Hetalia-Worldwide Plague Outbreak

On The Last Day to Fall In Love

England lay huddled beside France. The two lay in a corner, huddled with America. Hungary was on watch; it was 3am. France and England were both still awake; they just refused to tell each other. Suddenly, France let out a tiny yelp. England jumped, America shifted in his sleep, and a rifle being clicked into place echoed around the body of the plane as Hungary bolted into a standing position, the rifle aimed in under a second. France shook, whimpered, cried. "Fro-France?" England asked, voice low but not a whisper.

"A-ack...Paris...elle est faible," France choked out.

"English nation, Frenchie."

"Paris...my c-capital...she's weak," France once again choked out in between sobs. "I-I am dying."

England's eyes had never been wider at the words. I am dying. I am dying. I am dying. No, France can't be dying. I'm in a dream, England thought. But it was all too real, and everyone knew it. England refused to believe that. He wanted to run away, far and fast. He wanted to go back to his home country, away from all this. He wanted everything back the way it was, before the outbreak, before the pandemic alerts, before the virus wiped out 95% of the countries. He wanted another World Meeting, where the old Hungary wasn't a drill sergeant, when she was a regular Hungarian that talked and laughed with her friends and made such gory scenes that every country, even Russia, would be throwing up before the end of the meeting. He wanted the old world back. Even if France was a pervert, even if Hungary was a gore-and-weapons-addict, even if Canada was forgotten, even if America was an asshole, even if Russia was a creep, even if Romania would never stop picking fights, even if Germany was a bossy ass leader, even if Prussia was the most annoying soul on the planet, even if Spain was the gayest tomato bastard in the universe, even if Japan filmed every second of every minute of every hour of every day, even if China never shut up about his opinion, even if Belarus stabbed everyone at the slightest flinch, even if the meeting was in France, the country of love. England wanted to go back. It was better than this.

"France, no! You can't die, not now..." England suddenly burst out.

"Pourquoi, Angleterre?"

"Because I love you!"

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Olive-green eyes drilled into sky-blue ones. "Y-you...you l-love...," France's jaw dropped. Russia's eyebrows raised. America sat up and rubbed his wide eyes, as if he was in shock. Belarus jumped at the words. Even Hungary's emotionless, hard expression softened.

"Yes, frog, I bloody love you! There, I said it. I've always loved you, I've just denied it for years and years because I don't know how to tell you. I'm also scared you might not love me back, and I don't want to get hurt by loving someone that doesn't feel the same for me. I love everything about you, your perfect blonde hair that isn't even hair, each individual strand is a woven strand of silk. Your eyes are not eyes, they're sapphires crafted by the gods. You're perfect, I love you, I want you, I want to BE with you, forever and ever and never let you go but this plague is ruining it! Everything, ruined! I-I...I wanted a romance novel ending. I wanted a romantic movie life. The kind where everything goes perfect and the two soulmates fall in love and...and now you're going to die on me, frog! You're going to leave me, but I just can't have that because I love you more than anything!" England cried, tears flooding his eyes and rolling down his red, flustered cheeks. The Brit dropped to his knees and cried into his hands. Everyone stared. France stood and walked to the broken British nation.

"I love you more than anything too, Angleterre," France said, "and you're finally realizing you love me back."

England's head shot up and he stiffened at the realization of what'd just happened.

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It was 4am; Hungary was suppose to be on watch, but nobody could fall asleep after what'd happened, so she, Russia and Belarus sat by the hatch, loaded rifles at their sides, playing a game of cards. America was still alseep, his soft snores echoing around the plane. England decided to make a split-second decision, seeing as France only had a night left. Paris had fallen, and the country of France was breaking apart very quickly. Take a risk, brit...England told himself. He took a deep breath.

"France and I are going to take a walk," he said firmly, nodding to France. France looked perplexed, but nodded back uncertainly. France stood slowly, with the aid of England, and the two got permission from Hungary to go. They each grabbed an emergency pistol, loaded, then crawled out the hatch.

It was only four in the morning; the air was crisp and clear, fresh and not stuffy, like in the plane. A breeze made the two nations run their fingers through their hair, smiles spreading across their faces and closing their eyes. For a second, everything was normal again. Then England remembered what he'd brought France out for.

"France, I love you, and I'm going to show you just how much you mean to me." England said, then grabbed France's wrist and the two ran into the village in heart of Moscow. Ran from the plane, ran from the runway, ran from their frightening reality.

They got to an abandoned building, and tiptoed past the corpses. The piles and piles of corpses. Tiptoed, as if they were trying not to wake the permanently sleeping people. They tried not to look at the dead bodies piled high up around them, shuddering if they got too close to the dead Russians. They were both scared out of their skins. Even Belarus, even Russia, would be scared, or slightly unnerved at the least. Hungary was the only one who wasn't scared in these types of situations. In fact, she loved these types of situations. This was England's and France's nightmare, but her dream world. And that was yet another thing terrifying as shit about her. England suddenly spoke, causing France to jump:

"We're here." England pushed open a door, revealing an empty room. No bodies, just a mattress on the middle of the floor.

"Angleterre, what is this? How do you know about this? Don't be so mysterious, you're scaring me...,"

England suddenly slammed the door and pushed France down on the mattress. "It's ok to be scared, frog. I'm petrified." England kissed France passionately, as if the brit wanted to reach deep into the Frenchman, to touch his inner soul. The British nation kissed him deeply, deeper and deeper until they kissed each other so hard it hurt. France's hand slid to England's waistline, unhooking the pistol from his belt. England did the same to France. France unhooked England's belt, and his thumb found it's way under the Brit's waistband. Tugged. More and more, until England's pants were at his ankles. The brit kicked his pants away, and slid his hand past France's waistband. Yanked hard, and France's pants slid off quickly. The two both snaked their fingers up each other's shirts at the same time, yanking them off in one swift, simultaneous move. France's ten fingers dragged down England's sides, pulling the Brit's underwear down with them as they went. France's fingers dragged back up England's sides, and he traced circles with his fingertips in England's spine. England let out a long, soft moan, and dug his fingernails into France's back. Deeper and deeper, then dragged his nails across the French nation's skin, leaving long, bloody claw marks. France whimpered, so England curled his legs around France's waist, and thrust into his lover.

"S-soulmates, frog...," England whimpered. "Until...the end...and longer." He said in between kisses. He let himself go limp, though, as France pushed his fingertips into England's lower back. Waaaay lower back. Upper butt. France kissed along England's jawline, down his neck, across his collarbone, down his chest, over his stomach. Leaving a long trail of sloppy, wet kisses all over the British nation. England whimpered. "I-I wanted to be the one to take c-control...," he moaned, then France kissed him so hard it hurt. They stayed in that kiss for a long time, reaching into each other.

England and France lay beside each other, stark naked on the grimy mattress, during the apocalypse, warming each other with their bodies pressed to each other. France's soft, warm breathes travelled down England's spine, which made the Brit shiver in the slightest.

"I love you, you perverted French moron."

"I love you too, you uptight British bastard."