by ~scotchietape19



Arthur fell to his knees out of breath. He looked up at the Frenchmen that stood above him, a dull silver gun pointed to his head, raindrops plinking on the cold metal and stinging his eyes. He couldn't help but smile weakly. "After all these years..I thought that you would be the one on his knees begging for mercy, Francis..." England tried to reach for his gun but stopped - what was the point? 'I'm going to die anyway...' the thought as an old memory began to play in the back of his mind.


It was a warm spring day and Francis was about to give up on Arthur - he was a hopeless case."If you want to be a strong country Arthur, you will have to understand this." he muttered, his hand covering his face in fustration. Arthur rubbed his tearfilled eyes and glared at the young French boy infront of him, "I could never kill someone, Frog!" France let out a long sigh and ruffled England's already messy hair, "One day you might even have to kill someone you love," he looked away, "Maybe even me." Bittersweetness lingered in the air, but Arthur being the stubborn boy he was shot back, "I don't love anyone!"


"Frog...what are you waiting for?" the English man shouted viciously, "Shoot me!" France looked bitterly down at Arthur's rain streaked face, his own face as cold as stone. "When you try and invade another country, Angleterre, especially one who loved you despite the childish rivalry," he spat blood, wiping his bleeding lip on his mud stained cuff, "You get squashed like a rotting pumpkin." France furrowed his brow to dramatically low heights on his muddy forehead and shook his head angrily, waving his loaded rifle around aggressively, "What in God's name were you thinking Angleterre?!"

"I was thinking that I could win this, Frenchie...I guess I thought wrong..." England starred at the ground and squeezed his fading emerald eyes closed. 'If I am to die here, then I suppose must...l at least I am to be killed by him and not someone like America.' America. The name shot through his head and rotted his brain just thinking about him. "I guess now two gits have defeated me..." Arthur muttered softly under his breath.

"I've gotten stronger, Angleterre, and now you have witnessed just how strong I've actually become... I did so, so that if anyone decided to invade my land I could fight them off, easing the burden off of you so you wouldn't have to do all the fighting, I knew you would be right there beside me, but now this...I never expected this of you Angleterre...not in a million years." France released the safety on his rifle violently rough, a single tear sliding down his beautiful porcelain cheek. "God damnit Arthur, why in the world did you want my land in the first place? Your country is outstandingly beautiful! Why would you ruin this," France choked up and with tears in his pink eyes rested the rifle on Arthur's forehead, "...ruin us!?"

Arthur bit his lip harshly as the cold metal hit his forehead, "I just wanted some part of you... your land is much nicer... I've always been so jealous..." England looked up with a small smile, "Don't cry Frog... just remember all those times you've wanted to do this." The Englishman looked down again. This was it. The end of the line. "Before I forget Frog," Arthur reached into his jacket pocket slowly, not wanting to alarm anyone. The Englishmen pulled out a small dying violet Iris, "These started growing in my backyard... " Arthur handed it to Francis and looked back at the ground, "You may have it now..."

France, through tear stained eyes, looked down at the pathetic, soggy, dying Iris in Arthur's shaky hands. "You expected this to happen, didn't you?" France stood upright angrily, "That's why you brought this Iris, to sofen me up in case the time came, oui?! Well taking advantage of my emotions won't help you now Angleterre, I won't have it. I won't let it stop me from my duty to this country now!" France cried, an eruption of cheers echoing through the rain-bitten, dusk streaked valleys of France by Francis' army. France angrily ripped the Iris from Arthur's hands, the thorns from the beautiful French flower ripping and digging at Arthur's already dirty hands causing blood to seep from stinging wounds and trickle down onto his green pants leaving dark discolourations. Arthur stared at his cherry red blood stained hands, "I-I meant to give it to you when you came over for tea...but I had forgotten..." England looked behind him to see many wounded, dead and dying British soldiers fleeing for their lives. "I-I caused such pain...to us both..." Arthur seemed to hold tight onto something like thin air and squeeze it close to his heart, "I never wanted this."

The cheers from the French army seemed to die almost instantly and every pair of eyes fell onto Mister Francis Bonnefoy who stared down at Arthur, his expression unmoved and unreadable. He looked from Arthur's mudstreaked face to the Brit's blood stained hands, and then to the Iris now in his own hands. France slowly lifted the Iris up to his mouth and licked the tip of one of the bloody thorns, his cold blue eyes locked with the faded green ones. "This is the blood of my enemy, once ally," he announced loudly through the clearing, watching England cringe at the word once, "And this is my own." Francis reached into his coat and squeezed his side for a moment, pulling out his hand and reaching it to the sky dripping with his own crimson blood. "This is what happens when someone is betrayed by someone they love." Francis looked down to England again, the gun still in it's place on Arthur's dirty, sweaty, blood stained forehead. "You say you never wanted this," he lowered his voice to extreme lows causing whatever slight mumbling that had been done around the mob that was of the French army to cease immediately, each and every cell in every single soldier's body trying to catch a breath

of what Francis was sneering to England so low, "If you never wanted this, then why did you make this such a suprise attack?" he asked, his voice suddenly cracking with anger so loud it could have been mistaken for thunder, "If only days ago we had had tea togeather!?"


Arthur continued to hold the small mint bunny closely and stare at the muddy ground. His brain frantically searched for the lost answer to the question before him. "It's foolish," he mummered painfully quiet, "I thought if I was to take you over...I wouldn't lose you ever again... you would have more respect for me and you would love me more..." he looked up angrily, raising his voice so that everyone could hear, "If I had some of your land, you would respect not just my country, but all of our country." The few members of the British army stared at the ground, bowing their heads so low it could have broken their necks.

France's heart wrenched - he couldn't help it though, he was French after all and the emotions were moving him however much he said they would not. All England needed to understand was that he did love him. That's all he needed... France shook his head - that was still absolutly no excuse for killing and taking the lives of the men from both armies. "I've always respected you Angleterre, at times a great deal, at others not, but I have never not respected you, and never, ever not loved you Arthur, I truely do, but this is outrageous, unforgivable - what can you give me in return for the fallen soldiers lives, British and French, that will equal the Christmases they will never spend again with their families? The laughes that will soon be forgotten, the lives each one of these men lead that supported each ones communities now lost?" France asked sadly, sorrow filling his chest so full he felt a thousand pounds heavier then the day the two had had tea at England's house together - the time that Arthur had called him a frog and Francis had smugly replied with short puffs and the occasional, "Inbred." followed by a smirk, all in the spirit of one another's feisty relationship.

Arthur fell foreward onto his hands and knees crying. He continued to hold flying mint bunny close as the fluffy rabbit tried to comfort him. "It's no use bunny... even if I begged Francis to live he would still have to kill me... I know it doesn't make sense but you have to try and understand..." the bits that were still left of the British arny nodded along with Arthur, understanding the importance of a flyinf mint bunny. England fell into the mud, mixing with his blood, sweat and tears, crying harder. "A-And now I'll have to get these stains out... F-Francis..." The Englishman being absolutely silly, looking up still lying on the ground, "I would give anything to bring their lives back but I'm afraid that's impossible now...even with magic..."

Francis' finger was twitching and fidgiting on the trigger, his wet hair sticking to his neck in a tight hug. "It is my duty to kill you Arthur," he choked on his tears but continued, "But I can't. I just can't do it. Not you, anyone else but you." Francis fell to his knees, his own army heavily confused and threw the rifle to the side, drowning it in a mud puddle. "I know I told you as a child that you might have to kill someone you loved in war, but oh God Angleterre, anyone but you..." Arthur slowly sat up and brough his rifle close to himself, "Francis... please stop this..." England reached over and held France's hand tightly in his, "You don't love me so you can kill me with ease..." The English man shakily held up his rifle, "If you don't kill me... I'll have to kill you..."

Francis was torn like a wet peice of paper. He tightened his grib on England's bloody hand and with the other fished for his rifle through the tick, liquid earth. "I-I know... but it's not ease to just kill someone, especially if that someone is someone you've respected and..." he looked away choking on the words, "loved... for as long as we have." France so badly longed to reach out and hold the country in front of him. Arthur pointed his gun at Francis' head, "Please stop. Stop with the lying, you've never loved me." England looked at the French army behind France, all their guns pointing directly at himself. "I don't wnat to kill you, but if you don't cooperate... I'll be forced to."

Francis cringed in pain as England dug his dirty nails harshly ito his hand, his teeth gritting. "Why don't you believe me? I have no reason to lie to you, I've won. How can I prove it to you?" he asked forgetting about his useless rifle that had been destroyed in the mud and reached for the pure silver magnum in his belt. Arthur shot an outraged looked at Francis, his messy blonde hair hiding one of his rage filled green eyes, "You can't prove anything." Arthur snarled, shoving the barrle of the rifle into Francis' soft tear stained cheek.

Arthur looked down at the gun as the birds sang outside of the Bonnefoy's family manner. "I don't want to use a gun France, can't people just be more civil and talk things out rather then fighting? 'What happened to me?' Francis let out a sigh and held the younger boy's shoulder, "Because people can't think enough to try it." 'I used to be...' "I'll never use one of these to figure out my problems. I promise." 'So polite... now I'm just...blood thirsty...I grew up...'

Arthur's grip lessened and the hand holding the rifle was shaking slightly. Francis knew that the two of them were skating on thin ice by the way that this was going, what with Arthur talking to himself again, the shaky, unsure hand that held the fate of his life in his hands -the rifle hand- and the over all emotional atmosphere around them - Arthur obviously was on the verge of a breakdown and if he didn't do something soon the two of them wouldn't be here much longer. "Are you sure that there is nothing left I can do you convince you of my truth?" he asked, his French accent thick and pleading. Arthur stared back at Francis silently until his eyes suddenly lit up and he leaned into Francis' face, their noses almost touching - France could even smell the sweet mintyness of the Brit's breath on his own lips. "Kiss me, frog. That is the only way I could ever believe that you love me."

France looked utterly shocked back at Arthur - so this was what Arthur had meant by love... Francis' throat suddenly felt choked again and his heart began to thump. France leaned in slowly to kiss the other man, his eyes half open as the rain fell lightly onto their faces. France had always had a crush on the slightly younger man, and now that he was acutally going to kiss Arthur, and by the other's command... France's stomach knotted, flipping and turning as he placed one of his hands on the Brit's back, dropping his magnum with a loud plink and with that hand cupping Arthur's face, his whole body shaking with new adrenaline.

Slowly Arthur dropped his rifle letting it fall into the muddy ground. He felt his heart throb as France brought his face in closer. England closed his eyes and with one hand, softly touched the Frenchman's soft rosy cheeks, "I love you so much, you bloody git..." he mummered softly, trailing his fingers down the Frenchmen's cheek and down over his plump French lips. "And I you." Francis breathed, his nervous hands gripping tighter to Arthur's blue coat and cheek. He crawled cautiously on top of Arthur, rain water dripping down his face by the buckets and kept his eyes on Arthur's pouty lips. France held his breath as he finally closed his eyes along with the intense gap they had both created with anticipation, his two hands fidgeting among Arthur's soaked coat and body. There was a horrible feeling in the pit of the Frenchmen's stomach that something wrong was about to happen and unconsciously he grabbed for his magnum that had luckily not fallen into a puddle. Arthur's lips were just as amazing as he had dreamed them to be - his tongue slipped inside of the other boy's moist mouth and they both moaned at the same time, clinging to each other hard and twisted their legs together in the mud.

Arthur blushed furiously as the two armies watched them kiss passionately - the gun rifle in his hands slipping slightly but he hung on, his finger still on the trigger. The Frenchmen's lips were soft and tasted like a cream pastery, he smelt of roses. France loved darting his tongue around England's mouth gasping through his nose for air but trying his best to ignore the need to take a breath as the Britishmen began sucking on his tongue - he was fully willing to pass out then miss a second of the magic spell England was casting over him, whether it be a concious or unconcious decision.

Francis loved the taste of Arthur's sweet lips as they caressed his own - they smelt of scones... he must have eaten some before the British army had launched the attack...Arthur definitely hadn't made these scones, they tasted too delicious... France dug his nails into Arthur's hand, thrill coursing through his veins. The Frenchmen retreated his tongue from Arthur's mouth only for the British man to shoot his own tongue into his mouth. The two began to French kiss, both of them beginning to feel as if they were losing control - that worried France. The Frenchmen licked and bit at Arthur's bottom lip lovingly, dragging the magnum off of the ground and gripping it firmly in his shakey hands.

England moaned softly, his hands clumping Francis' long blonde hair in tight fists and pressed his lips desparetly to France's once more, opening his mouth just enough so that the Frenchman shot his tongue quickly back into his own mouth and forcing England to moan even louder. Arthur's fingers felt like butter as the rain pelted his black leather gloves, making them feel slippery against the polished wooden butt of his rifle. As Francis began to caress his cheek with his long French fingers, Arthur's body went limp and the heavy rifle clashed to the ground with a loud slam that frightened even himself.

France's eyes shot open and he pulled away instantly, trusting his gut feeling that Arthur was infact shooting at him and, as fast as a jack rabbit, pulled his magnum on Arthur and pulled the trigger, fearful for his own life. The sound of gunfire shot through the plains and sent flocks of nearby birds soaring out of the trees and into the rainfilled air. The fear that Francis was feeling had affected his aim however and the bullet had only torn through Arthur's shoulder, barely missing his heart.

Arthur's eyes widened as pain shot through his veins and he suddenly clamored out loudly and grabbed at his shoulder, "I knew you didn't love me you dirty frog!" he threw his head back and yelled in agony, and before Francis could say otherwise, Arthur weilded his rifle from the oozy clay floor and pointed it to the Frenchmen's heart - the one thing he could never have. Tears fell from his eyes and slid down his cheeks as he clicked the saftey catch off of the wet rifle and positioned his finger on the trigger. "I'm sorry it has to come to this old friend... I really do love you." Arthur pulled the trigger. A shot rang out once more and the remaining birds that wern't moved by the first shot flew off. Time seemed to slow down - the angry Englishmen watched as the Frenchman slowly crashed to the ground, his eyes the size of the moons in shock, his blood spraying Arthur's face.

As France hit the ground with a loud thud, he began howling screams of agony, blood pumping in buckets out of the large wound with every heart beat. "A-Angleterre." he hissed in pain, "I do love... you..." he sputtered before choking up, blood all over himself, staining his golden facial hair. His hand reached out for Arthur's, terror in his fading eyes, I don't want to die Arthur. not alone like this. I love you... I really do, je t'aime..." he moaned in extream pain, surprised he was even able to speak with his chest heaving up and down at such a rapid pace, "Don't let me die alone."

Arthur began to cry heavily and squeezed Francis' hand so tight it could have came off. "I'll be with you soon, love." he looked up to see the whole of the French army pointing their rifles at him, awaiting the second in command's signal. "Soon my love, we be togeather." Arhur tried to smile but couldn't as he looked down to see Francis' blood all over his lap, knowing it was his fault and somehow completely ignoring his own wound, the extreme misery he was feeling the pain killer. France's eyes widened as his fading eyes saw the second in command raise his hand in preparation to fire. "Don't shoot!" Francis shouted blood curtlingly loud but was too late - the second in command had shouted before him and the guns aimed straight for Arthur. "No..." Francis muttered as his vision turned black, his hand giving one last squeeze around Arthur's who had his in a death grip.

Arthur's body jolted over and over again as one shot after another tore through his chest, shoulders and arms. He didn't feel the pain though, his eyes were still glued to France's cold dead face, whose shining blonde hair was being dyed in the black tar like earth. After what seemed ages to Arthur the bullets ceased and the Brit fell face foreward into the mud on top of Francis. The bullets that had riddled his body covered almost every square inch of him forming a pool of blood to pour out of him in gallons to soak into France's beautiful surcoat beneath him. The British army fled for their lives not wanting to die, but rather go home and drink some damn fine tea by the fire. There the two countries died, hand in hand, heart to heart in the muddy battle feilds of lower France, a slight smile on each of their dead faces as their souls left their cold, frozen bodies and made their way somewhere into the sky where they could be together, drink, bicker like old ladies and love each other as much as their fragile human hearts pleased.