When the world comes crashing down {WIP} |COUNTRY HUMANS|

France and UK (remake)

"How could I love you?!"

France looked close to tears, his knees looked like they were about to collapse and his hands were shaking. He hadn't thought this was the response he was going to get. He knew he was right. How could he love him? Years of anguish between them has destroyed their relationship and their people.

'Why did I think that after him working with me to win The Great War meant that he liked me?' He thought. 'Why, 21 years later, would I ask him such a thing.'

"I'm sorry UK, I just thought that-"

"Well France, you thought wrong." He stood in his office, in front of a world map placed on his desk with old and new battle plans they were looking over and treaties they thought would never be broken. He stared at him, his eyes cold and dull, he had lost a spark that France knew so well in that war. It had taken a toll on both of the men standing in that office, which was shown in the dark circles under both their eyes. There was a rising tension in the room, an old one, one that resurfaced when mentioned, and bubbled and burned in the stomach until something was said. France's stance weakened even more, dreading what the cause of the tension might be. He knew what had happened, it had happened so long ago, yet so recently. France remembered it so vividly.

Britain stood there, staring at me with shock on his face. We were both bloody, beaten up, and angry, but his eyes, his bright blue eyes were the things that shone the most. They shone with sadness, a weakness I hadn't seen before. He wheezed, a line of blood running down his chin from his mouth, leading me to stare down at the mess we created. My sword pierced his chest, with blood all over us and we didn't know who's it was. After staring at each other, trying to figure out our next move his knees grew weak, and they collapsed. I tried to follow him with his movements so as to not cause him any more pain than what he has now. I clutched the handle as we went down, then my gaze made its way up from my hand to his face. His eyes began to glaze over, and in a moment of selfishness I realised that I didn't want him to die. This stupid feud that we had was pointless, and I realised that his life was more important than my greed. A few tears escaped my eyes. His face softened for a moment. For a fleeting second I was back home, laughing and holding his hand in front of a fire, dancing to a slow waltz. Tripping over each other's feet while knowing exactly where they should go since we knew this dance so very well. The way he looked at me back then. Things we did when we were teenagers, before colonies and wars and land. I soon came back to my senses when his soft expression turned to pure rage. He quickly picked his sword up from the ground and stabbed me in the stomach. I immediately coughed up blood, feeling it dribble down my chin. He cupped my head with his free hand as we sat there, waiting.

"I used to love you so much when we were younger, you know that? What a shame." He pulled the sword out of his torso and stood up first. He rolled his shoulders back to look more menacing and stronger. His sharp posture made him so much taller, so he towered over me, and slid his sword from my stomach. "I won this war, yes? But I will let you know now. The stunt you pulled with taking my son away from me? It will never be forgiven. Understood?" He said menacingly.

"Bretagne, I... of course. I am sorry." He then limped away, attempting to hide the fact that he was in pain. I would've fought back, but with those memories still fresh in my mind, I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

France unconsciously brushed his hand over his stomach, knowing that the scar was still there. It may not be as fresh as it used to be, but he always remembered it was there.

"I-" France reached out his hand like he was going to comfort Britain, but pulled back and sat it back on the side of his chair. He sighed before continuing.  "Ok. But we do need to talk about the state of Poland, and Berlin. Set personal issues aside." He said, resisting the urge to press on with their feelings and where they lie.

"Of course, but please, don't let this get in the way of what we've built. Now-"

He continued with his plans, and told France everything he'd thought out. Germany was advancing, and they needed a plan, and soon. But Britain found himself getting distracted. His face, it was so defeated.

'Maybe I should put the past behind us? I could tell he really meant it, and he just looks so- lost.' He thought. He thought about the possibility that France wanted him to just run into his arms. 'Obviously not. Especially with our history.' The two had only just become friends, after years of all out war. He did miss those nights where they danced and talked when they were young though. This friendship was a very raw thing, and seeing this side of France, the non-arrogant, narcissistic and annoying side was nice, for a change. Instead of butting heads everywhere they went, maybe it could work this time. But, alas, with just Britain's luck, he was gone before he had come to this conclusion.

He couldn't bear it. He ran down a dark alleyway lit by only dull street lamps on a cold night in the European district, his shoes clicking on the cobblestone path. It was raining, like usual, the sound of gravel and stones under his feet reminded him of the trenches when he had lost his son, but he attempted to see past that and focus on the situation at hand. A year had passed, and Britain was regretting not speaking his truth sooner. As he walked, he tried so hard to convince himself that this wasn't his fault, but he kept coming back to the same conclusions. If only he had said he loved him back maybe he would've had the strength to fight Germany off. Germany invaded France, meaning that France was beaten up, and dying somewhere. Britain's speed got faster, and soon instead of speed walking he was running, trying to make it before he was killed. He turned a corner and saw him lying there, Germany standing over him. Well, it wasn't Germany, not the Germany Britain knew anyways. His boss had him doing jobs he didn't even think he wanted to do. It drove him insane, the poor boy wasn't himself anymore, but he really was so loyal to the Third Reich, it was crazy to see him so differently. Britain fought him off and helped France up, he stared at him with a look of sadness and thankfulness, and took him back to his own house.

He laid on the couch as he cleaned his wounds, France wincing at the touch of the alcohol on such raw flesh. Britain took off France's shirt in order to treat the ones there, but instead he found his fingers brushing over the deep gash mark in his stomach. It was old, unlike the new, raw ones, and knew exactly who did it. It was just like his own. A stab wound they would never get rid of.

"You're looking at my abs?" He weakly said, smirking.

"No you wanker, I'm cleaning you up. Now stop making that face and let me help you."

"Thank you Bretagne, really, thank you."

He looked at the other with such love in his eyes that Britain blushed, and looked back at his body to continue his job. France just smiled and blushed as well.

France had moved into Britain's house. The population in that house is now 4. Canada and America had moved out years ago, leaving the house to Britain, France, New Zealand and Australia. If anything, the children that moved out of the house were more excited that France was moving in than the children inside the house. Britain walked through the halls of his mother's old palace, the place where he used to live. He smiled slightly, remembering a lot of different memories throughout the halls. More so when America gained independence. He slowly entered a room that only had memories of happiness. A living room, with plush velvet couches, large bookshelves and a fireplace. He smiled, turning on his favourite tune and started to waltz by himself. He then felt someone interlock their fingers into his. He opened his eyes to see France.

"Je me souviens quand je t'ai rencontré." (I remember when I met you.) They started to dance, speaking like old friends.

"Oh really? When did we meet? Enlighten me."

"Eh bien, je t'ai vu à un bal tenu par tes parents, et nous avons dansé toute la nuit." (Well, I saw you at a ball held by your parents, and we danced the whole night.) France explained.

"You were so handsome. But, in the end, look where we are now. Exactly where we wanted to be. Together."

They slowly danced with their eyes closed, knowing each foot step they took and where to put them next. One they did the first time they met each other. Soon the song finished, they looked at each other and kissed. A loving one, unlike the tongue dribble that America partakes in daily. They pulled back, and put on a song from the 1940's. This one was faster, and they didn't struggle to keep up. They were made for each other.

AN/////GUYS THIS STORY HAS 1666 WORDS I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.