rustling their clothes. The chill wind of autumn rushes around them, blowing England's hair over his eyes as he chuckles, trying to shake it away, giving France a glimpse of brilliant, shimmering green eyes. They sparkle with laughter. Francis smiles softly, reaching out to brush his hair away again, fingertips gentle as they push his hair from his face and brush down over his jaw before pulling away. Francis smiles.

He cannot help but think how beautiful Arthur is.

Another gust of wind kicks up a swirl of brilliant leaves, stained scarlet and gold and orange from the frost, but the two of them are still, and Francis wonders if Arthur is drinking in every detail of his own face, as he is to Arthur.

Soft, full pink lips, sparkling eyes, messy blond hair and smooth, pale skin. Arthur is like an angel, colors rushing around him, bringing out the gold in his eyes. Those eyes. They have always left France in awe, hypnotized, quietly marveling at how a living human being could be so incredibly, impossibly perfect. He seems to glow softly, watching Francis with those beautiful eyes. They do nothing short of taking France's breath away.

They always have.

Centuries ago, when France was a teenager and England a mere child, he remembered standing in a clearing in the woods, staring into those emerald eyes that glowed against the leaves falling around them. For once England wasn't angry with him, the freckles spattered lightly across his nose not wrinkled in a pout, monstrous eyebrows not scrunched into a furious v. It was in that moment that France realized how beautiful he truly was, cloak flowing in the wind, messy hair shining in the sunlight.

They had stood there, just looking at each other for a few moments, taking each other in.

France hadn't known what to do. He watched Arthur, it all his unearthly beauty, for a moment longer, before leaning down and gently kissing him on the lips.

England's eyes had shot open wide, and when France pulled away he had smacked him across the face, turned on his heel and run as fast as he could, but France hadn't chased him. He'd merely smiled, a little sadly, watching England go.

For both of them, it had been their first kiss.

Now, Francis stands looking at England once again, taking in all his glowing beauty. Arthur just smiles with those soft pink lips, long golden eyelashes flickering as France watches him blink and look down, turning away as gracefully as one of the leaves on the wind. Arthur has always been graceful—almost inhumanly so, so France wondered at times whether it was possible to be as radiant as he is now. Bending to scoop a leaf from the ground, England watches the scarlet of it ripple in the breeze for a moment, until the Autumn wind snatches it from the grasp of his soft, slender fingers and away, into the wind. He laughs that musical laugh that always leaves Francis with butterflies in his stomach. This time is not any different.

France can't help himself; he laughs too.

England looks back at him, radiant with happiness, and France reaches out to catch his cool, soft hand, making him pause. And again, they are just looking at each other for a moment, until France pulls Arthur closer to him, leaning down to whisper in his ear so softly it could have been nothing but the breeze.

"I remember," he murmurs, looking into England's eyes to see them unreadable once again. His heart sinks. He knows that closed look. It is the one that England shows him the rest of the time, when they are enemies.

But then his eyes are radiant once more, and he smiles again, softly.

"I remember too," he whispers, not fighting or trying to pull away as France steps a little closer. His heart is racing; he doesn't know if England will run away again, or whether this will ruin the small bit of friendship the two of them have managed to build. He knows Alfred or any of the others may be in the park as well, watching them without their knowledge, but merde, he has to do it anyway. Because he loves Arthur. He would die for him. He loves him so much it might kill him to hold it inside much longer.

Leaning in closer, France lets his fingers trail lightly over England's jaw, feeling his soft skin, letting his face rest in his hair to breathe in that scent of musky cologne and tea and mint that always seems to linger around the Briton, making him smile. Arthur's skin is so soft, he's almost afraid to hold him too tightly, for fear he will break at any moment. Arthur sighs, eyes slipping closed, feeling the Frenchman touching softly, carefully, taking his time. Francis knows he knows what is coming as Arthur pulls their hands apart to slide his hands over Francis's chest, letting his face come to rest in his neck. France has never seen Arthur act like this before, and as he pulls away a little, has to wonder with a jolt if this is all a dream—if he will wake with nothing but a fading memory of Arthur's scent, his touch. But he looks down at the beautiful man standing so close to him, and knows that even if it is a dream, he is the luckiest man in the world to have had it.

He leans in closer, arms sliding gently around Arthur's slim waist, and kisses him softly.

This time, Arthur does not even falter.

Francis feels as though he can fly.

Soft, cool lips are kissing him back, Arthur's arms sliding upward to wrap around his neck, bring their bodies closer. He's not fighting, not even trying to—and Francis feels himself kissing harder, tries to ease back, but then Arthur is matching it, and he can't do anything but kiss this beautiful man, feel that mouth pressed eagerly against his, forgetting they are in a field in a public park where anyone can see, that Alfred will never, ever forgive Francis for this if he catches so much as a glimpse. It isn't humanly possible for Francis to show England exactly how much he loves him, and as he carefully nudges Arthur's beautiful lips with his tongue, he never expects the Brit to open his mouth readily, moaning softly, feeling Francis explore every corner of his mouth. France tastes like vanilla and cinnamon and the sweetness of the world after it rains, and Arthur can't get enough, pressing himself closer, moaning softly again as Francis's arms tighten around him.

But finally, finally, Francis pulls gently away.

Arthur's eyes flicker open, framed by beautiful golden lashes, and he smiles softly.

Leaning up to kiss Francis one more time, he murmurs against his lips, "Je t'aime," just softly enough for the Frenchman to hear. He feels Francis's heart skip a beat.

His own heart skips a beat when Francis whispers back, "I love you too, Arthur."

When they continue walking, nothing has changed, except for the fact that they are holding hands.

But both feels it, when they look at each other. Nothing will ever be the same after today. There is something in the wind, in the leaves and the brilliant swirls of color.

Francis leans over to kiss Arthur's cheek, making the Brit laugh and blush a little.

And suddenly, he knows.

Arthur feels the magic of Autumn, too.