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FrUK - Maybe Part 7 is finally up! Merry Christmas everyone! :santa: !! :love:

Arthur Kirkland had been staying with Francis Bonnefoy for the grand total of three months. At first it was strained. Beyond tense. France had tried to give Arthur his own space but always seemed to gravitate towards him, checking if he was OK, making him cups of tea when he wasn't asked, making his bed, sneaking into the shower to check he hadn't drowned...silly stuff like that. In all that time there had been no contact from Alfred. Not a single house visit or phone call on France's landline. At first America had been ringing England's phone 24/7, texting, leaving voicemails, the whole nine. It wasn't until France snapped that it stopped.

Much to Arthur's horror Francis had locked the Briton's phone away. It had been a quiet Saturday night in the Frenchman's home, two weeks into Arthur's stay, when the American national anthem started booming (as usual) from England's phone. Emerald had met turquoise and within a second Francis had shot up, leaping on Arthur and fighting tooth and nail for that damn phone. Arthur had screeched and cursed and kicked France several times in the ribs but in the end France was sitting straddled atop Arthur, aching and bruised but holding aloft the phone victorious.

Arthur hadn't followed France when he went to go and hide the possession , supposedly not wanting to know where it has been stashed. Francis had placed it in the top drawer of his dresser and latched AND locked the door with the key he hid in his vanity box. Only special items went in that drawer, things he didn't want people looking at or reading. Things such as drawings England had given him when he was little, photographs of them both, old vintage porn magazines....etc etc. All important things.

You can imagine France's surprise then, seemingly living quite peacefully with Arthur, when one day he walked straight into the man exiting his own bedroom. England had been using the spare bedroom and hadn't strayed very far outside of it in the last month or so. At first he had been eager for time alone, then he had ached for company and spent many a day just sitting with France in sight reading a book or watching mindless television. England only left the house to collect food from the small shop down the road and even then he always returned tight lipped and uneasy, as though the small outing had shattered the defences he was working so hard to build up. France never found out what happened on these outings but he figured seeing lots of families and happy couples had messed with the blonde's head.

'Angleterre' France said, his jaw going slack in surprise at the situation. He'd just been coming upstairs to change his clothes and maybe go outside, even attempt to try and persuade Arthur to come with him. France's eyebrows moved inwards and upwards as he scrutinised the man before him, the way he'd posed as if caught in mid flight.

'What are you doing?' fear flit around in France's stomach like a trapped bird in a cage.

Deep green eyes rolled and Arthur planted his hands on his hips, his fingers curling around his hipbones and nails digging into his skin.

'We're out of toothpaste. Thought you might have some in your room. Relax, Frog'

'Toothpaste is in the bathroom cupboard. You know that'

Arthur shrugged, too exaggerated to be casual. 'Guess I forgot'

'I guess so'

The two men stood in fretful silence before Arthur cleared his throat, his demeanour snapping back to stiff upper-class gent as he pushed past Francis to get down the hallway and to his bedroom. France let himself be pushed out the way, treasuring the small touch even if it was a dismissal.

' you want to come into the town with me?' France called, not looking round until he heard the snick of a door closing. A sigh escaped his lips and his fingers moved to hold Jeanne's cross that hung round his neck, finding comfort in the slightly warmed metal. So much for that.

Nudging his door open with his hip the Frenchman sauntered into his bedroom, eyes flicking over the interior and checking nothing was out of place. As far as he could tell nothing was missing. Francis opened a few drawers (perhaps Arthur was stealing his clothes? After all he did have amazing fashion sense) and even checked under the bed, but everything was as it should be.

Snorting in derision at his lack of trust in the other man France grabbed a violet coloured button down shirt and a white, mauve and blue neck scarf before changing out of his bed shirt and beginning to primp himself up. The stitches in his head had been taken out but his hair was still growing back in and the flesh was slightly raised, giving it an almost Frankenstein look to it. It was not glamorous in the slightest. Brushing his hair until it was shining France tied it back in a smooth ponytail and grabbed a white fedora with a violet band round it to match his shirt, placing it jauntily on his head. He longed for the day when he would no longer be required to wear a hat. Hats got old pretty quickly.


Being a nation France could very easily snap his fingers and have his shopping delivered to his house, even probably delivered by a gaggle of scantily clad women seductively eating phallic shaped fruits if he so desired, but there was something about the generic experience, of being perceived normal, mortal even, and witnessing the lives of his people that just made France go all soft. Children rushed past him screeching as they darted around the isles playing a seemingly never-ending game of tag and Francis' lips tilted up in a fond smile as the parents rushed after them screeching. Turning his attention back to the isles in front of him Francis thought idly how it's almost like he was a housewife now. He did England's washing, made his bed, fed him, entertained him...everything.

Grabbing a box of scone mix off the shelf Francis squinted as he read the small print. The ingredients sounded disgusting. Nose wrinkled up in distaste France dropped the package in the metal basket anyway, knowing England would have a fit if he forfeited the one item he specifically asked for. Letting out a whimpered sigh at the idea of those atrocious scones being made in his kitchen France accepted that he was well and truly whipped.

It took around a fretful hour and a half before France had all the things on his grocery list and as he waited in line at the checkout he could feel anxiety getting it's grip on him. What was England doing? He was all alone in the house, the only protection from a lethal ex-boyfriend a dodgy at best double locked door. Digging his top row of teeth into his lower lip France adopted what young England used to call 'alpaca face' as he fought against every single gut instinct to drop the shopping and get back to the house before Arthur did anything stupid.

Visions of Arthur practising black magic (again) entered the Frenchman's mind and the 'alpaca face' deepened. By now the line of customers had filtered along and the brunette sitting at the till did a double take when she saw France's expression. Sensing her discomfort Francis shook his head, as if disregarding his thoughts, and let a flirtatious grin overtake his lips. Flirting was something that Francis found comfort in, something that was familiar and he was assured by. It didn't really mean anything nowadays, not since everything with Arthur rekindled anyway.

Darcy, as he jaunty name tag identified her to be, smiled broadly back at the Frenchman, her lips fuller on the bottom and her teeth obviously whitened. She made a big deal of bending forward baring her bulging cleavage as she packed the groceries into plastic bags. It was a testament to how influenced by Arthur he was that France barely even registered this, instead plucking his mobile phone out his slim fit pocket and dialling the one number he knew would give him peace of mind.

It took three agonisingly long rings before there was a click, a puff of breath and Arthur's groggy voice filtered over the line.

'What do you want, Frog?'

'How did you know it was me?'

'Who else would it be?'

Good point. France hummed and handed his credit card over to Darcy with a wink. She giggled and swiped it.

'I got your cement mix. It looks like dandruff'

France commented, taking back his card. The easy banter was settling his nerves a little.

'It's a scone mix you wino. You need to MIX it before it's ready for baking. Thought you were a chef' Arthur scoffed.

'I'm the best chef and you know it. I just cook real food'

Looping the plastic around his nimble fingers France grinned and winked one last time at the flushing gem that was Darcy before he hoisted the bags up and off the counter, his healing ribs twinging in discomfort.

Arthur snorted 'Unlikely. But I'm fine before you ask. I'll see you soon'

There was the sound of fumbling before dial tone greeted France's ears. Well at least he answered, Francis conceded.


There was a scuffle from behind and within a second France was faced with a sweatball. Or that's what he looks like to the blonde before he blinked his eyes and realised the man's head was not sweaty but covered in a slimy shiny layer of slicked down chestnut coloured hair. France tried not to look too visibly disgusted at the Germany-esque haircut and ran his eyes over the specimen before him.


Wiping sweat from his upper lip and hopping from foot to foot, the man leant in close, swaying a little before attempting the move again, this time getting close enough to whisper in Francis' ear.

'She was so going for you!! Why didn't you take the bait?!'

'Who?' France blinked

Gel-man rolled his eyes, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder at the checkout

'Hot tits Darcy! I've been trying to get her for weeks!'

'Ah' France exclaimed, more than a little taken aback by the man's forwardness.

'So?!' Gel-man demanded, basically hopping up and down on the spot.

With a put upon sigh France clapped his free hand to the young man's shoulder, dragging him round to his side as if to show him some magnificent sight.

'I have something better waiting for me at home'

The simplicity of that statement, the way it had been so easy and honest to say, made the Frenchman's chest ache dully. It was true. He really had no interest in looking at others, flirting more out of habit than with any intention, and the thought of the Englishman did funny things to his stomach. Yes, he was officially, as Arthur would say, screwed.


Gel-man looked disheartened, his expression morphing into embarrassment at having just accosted a stranger for flirting tips. An odd sense of pity worked itself up in France's chest and as he stepped away he decided to impart his knowledge to the less flirtatiously gifted.

'Lose the hair gel. Use deodorant and cologne. Do NOT-'

France eyed the man's ripped jeans and scuffed Adidas trainers

'wear those. Ever. Throw them away'

Gel-man was nodding like every word said to him was sacred scripture from God, his hazel eyes wide and mouth a gaping 'O' in the way people tend to look when they're attempting to retain information very quickly.

'Wow I- thank-you!'

France chuckled and winked 'Good luck mon ami'

Feeling pretty pleased with himself the blonde haired man left the hustle and bustle of the store, the echoing 'good luck to you too!' ringing behind him as Gel-man finally gathered his thoughts together.

Good luck. Yes...he would be needing a lot of that.


It took around half an hour for France to walk home from the supermarket, his brow sticky and his body one massive ache by the time he was dropping his bags with a thunk on the doorstep, hands cut up and sore from the abrasive plastic bags digging into his pockets for a key. France's car was still at the repair shop – namely because France refused to let Arthur drive him there to collect it. There was no way he was risking death or mutilation for a Peugeot.

Shoving hard at the door that was sticking like a limpet to it's frame Francis finally with one large heave fell through the entryway, tripping over his own feet and lurching forward, hands scrabbling to find stability. Luckily or rather unluckily for the Frenchman stability came in the form of a rather pinched looking England, whom upon hearing the brutal attack being inflicted upon the door had promptly gone downstairs ready to scream blue murder at whoever was making such a racket.

Firm cold fingered hands steadied Francis' elbows, shaking him a little and pushing him backwards so that he could stand on the flats of his feet again.

'What the bloody hell are you doing?' Arthur demanded, eyebrows furrowed.

'The door would not open! I was...improvising!' France defended, lips sliding into a pout despite himself.

Looking sufficiently fed up yet not truly surprised at the Frenchman's predicament, the Briton, clad in brown linen trousers and a soft looking eggshell blue tee-shirt (he'd been stealing Francis' old clothes) moved forwards, all but elbowing his companion out the way to reach the shopping bags slumped against the stoop.

'Angleterre, there is no need- let me-'

'I'm fine. And more than bloody capable of lifting a bag of food' Arthur snapped, effectively cutting the blonde's words short.

And the shock of it was, as Francis stepped aside, standing idly by and feeling out of place in his own home, that Arthur really was fine. Or appeared to be at least.

His bruises had faded into a nothingness, leaving behind smooth alabaster skin that one could hardly guess used to look like a patchwork quilt of pain. England's hand, strained from going for Alfred at the last Arena Board meeting, was now also healed, giving Arthur back the agile fingers he now used to knit and crochet to pass the time. The Briton looked soft, homey, like he fit in being in France's house, stacking tins away in the pantry and humming disjointedly to himself. The Englishman's hair had a healthy shine to it at last, bringing out the lighter shades in the blonde, his eyes were no longer accompanied by dark circles and his lips even quirked up in an attempt at a smile on occasions.

Arthur was, for use of a better word, healthy. And if that didn't make France feel unbelievably relieved and also grossly ill at the same time he would be lying. It was undeniably brilliant that the Briton had and was still recovering, something that France feared would not happen easily, yet at the same time Arthur's albeit miraculous recovery was making Francis' insides feel like they were crumbling to dust. If England was healthy he was independent and if he was independent he didn't need France. He could leave.

Eyeing the Briton's green mini parked in the driveway, a source of an escape if the other man so pleased, France felt the indescribable urge to go out and destroy the machine, stab it's tires or rip out it's engine. Anything to get the Briton to stay a big longer.

'Shut the door you dolt! It's cold as hell out there!'

Turning his head a little at the Englishman's course yell Francis eyed the parked car up and down one last time before shutting the front door, double locking it for his own piece of mind.

Knowing that the Briton would likely yell at him for trying to help him with such a small menial task as putting the shopping away the long haired man went to perch on the edge of the sofa, knees spaced shoulder length apart, his chin resting in his cupped hands.

'I've put your croissants out on the side incase you wa-'

France looked up tiredly as the Englishman's words cut off, more than a little dubious as to why Arthur had stopped mid breath.

'Ah, merci Angleterre. That is most kind'

Rubbing a hand over his face France inhaled sharply through his nose before pushing his lips into a crooked grin.

Arthur hesitated, his feet rocking back and forwards a little, heel to toe, heel to toe, before he made a grumbling sound of frustration, seemingly directed at himself, and walked over directly to plant himself down on the couch next to Francis.

'Why are you looking at me as though I'm about to steal the Eiffel Tower?' England demanded, his emerald green eyes narrowing and his fingers laced upon his crossed legs.

Sucking his bottom lip up between his teeth and chewing on it Francis shrugged his shoulders a little, adopting nonchalance.

'I am not'

'Bull. Stop making alpaca face and tell me what the blazes is going on'

'Alpaca f- you remember that?' Francis shifted on the sofa, eyes wide and hopeful.

England's mouth openened a crack, his eyes skittering downwards.

'I- of course I do. It's a moronic face, who could forget that'

France wasn't particularly listening. His eyes felt hot, like they were burning with the difficulty he was having not bursting into tears. Arthur remembered their early days, hadn't completely dismissed them, and the fact he was willing to bring it up made Francis' bottom lip tremble.

'Don't you dare' England warned, catching on quickly as the full power of France's baby blues were turned on him.

'No, no, no, no, NO!' Arthur yelped, crushed under the sudden weight of dramatic wailing Frenchman.

'Oh, Arthur!!' Francis cooed, snuggling the flailing Briton into the couch, peppering his ever reddening face with smooching kisses.

'Get off you loon!!' a leg kicked out at France and hands bat at him but the defiance was pretty useless, the Frenchman just continuing his pursuit.


France reeled back suddenly. His heart lurched in his chest and he began to perspire. The taste of England's lips, the taste of earl grey and peppermint, swam around Francis' consciousness and he begged the Gods to drown in it. During his rabid infliction of affection he'd...missed. Daring to look down at the man below him, all long limbs and fluffed up golden hair, the longer haired man waited for death. Or a punch at least.

There was pressure underneath his knee and with realisation France lifted his leg slightly, watching as Arthur recovered his previously trapped hand. England was pointedly not looking at him, eyes secured on a piece of sofa cushion as though it held all the answers in the world. Slender fingers fluttered up to pink flushed lips, rubbing at the lower curve before the fingers bent and retracted, as though burnt by the feel.

'I am sorry; that was not my intention' France pushed out, heart a ticking bomb.

'Of course it was. It's always been your intention' came the muffled reply.

Green met blue, Arthur's face pinched, confused and vulnerable.

Francis' mouth flapped open and closed before he shook his head, hair dancing around his ears.

'Non. Not like this'

There's a stifled silence that falls then, France gingerly climbing off the Briton and going to potter around the living room, picking up odds and ends, rearranging vases of flowers and generally keeping busy and avoiding the situation at hand.

Mon dieu he was an idiot! A kiss was the last thing their fragile situation needed and now France had gone and put a spanner in the works. And Arthur insinuating he'd always been after him regardless of the Briton's feelings? Francis would happily have taken a beating right then and there so he wouldn't have to be conscious whilst Arthur packed his car and left, likely to never speak to him again.

Wallowing in his misery France almost missed the sensation of a slim fingered hand touching his elbow. Sighing, barely ready to face the inevitable, Francis let the strong gripped Briton turn him round.

'Arthur I-'

A press of lips was what greeted the Frenchman, moulding to his own tenderly. A swipe of tongue and Francis opened his mouth on a shallow breath of surprise. England moved both his hands to clamp onto the sides of the elder man's face, his lips pulling away for a fleeting second before they were returning. The couple continued their lip lock, short closed lipped kisses morphing to heated long embraces with the hot press of tongues. Francis' arms wound round the Briton's hips, one hand splayed against the small of his back to keep him pressed close. Even though this was not their first embrace it still made France as giddy as if he were that young boy once more. Kissing Arthur was like a religious experience, filling him full of light and miraculous elation.

England shoved France back against the wall, the elder man not resisting, and pressed in close, the softness of his shirt tickling the Frenchman's chest where his button down was left open to the elements. The events that followed, when France reviewed them and replayed them countless times in his mind, caused him nothing but anguish, and it was that exact emotion the Frenchman was about to experience in the present day. Francis' hands, ever with a mind of their own, slid down and around to squeeze England's ass, one cheek in each hand. Arthur made a noise halfway between a groan and a huff of derision, his eyebrows furrowing to make one fluffy caterpillar upon his forehead.

There was something denying the Frenchman perfect access to the gorgeous peach that was England's derrière, a cylindrical bump close to the skin. France was pretty sure Arthur didn't have a skin condition but he couldn't stand the curiosity gnawing at him. Looking back France wished with everything he hadn't scratched that particular itch. Using his nimble fingers Francis was able to identify that the bulge was coming from the Briton's back left hand pocket. Seemingly catching on England froze, his lips pulling off of the Frenchman's, breath coming out in short anxiety ridden puffs against France's whiskered cheek.

'Francis, don't-'

It's a phone. Arthur's phone to be exact. The same one that Francis had securely (or so he'd thought) , locked away in his vanity box months before.

Pushing the frantic Englishman away France's gaze latched on to the device in his clenched fist. He was shaking like a static electric current as he swiped buttons and got up the countless messages and missed calls as well as those outgoing. All of them to that bastard-

'L'Amérique?' France's voice was a furious stammer.

'You have been in contact with that abusive ass?!' chest heaving with rage, bewilderment and distress France shook his head like a dog rapidly trying to dispel water from it's ears.

'I know all that you must be thinking of me right now-' Arthur said, hands up as if to placate the Frenchman.

'-you have been absolutely amazing to look after me all this time'

'Like a babysitter' Francis snipped, eyebrows low.

England shook his head 'like a friend' he corrected.

The Briton retracted his hands, wringing his fingers, obviously agitated. France could only watch, his whole being wracked with pain and betrayal.

'You...are you with him? Are you still with America?'

As much as he knew it would cripple him to hear the defining answer, the Frenchman, as was usually his downfall, couldn't stand not knowing.

Chewing his bottom lip before he released it again Arthur brushed off his clothes, straightened his posture and looked France dead in the eyes. That was the Briton's signature move when he was bolstering himself up for something. Francis had seen those gestures many a time before the commencement of battles.


No single word had ever destroyed the Frenchman quite like that one. It felt as though the atoms inside his body had decided to spontaneously combust, as though his bones had become jagged pieces of sharpened artillery bursting out of his ruptured flesh, like someone had taken a hot poker to his heart. And in that moment France realised. He would never be enough. He could bend over backwards offering support, shelter, food, companionship and aid, could get beaten to a pulp a thousand times, yet Arthur would always choose Alfred. The large eyebrowed man, standing before him wearing his clothes, smelling of his cologne and his shampoo would always fall down like a house of cards and return to the boy he'd loved and lost over 200 years ago.

Love made us weak, yet it was still an addiction.

Before Francis realised what was going on Arthur has stepped up close to him again, emerald eyes fixated on him. No sarcastic wit came to mind to save his pride as the Englishman leant forward to press a quivering kiss to France's rose coloured lips.

A goodbye. Francis could feel the finality of it down to his bones.

'Francis, I need you to lis-'

'Get out'

Large eyes blinked at him in confusion 'what?'

'I am done, Arthur. must go'

'Now listen here-' England began, hands fluttering

'I said GO, Angleterre'

The two men stare each other down, tears itching at France's eyes as he desperately tries to maintain his composure.

'Please, I need you to go'

The anger that had seared through the Frenchman's veins mere moments before had now turned to a chilling shot of loneliness. His whole body felt like a weighted block, disappearing down to the depths of the ocean.

Whether Arthur could see that or not was unclear yet he jerkily moved away, the lost and haunted look back in his bright green eyes. A crash. England had kicked over the coffee table, his hands clutched to his head and his knees buckled before after a tense few seconds he grabbed ahold of his last remaining shreds of strength and disappeared up the staircase.

France didn't move, his ears attuned to the creak of the floorboards and banging of doors as the love of his life packed to leave him for another.


France couldn't have told you to save his life it if it had been thirty minutes or even thirty seconds before Arthur reappeared, changed into his suit from the last Arena Board meeting, his car keys clenched in his fist and an expression of pained disbelief upon his features. If someone were to have told the Frenchman that he'd died in that instant he likely would've believed them. It felt as if his soul had vacated his body and was clinging desperately to the Briton's ankles, his empty vessel of a body standing there a limp fleshly lump, devoid of purpose and staring with fixated glassy eyes upon the golden haired man who approached it.

The tension between them was static, the air charged as though sympathetic to their situation. England moved to walk past France, his face stony with the effort of concealing emotion, yet he paused, jolted back as though pulled by an invisible string. Francis could see Arthur in his peripheral vision, stood just about an inch from him, and he had to use every ounce of strength he had left not to buckle at the knees right then and there.

'Will I...will I ever see you again?'

The question sounded odd coming from the Englishman, as though the delicate combination of words belonged to the lips of a small boy and not to one of the strongest nations in the world.

Not once had Francis ever said no to Arthur when he was in need, not once had he ever pushed the other man away when he seemed to ache for comfort, not once had he ever wanted England not to want him. Their relationship had been built up with duct pins and safety pins, 'maybe' their safe word, another link in the seemingly never-ending chain that connected the two of them through thick and thin. Always a way out. Never facing up to the inevitability of the loss that would one day come.


France isn't sure who was more surprised, himself or England. The tie between the two, frayed and splintered, finally broke with a force that both felt down to their bones.

A step, a click of a lock, a slam. A deafening silence. A deep rumble of a car's engine and the screech of tires.

Two bangs from the exhaust pipe. Two shots to Francis' heart.

His legs, liquefied jelly now, failed to hold the Frenchman up any longer. A broken wail escaped Francis' throat, tears like burning acid falling down the man's alabaster skin and into his cupped hands.

It was over. It was finally over.


FrUK - Maybe Part 7 (Part 2)'s finally here! ^^; part two :)

I'm so sorry for the three year wait on this, I'm not honestly sure how many of you are going to read this! But...for those who've waited...thank-you from the bottom of my heart! :heart:

There's going to be one last part to this story and then it shall all be over! DUN DUN DUN!
I...apologise for this chapter ;; it's very depressing but necessary!


Original picture for preview from:… :thumbsup:

Part 1 – FrUK - Maybe
Part 2 – FrUK - Maybe Part 2
Part 3 - FrUK - Maybe Part 3
Part 4 - FrUK - Maybe Part 4
Part 5 - FrUK - Maybe Part 5
Part 6 - FrUK - Maybe Part 6

Part 7 (Part 1) - FrUK - Maybe Part 7 (Part 1)

London, 1919

Arthur was less than satisfied that France of all people was the one helping him learn to drive but in the end after sending countless letters to anyone he could think of in the government to teach him and getting point blank 'No' replies England had had to give in and settle for his least favourite person to be called in and take up the position of instructor. Back in the present day France stretched out and rested his arm along the back of Arthur's seat making the Briton feel more than a bit uncomfortable at his proximity. It was a well known fact that France had no shame in his sexual preferences and it was painful to recollect how many times England had had to bail the Frenchman out of jail or from being on the verge of being executed for his rashness.

Due to the fact the Ford had no roof France had taken to putting on his driving goggles and even though he detested the way the small glass rings made his vision distorted and made him have to scrunch his eyes up in a way he was sure would result in wrinkles, he would deal for the fact that they provided valid protection from the dirt flying off the cobbled roads below. Francis let his eyes slide over to check on his companion who had been unusually quiet for a good ten minutes now , not even needing his advice on the mechanics of the car or anything remotely in that area. Arthur's dark blonde hair was ruffled by the breeze whipping against the metal of the car and France fought to keep his hands to himself and sort out the man's ever frantic locks.

As though the God's had decided that all of a sudden this peace and quiet was too much to stand there was a massive crunch, almost like that of bones snapping, and both of the two men shot each other panicked looks. Had they run over something, even someone? England's hand scrabbled around to stop the car from rolling forwards but even when he pulled the reverse lever the machine continued it's decent down the street, increasing it's velocity until the collaboration of metal and gears was shooting along at a rather alarming speed.

“Francis!! - Why the bloody hell is it not WORKING?!” Arthur spat out, now pulling desperately on all the gadgets and gizmos he could get his anxious hands on in the vehicle in a vain attempt to stop their progress down what was now steeply becoming a hill. Francis dropped all pretence and demeanour of certainty he might have had to emit a large rather unmanly shriek as the vehicle nearly threw him out of his seat when it clunked across a rather deep dip in the road below. Grabbing onto the Englishman next to him with desperate hands France began to wail, shaking Arthur by his cravat so hard the Briton choked slightly.

“FRANCIS. STOP IT!!” The dirty blonde haired man bellowed, taking one hand off the wheel to push against France's face and get the hysterically crying blonde away from him and back into his seat so the Briton could attempt to steer their car to the side of the road before they crashed into something, or worse, someone. Wailing in a pitch now that only dogs could hear France loosened his grip on the Englishman slightly to look around them in a panic. The honest truth was that he had no idea how to properly drive a motor vehicle: the shining contraption had arrived first class on his doorstep from America and he'd just jumped into the seat and started learning on the job. This was an aspect he had failed to share with Arthur when he'd asked him begrudgingly to be his teacher, and also the fact that Francis had managed to get through six cars already due to crashing them into various lakes and buildings around his capital. The one thing France didn't know about was the mechanism to stop the vehicle: the brake.

Rows and rows of houses sped past their vision as they shot down the hill at a speed like that of a bullet, their hair flapping wildly around their heads and their eyes streaming from the cold wind due to their goggles having flown off their scalps quite some time ago. As they catapulted along the two countries worked together in a rare moment of companionship to search desperately for a way to stop the black vehicle before it reached the end of the street.  There was an nondescript gear stick in-between them and they had both been tugging on it for quite some time, hoping that one time would result in the mechanism causing the car to come to a hasty halt.

“Arthur – On the count of three, pull, hard. D'accord?” Francis finally said, looking up and realising with a sense of utter horror that they were approaching a low stone wall. Beyond that all France could see was blue and  he was damned if he was going to wait to figure out what awaited them there. The Englishman nodded tightly, his emerald green eyes narrowing in concentration as he placed his hands over France's and gripped the stick tightly between his fingers.

“Un” Arthur flexed his fingers. Francis shot a nervous glance up at the impending wall.
“Deux” Arthur swallowed and gritted his teeth. Francis began to shake.

There was a noise like that of a bomb going off and the next thing Francis knew it felt like he was being tugged in every direction and blown apart all at the same time. Squeezing his eyes shut as tight as they would go France let the whisper of the wind beat against his eardrums as he flew through the air. He felt his knees skim the edge of something concrete and suddenly he felt the all too familiar sensation of falling. France dropped very ungraciously like a stone, his arms and legs a dead weight as he shot down through the air, his mouth opened for a scream but his voice carried away on the wind. Suddenly Francis was met with a ice cold wall of water crashing into him and he finally emitted a shriek as he was pushed beneath the sea's surface by the velocity of his fall.

It turned out the brake in the car hadn't worked even before they'd got into the car and upon further reflection afterwards the two countries grudgingly agreed they both should have checked this point beforehand and also perhaps the fact that they'd been practising driving on a insanely steep hill which coincidently led down to a low stone wall which on the other side just so happened to house a stretch of the river Thames was not such a brilliant idea. Back at the present time Francis's body pumped itself through of adrenaline and the gut instinct to survive forced his limbs into action, his arms and legs kicking through the sea water in sharp clean strokes to reach the surface.

Although it felt as though he was wading through treacle with all his layers of clothes on France managed to reach the surface and upon his head being above water he gasped in oxygen greedily. Due to having his mouth open when he'd fallen in Francis had got lung fulls of salt water and to breathe now felt as though he was inhaling rock salt, the previously soothing sensation prickling his throat and making him cough and splutter. Fighting back the urge to cry insanely and break down right then and then when he caught his reflection in the water's surface and seeing his bedraggled hair and bloodshot sore eyes Francis made himself swim over to the edge of the wall to cling on to a brick that stuck jaggedly out from the rest. He supposed it was a stepping stone or just a mistake in the original building works.

After a minute or so of laboured breathing and realising that he was actually very close to freezing to death if he continued floating around in the dank water of the Thames the Frenchman began to attempt to climb the slick mossy grime coated wall that he was leaning against in a vain attempt to reach the street above and find a nice warm fire to sit near. Just as he had lifted a violently shaking foot onto the offered brick France let his gaze flick back down to the water for a millisecond and that was when he saw it. At first he was tempted to pass it off as a trick of the fading light of  day but upon staring at it further France realised with a pang of guilt and anguish that what he was seeing was the figure of England, face down and unconscious in the water. And sinking, fast.

“Angleterre??” Francis called, his knees knocking together as he surveyed the waxy white colour of the other man's skin that he could see. Certainly that wasn't normal – was he OK? Should he go and check?
“ANGLETERE” Francis yelled, his panic breaking through into his voice and making the last few  letters of the other countries name wobble out of the Frenchman's mouth in a half sob of worry. Arthur's clothing was fanned out around him, billowing out in places from the water rushing around underneath it. His golden hair was splayed out around his head making it stick out in even more atrocious angles than before. For a second France let himself think of how it looked as though Arthur was an angel in that position, his sandy locks giving the illusion of a halo.

Cursing inwardly and shaking much like a drug addict without a hit the Frenchman managed to turn in little circles until his back was pressed against the slick cold stone of the Thames wall. There was little friction going on underneath his driving boots and Francis had to use all his strength to not career off the rock and back into the water below.
'The things I do for you' France huffed out, his teeth chattering so much so that he wondered idly if he would lose his teeth. Oh sacre bleu, the horror of the thought!

Bending his knees was more difficult than he had initially anticipated, the creases of his clothes having melded together into a sopping bundle of cotton which felt very much like they were turning to ice the longer he stood. France considered stripping down for more mobility but the thought of being seen in such a way in his current state : snot nosed, hair mussed and shaking, looking rather  undignified, made the blonde's nose twitch. He was not to be seen in such a disgusting state. He had a reputation to uphold.
'Look after me, Jeanne'

With one final gasp of sharp salty air Francis flung himself off the rock and back into the sub zero temperatures of the sea.
'MERDE! Oh holy- MERDE!'
Unable to stop the cacophony of curses spilling from his lips the Frenchman spat out a stream of numbingly cold liquid which had made it's way into his mouth and forced his limbs into action. Arthur needed him. The light that had made England look so angelic before had now faded and the Briton had turned slightly, his body a useless dead weight against the tide.

His heart thudding in panic in his chest the Frenchman swam over to the other man, his palms digging into the water in a breast stroke that left his nails turning purple and goose bumps tattooing his body.
'A-Arthur?' Cradling the honey blonde's head in his wrecked hands Francis began to cry. The levity of the situation hit him like a sack of coal as he stared down at the other's waxen face. England's pallor was white as death, his lips a stunning violet colour. He was going to die.

Only able to distinguish between his tears and the salt water due to the scorching heat of his own upset France wrapped his arms around the Briton, water surging against them both as the long haired man heaved his partner to his side.
'You will be fine, I promise. I promised, non? I would take care of you. When we were children, do you remember? I doubt it-'
Babbling like a broken record Francis weaved his fingers endlessly through the other's hair. It didn't occur to him to try and swim, to try and get them out. He knew logically that the wall he had previously been climbing was not too far away but his brain, dulled and fuzzy from anguish and cold, did not make that leap. If they were going to seemed fitting that hey were to die with one another.

Ducking his head down and burying his nose in the crevice behind England's ear, France let himself break down. He let the barriers he had built up crumble down, imagining them like a great wall falling to pieces, jagged blocks hitting each other and causing clouds of dust to rise up, like a fog above the destruction. His eyes are closed and France doesn't even flinch when a bright light appears behind his eyelids. They never really knew what happened when they died...being countries it seemed almost impossible. But here they were. Granted they had lasted longer than most normal humans would in these temperatures – France's consciousness being a testament to that – but death had been a hot topic for all of them. In a bout of sick smugness France was happy he was the one to make the discovery of what really happened when their time ran out.

'If this is I get to keep Angleterre?' A question forced it's way out of his numbed lips and Francis waited anxiously for a chorus of angels to reply. Surely they'd all be waiting, long white robes and polished halos and harps? Like the paintings and stained glass windows and countless scriptures depicted.
'Only if yer love the Queen in death, son'

The sound of a gruff cockney twang caused Francis to groan. Please, no, God could not be English. Non!
'C'mon man, move it. Your friend is as close to the grave as I have ever seen. You ain't looking so good yourself. Come along! I ain't got all day'

God was rather rude. France felt upset churning around in his stomach and his strong sense of being being fractured. He was a country! He had bought fine wines, cheese, good....ish soldiers, and the art of flirtation to the world! He should be respected!
'OI!' France finally relented and his eyes opened, feeling like they had been glued shut. His eyelashes were crusty and it took longer than he would admit to for the Frenchman to focus on the scene around him. Against him was Arthur, a solid weight leaning on his dead arm, his head sloppily hanging down as his neck failed to let him hold his face up in consciousness. The water was more black than blue and beat furiously against them, as though angered by their being there.

There was also a boat. France blinked owlishly, thinking perhaps he had gone mad or it was an illusion. There was a man sitting in the wooden structure, oars propped up either side of him.
'Name's Bart. I saw you two take a swan dive into Mrs. Thames here and I figured you could use the assistance'
Hades. This was hell. They were in hell. Oh good Lord above! This was the ferry to the afterlife for damned souls!

'YOU SHALL NEVER TAKE ME!!' Fevered spit flew from France's mouth as he wailed, clutching Arthur to him and trying fruitlessly to move his legs and swim. His breathing was shallow and his vision sparked and black dots obscured his view of the unconscious Briton as exertion began to hit the Frenchman hard.
There was the sound of water being splashed around and the sudden rank smell of unwashed human and ale before France choked, his shirt being pulled taught against his neck as he was dragged by the nape out of the water.
'Unhand me!!!' Yelling like a madman and wheezing like a rabid animal France hit the bottom of the boat with an undignified crash, his legs tangling and unable to hold him upright due to their numbness. His hands shot out to steady himself and the Frenchman shook his head, trying to unclog his ears.

'Yer mad!' the man, dressed in a muddy brown peasant's overcoat, barked as he used both muscled arms to heave a body into the dry of the wooden boat. A body. Arthur! Shoving at the wet rag stuck to his face, which France with a whimper realised must be his gorgeous hair, the blue eyed man felt a sob break out of his chest.
'You shall not take him away from me!! Reaper!!'

Bart fixed his grey eyes on the man curled up in the corner of his boat and wiped the snot of his nose across his upper lip, trying to clear it away by use of the back of his sodden muddy hand.
'I ain't the reaper you French wanker. I just saved yer lives, best be showing me some gratitude boy!' Big wide spaced hands slammed against Arthur's back, soggy sounding thuds echoing in the air. France yelped and cried, fear for his companion overriding ever atom of his body. He was beating his Angleterre!

Choking. Gasping. Groaning. Coughing. With a few more hits to his back England was throwing up the contents of his stomach (mostly water, although France thinks he spies a scone) into the hull of the boat.
'God' Arthur groaned, hands shaking so fitfully he had a hard time controlling them as he pushed his hair off his face. He looked awful. Soaked to the skin, vomit down himself, eyes red and irritated, lips a dull greyish pink, but at least he was alive. France had never been so happy to see another person breathe before.

'God, Reaper, I'm all of the Bible tonight with you two' Bart joked, his booming laugh cutting into the silence that was broken only by Arthur's wheezing and France's sniffles. Sensing that his attempt at humour had not been appreciated Bart cleared his throat, a sound reminiscent of a horn, before he hooked his arms up underneath the Frenchman's armpits and heaved. France blinked, his eyes straining to roll back in his skull to fix on the cockney.
'What are you doing?! Unhand me!'

The sailor doesn't reply. Boots making a scraping noise and his clothes catching on many a surface France is unceremoniously dumped next to England, the two shaking men glancing at each other with reverence.
'Here. Ain't having you dying in my boat'
A blanket of musty smelling jacket is thrown over them both. The smell of smoke follows and when France finally lifted his head, in a state of shock, he saw the burly man taking a drag on a stump of a cigarette.
'This is too kind, Monsieur'
'Yes, really. Y-You've done too much. You shall be r-repayed'

Flapping a hand at the two men Bart takes one last drag, his big chest straining out his yellow-white under-shirt before he plucked the cigarette out from between his chapped lips and flicked it into the sea.
'Keep quiet, the both of yer. Keep warm' turning to sit down with a large huff, his fingers flexing as he reaches for the oars, the wholesome father of three who had been their saviour adds as an afterthought 'and no dying'.

It's painfully quiet. France listens to his own breathing for the longest time, so very grateful for the intake of oxygen into his lungs. He had never been so thankful for his body. And that was saying something – for it was a rather fine specimen. It took around fifteen minutes before Arthur finally made contact, his slim body (too slim, he needed feeding, France thought), pressing in a hard line against Francis'. Glassy green eyes moved into the Frenchman's line of vision and watched him, waiting for his attention to be focused. Getting his body to communicate was like wading through treacle in his mind at that second and the blonde found it incredibly hard to even nod in response. His head did an odd yo-yo bob, his attempt at a 'yes, what is it Angleterre?'.

'Thank-you' slithered out of Arthur's lips, sounding unsure and rather like it was the lead up to a joke. England fidgeted next to him, nimble fingers flitting to his lips so that the nails could be chewed.
'You could have left me but you chose to stay. That...thank-you, Francis. I may not understand why but you have my gratitude'.

It wasn't too long ago that England would not have thought it odd that France was there for him. That he cared for the Briton and wanted him safe. A lot had happened...too many wars...the first world war only having been over a year ago. Things were tense now. Things had been broken between them for hundreds of years. But hurt. Deep down didn't England realise that France still cared? That despite every argument and battle, despite his curses and disdain...he could never truly hate the man before him? Shocking emptiness spread through Francis' veins, as though he'd been injected with an overdose of morphine.  

'I would never leave you to die' France said simply, his hands laced together in his lap. He scratched at his hand with his thumb nail. They'd managed to both huddle underneath the jacket / blanket provided and had it tucked closely to them, a barrier between them and the rest of the world.
'You know that is not true' was the retort. France didn't even have to look at Arthur to know that the man's face was pinched. Memories of battles, of endless taunting, of years of unrest between them no doubt filling the Briton's mind.

'Is it true that I have dislike for you. But that does not stop me loving you, Angleterre. Never would I let you die'
France dipped his head as he spoke,  his words a hushed whisper that he wasn't even sure if the other man was following. He would not be surprised if he was not.
'I do not have it in me'

The truth of that statement hit France hard in that moment. Knowing that despite everything he would willingly die for this man. Despite hating his guts on more than one occasion, despite their feuds and their battles, despite their rocky history, he would happily meet God knowing that Arthur was safe. There was no reply from the Briton and their silence was filled once again with the humming of their captain and the sound of seagulls and waves crashing past them. Before too long there was a clunk and the two countries were knocked against each other as the boat hit the dock stretching out as far as the eye can see. It was a mouldy looking wooden structure, flaking paint decreeing it to be for boats only. France wasn't sure it was entirely a safe alternative to the ocean.

Thank-you's were passed all round and Bart left with a tug on his cap and a promise from England to repay him for his kindness. The poor man did not seem phased, seeming to accept what he had done for another day's work. As France and England watched the retreating back of the balding hero they both were hit with a pang of respect for the lower classes. For those mortal. For those who do selfless deeds. It took another second before France realised he was still wearing the man's jacket. A shout bubbled up in his throat before it died. He would pay for a new coat for the man, one that wasn't full of holes and one that was properly insulated for such weather. It was the least he could do.

Fingers tightly clenched around the material, it bunched it beneath his fingers, France followed England's line of sight and cringed at the sight of Arthur's brand new model T, a pile of steaming metal and cogs. A sigh carried on the wind over to Francis and then a low defeated chuckle.
'I suppose I was not meant to drive' A joke. Arthur was trying to joke with him. Clasping at the opportunity France chuckled too, the sound dry and scratchy coming out of his throat.
'I think we saved the world from your wretched driving, Angleterre. You should be thanking me'

An elbow to the ribs had France's chuckle strengthening into a low laugh. England shot Francis a side long glance, his lips and cheeks gaining more colour now they were on land. Salt water had caused the Briton's hair to stick to his scalp like a piece of seaweed and his eyes looked like emerald saucers, too big and too bright for his pale, almost boyish face.

'Come back to my house. I cannot have you going home like that'
'Are you...are you inviting me home?'
'That is what I just said, yes. Learn to listen you twit'

Stunned into walking France moved slowly, regaining strength and warmth in his legs as he progressed. Arthur's face was angled away from him and he looked flushed and uncomfortable.

'On one condition'
'You let me take care of you'
'HAH! No'
'Please, Angleterre. It is all I ask'

The sudden seriousness in the Frenchman's tone caused the Englishman to stop, his steps faltering as they reached the bottom of the cobbled street that led up to the Briton's house. Green eyes flitted over the Frenchman, looking for any injuries or head trauma that might have caused this sudden change in mood.
'Are you dying?'
A chuckle 'Non'
'Then why?'

Slipping the sodden material off his shoulders Francis scooted closer to the Englishman, holding his gaze until he got close enough to touch him. Placing the brown leather around the smaller man's shoulders France kept his eyes down as he rearranged and tugged the fabric into place.
'You and your questions!' France huffed, blowing out a puff of air in an act of dramatised anger.
'Fine, fine' England placated, putting his hands up in mock surrender. His face had softened at the giving over of the jacket – the only source of warmth for the both of them.

'So you will let me take care of you?'
'MAYBE?! What kind of answer is that?!'
'The only one you are getting. Now hurry up! I'm bloody frozen'

Tipping his chin up in a regal pose Arthur pushed past Francis and began the climb up the street, his arms hugging round his middle as his body quaked and tried to heat up. If he was being honest France was a bit lost...but he shrugged it off. He' was cold, Arthur has given him the get go to go home with him and he was starving for a drink that wasn't rancid English sea water. He'd tasted that enough during the Pirate years. Shuddering in remembrance France pushed his body to remember the actions to walk and scurried after the large eyebrowed man.

Maybe sounded like a good place to start.


Present day – France's house

Amazingly they'd managed to get to the Frenchman's house unscathed. France had been pretty sure he'd seen his life flash before his eyes at least five times before they pulled up in his driveway and he'd all but fallen out of the passenger side door and onto the concrete as soon as England put the vehicle in park.
'OH sweet earth, oh how I missed you!' France peppered the ground with kisses, tears springing to his eyes in exhaustion and relief to be alive after that ordeal.

A car door slams and England is at his side, a frown taking over his features and disgust twisting his mouth.
'You better wash your mouth out – that's disgusting'
Anyone lesser than France might have mistaken the blonde's comment for disdain but the lack of a sharper comment and a racial slur had Francis frowning up at the Briton in confusion. That was almost...tame. England seemed to realise his mistake and his gaze shot from the Frenchman's face to latch onto the ground. His suede shoes scuffed the dirt.

Pushing himself up off the gravel driveway, his ribs aching in protest, France pushed his own car door shut until it slammed. There was a  beep as Arthur pressed his car keys and the snick of the central locking kicking in. Was Arthur staying? Not one to push his luck on this day France supported his ribs with one hand and dug into his pocket with the other. Fingers bumped against a pair of tweezers (for eyebrow emergencies of course), breath mints (for kissing emergencies) and then finally the smooth to jagged metal of a key. Gripping it tight France tugged it out, glancing sidelong at Arthur who was scooting from foot to foot and looking for all the world like he was a lost child.

Opening up his front door and allowing the other man access to his home Francis waited until England was securely inside before closing the door behind them. It took a second before France decided to double lock it. The thought of America bursting through and killing him had occurred to him more than once on the roller-coaster ride of a drive back home.

'Would you like some...tea?' France offered, his back against the wood of his door, handle digging painfully into his lower torso. He wanted to cry watching the Briton in that second. The usual proud demeanour was gone from England's stance and he looked unsure of himself, of the space around him, staring at his hands as if they were not his own and he needed someone to direct him. As if he needed someone to just take charge, to tell him it's okay and he didn't have to be strong any-more.

'You have tea?' was the quiet reply, curiosity and trepidation making the remark seem all the more pitiful.
'Of course!' France defended himself, digging his nails into his palm before he pushed away from the safety of the door. Brushing invisible dust off the rug splayed across the back of the sofa France raised one golden eyebrow as Arthur asked solemnly 'why?'

'In case mad Englishmen come to visit, what do you think, hm?' His remark came out sharper than he had intended and France wished he could bite off his tongue for the look it caused Arthur to put upon his face.
'I' are welcome to stay. I shall make tea. Uhm' France scratched at the back of his neck, the skin becoming irritated and pink as he did so.
'Thank-you' Arthur cut in, saving him from any more idiotic sentences he might try to spout out. France nodded in a bobbing manor and moved in a wide semi circle around the Briton to reach the kitchen. He was scared to touch him. For the first time in his life , Francis Bonnefoy was afraid of being too intimate. What had the world come to?

Memories of the last time the Englishman was here filled the Frenchman's mind and he shoved at the thoughts with both hands, gritting his teeth and barely stopping the tremor of his hands as he stuck the kettle under the kitchen tap. Water churned into the metal container as France's thoughts tried to turn to the bright side of the situation. England was no longer with America...or so it seemed. It looked like America's attempt to put France in the wrong only managed to make England snap, to truly realise how he was being treated and to speak up for himself.

Arthur must be petrified, France thought to himself as he arranged cups and tea bags. From the other room the light hearted sound of tinned laughter filtered through and Francis found himself comforted by the fact that the other man was trying to appear normal. Watching TV was a better alternative than crying and staring at the walls. Chewing thoughtfully at his bottom lip Francis funneled the water out of the kettle and into the two china cups patterned with daisies. A birthday present from Feliciano years ago.

How would things progress from here on out? Surely Arthur knew he had to face America some time. And the results surely would not be pretty. Alfred was in a vicious state of mind right now and he would in no way refrain from fighting to keep what he deemed as his property. The tables had finally been turned. England had fought tooth and claw to keep America a colony, to not lose the boy he adored and loved, and now it was America fighting to keep Arthur. If someone had told Francis ten years ago that this would happen he would have laughed in their faces. And maybe laughed some more. And thrown a pie at them for good measure because they were obviously a clown.

Tea ready and some rather suspect looking biscuits France had found in his cupboard placed on a tray Francis heaved up the heavy article and carried it through to his living room. For a second the Frenchman thought that England had done a runner. The room was filled with the trilling laughter from the television set and there was nobody obviously in sight.


France's heart felt heavy and achy in his chest as he realised where Arthur is. The Briton was curled up on his side on the sofa, his knees almost up to his chin. In France's absence he obviously had pulled the blanket off the side of the couch and was now using it like a duvet, it being tucked in around himself meticulously. France wondered idly if England was really feeling cold or whether the shock of the situation had settled in finally. Arthur's eyes were closed, his eyelashes looking delicate against his soft cheeks. Even at his great age England still managed to look like a little boy to France. Maybe it was the fact that they didn't age once they reached adulthood but Francis still found difficulty sometimes remembering that Arthur was centuries old and not a few decades. Nostalgia was hitting him hard recently.

Scared to wake the Briton France gently set the tray down on the wooden coffee table, standing there and aching down to his bones with the urge to just hug the other man. Maybe death would be worth it just to comfort the Briton for a few minutes. As if he was aware of being watched and had a sixth sense built in for detecting intimate thoughts directed towards him Arthur's eyelids cracked open, his toes curling underneath the blanket.
'Is the tea ready?' he slurred, voice muffled into the pillow he'd pushed up under his cheek. When he turned a little to look more directly at his companion Francis noticed the other man's cheek was reddened pink and the imprint of the couch cushion's design had dented his skin.

'Oui. But it is too hot to drink right'
The situation now felt too fragile. Like they were both going to break any second. Like they were made of spun sugar or are only comprised of a single weak pane of glass. France could imagine it now – how they were both shattered but held together with duct tape and safety pins. Some of them the result of patching up each other and some the result of developing the ability to cope themselves. Francis' adams apple bobbed as he swallowed down the urge to speak or indeed be sick. If there was one wrong move Arthur would leave. And to be quite honest Francis couldn't handle that right now.

'Oh...well...sit with me? There's some crappy programme on. The girl's pretty decent looking though so there's something for you to ogle at' Arthur's voice was raspy as he spoke and his eyes erratically moved around the room, as if he could not decide where to let them land. This was the game they play. Act like nothing was wrong and insult each other.

Luckily for Arthur France was well versed in this. He knew England like the back of his hand.
'My view is already ogle worthy' France pointed out, not spending a second longer standing awkwardly and pushing his self confidence to the forefront as he picked England's blanketed feet up and plonked himself down unceremoniously on the couch. Arthur rolled his eyes a little but still didn't make a further comment, only lowering his feet and curling his toes again when they were settled in the Frenchman's lap.

They stayed like that for the rest of the day, France's hands eventually wandering until one was woven into the hair at the nape of England's neck, just gently comforting, almost petting him to calm him like an animal. Arthur was tense but he didn't tell Francis to bugger off so France took that as a win. They got through an entire marathon of classic French films on the television – the whole time France not entirely sure how much Arthur really understood. Once upon a time the large eyebrowed man was well written and read and could verbalise pretty much the entire French language. But that was long ago when Arthur was a child and a lot had happened since then. Francis liked to think perhaps that those memories were blooming in Arthur's head as he watched the French programmes and his chest tightened at the idea.

It was dark by the time France realised Arthur was asleep. England's breathes were coming deep and slow, indicating he was so deep in his dreams that he would likely not rise even if the house were burning around him. Good. Francis stretched forwards and winced as he grasped the TV remote , pressing down with a thumbnail to turn the screen off on the Oprah show taking place. He replaced the device on the coffee table and sank back into the pillows with a relieved groan. Who knew the last decent nights sleep Arthur had had? With America around it wasn't likely to have been recently. Possessiveness flooded through Francis' veins and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to dispel the feeling.

In the morning things would begin to take shape. If Arthur would let him France would be there for him...would look after him, even protect him from America if he asked (Francis doubted that but the idea of being England's saviour was appealing). Things could finally begin to step in a new direction, one that would be beneficial to Arthur. Alfred was an issue France didn't want to dwell on too heavily at that second in time. There was more than enough time to sort him out.

Cupping England's feet in his hands like they were precious gems France scooted out from underneath Arthur's limbs and rearranged them back on the couch, making sure they were wrapped up securely within layers of blanket. Before he knew where he was the long haired man was knelt by his partner's side, wide blue eyes trained on the man peacefully asleep before him. Arthur's bruises from America's beatings stood out on his alabaster skin and it made France's stomach churn. Lifting a dainty finger Francis smoothed the pad of his index finger over the markings marring his beautiful England. His lips quivered and he breathed out in short puffs, trying to regulate his breathing and not cry. Keep it together Francis, come on, his brain supplied.

Bending forward France pressed his lips to the gently waved hair covering Arthur's forehead. The younger man smelled of him (due to the blanket France was guessing) and it made tears fill his eyes despite his best efforts. Things would be OK now. They really would.

Not knowing if he was an idiot for believing that or not Francis pressed two more soulful kisses to Arthur's head before straightening up and moving away, letting the Briton rest in peace. As his back turned England's eyelids fluttered open, his own eyes a little damp. Calloused fingers clutched at his blanket hard as he buried his face into the sweet smelling material.

France, unaware and empty, left for his own bed upstairs.

FrUK - Maybe Part 7 (Part 1)'s finally here! ^^; and the file was so big I had to split it into parts x-x!

I'm so sorry for the three year wait on this, I'm not honestly sure how many of you are going to read this! But...for those who've waited...thank-you from the bottom of my heart! :heart:

There's going to be one last part to this story and then it shall all be over! DUN DUN DUN!
I...apologise for this chapter ;; it's very depressing but necessary!


Original picture for preview from:… :thumbsup:

Part 1 – FrUK - Maybe
Part 2 – FrUK - Maybe Part 2
Part 3 - FrUK - Maybe Part 3
Part 4 - FrUK - Maybe Part 4
Part 5 - FrUK - Maybe Part 5
Part 6 - FrUK - Maybe Part 6
Part 7 (Part 2) - FrUK - Maybe Part 7 (Part 2)

I'm working on FrUK 'Maybe' Part 7 right this very second *O*! I'm typing it up and I'm hoping to have it up tomorrow evening. Merry Christmas! xxx
Sammy Winchester by Keiimiko
Sammy Winchester
I went to London MCM Expo in October this year as a young Sam Winchester from the TV series Supernatural :3

It took me...farrrrrr too long to get the exact jacket!! I'm a stickler for details and man oh man this was a hard find! Check out young Sammy in the episode 'After School Special' to see the jacket I mean ;)

Anywho, here's some tester shots of wounded Sammy! I'm looking for a Dean or Castiel to cosplay with so if you're local give me a hoot! :heart:


Keiimiko's Profile Picture

Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Hello! I'm Lauren ^^ :iconwelcomesignplz:

(and I really wish I could change my deviantART name because I can't pronounce it;;! )

I'm 19 and I live in England :flaguk: ^^

I'm a massive Supernatural fan at present and I'm looking for any fellow cosplayers if you're interested! :heart: I love The Big Bang Theory, Agents of Shield and EastEnders primarily at the moment~ I love the Marvel films and all that jazz! :heart:

I've been away from writing for a few years but recently made my way back to it :blush: ! I love reading too!
OH! and I'm a HUGE Jared Padalecki fan! (my sunshine) :sun:
  • Mood: Uneasy
  • Listening to: Bon Jovi
  • Watching: Supernatural
Hello everyone! *hides from the bombs being thrown at me* ^^;

It's safe to say I have not been a good writer...I've not updated FrUK 'Maybe' since 2011. I have excuses, such as life and exams and work and whatnot but that ends now.

I am here to report that....I AM WRITING PART SEVEN RIGHT THIS SECOND AND IT SHALL BE UP BEFORE CHRISTMAS!!! This is a promise. :santa: :heart:

Throughout the years you have still been leaving comments and you're all so incredibly loyal and I don't deserve it really! I hope you all have a gorgeous Christmas!


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Lousiey Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
OMG your art is amazingly beautiful and your fanfictions are even better~
royswordsman Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2013
:heart: Thank you so much for the favourites :heart: 
merthurandbeatles Featured By Owner Apr 15, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Hey How are you?
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I'm fine thank-you, how are you? :)
merthurandbeatles Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
i am all right. what is up with you?
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Not much really, school work and exam prep! XD how about you?
(1 Reply)
Sayuri-chan18 Featured By Owner Mar 16, 2013
I usually don't come out and this because I never know what to say but I just want you to know that I love your fanfiction of FrUk that you are writing and that it's absolutely addictive and I really think that you have a talent for this!
*random stranger babbling about fanfiction of one of her OTP's of Hetalia, nevermind me xD*
Anyway, sorry for bothering I just really wanted to tell you this ^^'
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
SORRY FOR THE MAJOR LAG IN REPLYING TO THIS;; I haven't been on dA in around...2 months! ^^;

oh gosh .////. I...I don't know what to say except THANK-YOU SO MUCH!! *hugs the hell out of you* :heart:
Sayuri-chan18 Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2013
Oh don't worry it's ok I'm so happy you actually read my comment and answered! -^^-
*hugs too* Please continue writing I'm loving it so far! :iconloveloveplz:
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I always read every comment! :3 sorry if it takes me a while to respond sometimes!;

I'll make sure to! and thank-you! ^^ :heart:
(1 Reply)
StephUzumaki Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2013
Laurennnnn *___* your webcam made me smile, n'aw. <3
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
LOL :XD: it's adorable, right?? *--* Stonyyy <3
Michoovantas Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2012
SubakuNoHana Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2012  Student
thanks so much for the fave! *^* ♥
( also tony and steve really thank you X3 )
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It's my pleasure! :D - LOL XD awww! :iconspazzyrennerplz:
Lux-Laterna Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2012  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
And thank you so much for the watch and :+fav:!!!
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It's my pleasure! ^^ keep up the brilliant work!!
Lux-Laterna Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2012  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
Yuki-Kiba-Chan Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012
just trolling.

base base biscuit base i like the BUTTERY BISCUIT BASE <3

Spoeeoinn <3 best pair. EVA
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012  Hobbyist Writer

YES. ;D loved it!!! whoever tweeted that is AMAZING. <3
Yuki-Kiba-Chan Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012

i know, so AMAZING hahaha XDDD
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012  Hobbyist Writer

Hahahahahaa LOVE it! *---*
Yuki-Kiba-Chan Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2012
Keiimiko Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
*--------------* Awwwww *SPAZZ* it looks so good now! hehehhe :heart:
Yuki-Kiba-Chan Featured By Owner Oct 11, 2012
hehe <3 yeahhh! :heart: XD Love it *o*
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