Wow, sorry I haven't updated in a while. Well, I've finally gotten the last 14 stories up so yay XD.

France walked around the hallway, smiling and singing as he made his way to England's door. Pushing it open silently, slowly, he crept in, intending to sneak up behind him and absolutely ruin his day. Once in the large room, he glanced around, and what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks, confused and concerned.

England was sitting in the middle of the room, the curtains drawn so that the shade weighed down heavily on his face. He was drinking tea in his large red chair as per usual, but this time something was off. Had France been as clueless as Italy or as dense as America, he may not have noticed the changes, because they were, in fact, small. England's hand, the one holding the tea cup delicately with three slender fingers was shaking ever so slightly, and his eyes seemed more watery than usual.

Before France could say something to shatter the precarious moment, he saw, with his own eyes, England drop the tea cup. Not on accident, either. He purposefully let his fingers slip off the edge of the handle, and France watched, fascinated, as England's most prized possession came crashing down, leaving scattered pieces and dark stains across the floor.

By the time his eyes flicked back up to England, the once proud pirate was huddled in his looming chair, curled up awkwardly with his face mushed in between his knees and his hands drawn over his head, as if to protect him from something. And he was sobbing. Not that in this position France could see his face, no, but he could see his shoulders. And he was shaking and heaving and gasping, his entire body emanating a cacophony of unhappiness.

France strode quietly over to the Brit, hand hovering slightly above his back. He was unsure of how to react, whether he should let his presence known or not. He knew instinctively that Britain was lonely and needed someone now, but on the flip side he knew that he was notorious for pushing everyone away in his times of stress, especially. France leaned down, mesmerized by the brokenness and the pain that was so rarely let out, and he started when the Brit began to mumble, forcing out wretched sobbing words in between his anguished muffled cries.

"I can't believe I've done it again," he heard him mutter hopelessly into himself.

"I've lost, ah! What's it called? L'amour." France was startled at the sudden use of his language. He was even more surprised that England's accent was actually, he hated to admit it, fine. He wondered at this, as the Brit had never once let out a French word from his filthy rosbif mouth. Well, ever since the hundred years war, but that was over seven hundred years ago and France had assumed that England had forgotten, or rather, had made himself forget.

« L'amour. Mon amour. Mon amour, mon amour, je te détesté. J'ai perdu mon amour. » He listened as the Brit began to spew more perfect French out of perfect lips, literally onto his own lap.

And suddenly, louder, "God Damnit, I love France!" and England threw his head up as he yelled, and knocked into Francis, whirling and blushing in harmony as he stared, horrified, at said person, who was, and shouldn't have been, very much amused.

While he knew England was in all likelihood, as America would put it, "freaking out", he himself was also astonished, trying to sort out the news that had been thrown at him. He was trying to quash the tingling of excitement that coursed through him, at England's now confessed feelings. Of course, he had loved the stubborn rosbif since the moment he had seen him young and afraid and alone, but the little stubborn child had never once reciprocated it; even less so as he had gotten older.

"You!" England managed to gasp out, in the moment between crying and forced composure, "Why are you here?!"

France leaned down to wipe a forgotten tear off the side of England's face, moving closer to inhale the scent of tea and burnt bread and rain.

« Parce que j'ai trouvé mon amour. Ici. » he whispered gently, reaching out to brush the sticky hair off of his wet and puffy face. And England just looked at him, just looked, in that vulnerable, open, complacent way. France felt something in his chest, the more he stared back at England. A feeling that began to grow and grow and grow until he could no longer bear it. And the more he stared at England's pouting, worried, beautiful face, the more he noticed how rough and juicy and kissable those lips were.

And it just wouldn't be right for a French gentleman of his standing no less (and he was, if anything, very much French), to have such an opportunity, such a willing romance, and just walk away. That would be beyond morally wrong. And so, French as he was, he kissed that poor, sad, Englishman to hell and back, and then some.

And that night, England cried again. But not in pain, in despair, or in hopelessness. He cried in ecstasy and joy and not in love that was forgotten and old and unrequited, but love that was unbounded in openness, and togetherness, and a love that was precious.