Companion fic to Just Like Raindrops, written by the infinitely more awesome elegentmess; fic can be found here- .net/s/6772319/1/bJust_b_bLike_b_bRaindrops_ b

England's kisses are just like fire.

A Hearth Fire

England's kisses are like a hearth fire. Warm, comfortable, makes you feel safe.

France gravitates to these kisses, invites himself in. Curls up on England's battered sofa, or on his own more luxurious one, buries his fingers into England's hair and meets his lips over and over. England's in a rare state of calm, the sort that dusk brings after a long day of doing very little. His kisses are soft and lazy, and France finds warmth seeping through him and he feels himself relax.

After a while England eases himself out of France's hold, subtly, almost able to disappear before France notices. He lets out a plaintive whine as England, the heat, moves away-

"England..."

- And then France gets up and follows him.

A fire almost stamped out

England's kisses are like a fire almost stamped out. Defeated, black, choking if you breathe them in.

It is 1066, the Norman invasion. England is too tired to stand, but pushing against Francis as he tries to sit upright, rather than being pressed against the ground. France keeps him pinned against the soil, the very earth that had been England's.

"You will leave," England manages to whisper, his words breaking through his lips and into Francis', almost making him gag. "Rome did, Denmark did - I'll make you."

France blows the words like ashes back into England's face and kisses lips dark with blood and dirt, ignoring the taste and trying to find England's own flavour beneath it. England has given up, for now at least, is unyielding and has his eyes closed. France drops him. It is no fun without resistance.

England does not look at him, eyes turned down. The conquering nation turns his gaze away-

-And pauses to kick earth into England's face, making him splutter and suffocating the flame.

The first spark

Britannia's kisses are like the first spark. Bright, promising, the trigger of something bigger.

It's back when their lands were still mostly green, vibrant and alive and beautiful. Gaul is running up one of Britannia's rolling hills; he is faster. But he stops, sinking down into the grass to watch Britannia follow him. The little nation is stubbornly refusing to slow, scaling the hill like a determined rabbit.

He sits down, a meter away from Gaul and refusing to look at him. Gaul smiles and sings a comment on how cute Britannia looks.

Britannia stands up and kicks him. Gaul lets out a yelp and rolls to one side, a rock bruising his side and he moans quietly. Looking a little guilty Britannia pads over to him, muttering a reluctant apology.

"A kiss is the only thing that will make it better, the only thing that will make me forgive you~"

Gaul means it only as a tease, expecting the younger nation to go red and flee. But Britannia- though very unconvinced- cautiously leans over to brush his lips against Gaul's. For a moment, Gaul can feel pure potential spilling out of the little island on the end of the world. A promise of something hot, glorious, and huge beyond what he can think of. But it's only a brief spark; Britannia pulls back, bright red (as predicted)-

-And turns tail to run back down the hill, leaving a bemused Gaul to forget all about the feeling.

A forest fire

England's kisses are like a forest fire. Unstoppable, consuming, filled with power and destruction.

He's building an empire, burning his essence into a third of the world. France doesn't see him often, the nation is sailing the world and seems to have forgotten Europe. But sometimes at meetings, which England attends only to boast the group of young nations trailing him, he catches him. The power is dangerous and enticing, telling France to look but never, ever touch.

France can't help himself; he's always loved bright things. England is no help, all dangerous smiles and sly looks. The kisses they have then burn France to the core, turning his insides black but he can't help but keep coming back like moth to flame. Every time he plays with this fire- even when he's not playing at all- he gets burned, is reduced to ashes.

A smirk and a shove-

-And then England is gone, and France gently presses his fingers to his burnt, cracked lips.

A burning torch

England's kisses are like burning torches. Painful, cruel, the cause of great anguish.

France is dragged up to meet England's kiss. England looks as if he's on the brink of crying, but the image is gone as his lips curve up into a pitiless smirk. Francis is burning, his lips and his back. His lips are scorched by England's and against his back is real flames, fire lit by a burning torch, fire licking its way up feet, legs, body, head. France is can't hear a thing through the shock racking his body; he doesn't know if his dear sweet Joanne is crying out or if she is strong even in this.

He's sobbing now, tears softening his lips with the taste of sadness and England's hot tongue wipes them deftly and France considers biting it. Spectators are crying with him, his people of course never England's and when for a brief moment England releases him watery blue eyes meet a crucifix carried from the church and held aloft. That is what Joanne's eyes are looking at, the last thing they will feast on and the thing she has been seeing for her whole life, her faith embodied.

"Dieuprotègesonâme."

Against his own conscious thought it is France that moves back to England, a shuddering desire for this pain. Joanne's eyes would soon be the last thing untouched by the fire but by then they would not be seeing. Even if they had never looked on him with the love he wanted, he was her nation and her purpose. He needed contact; he wanted to burn with her, at England's hands.

England moves back, his eyes reflecting the fire and the dying woman he is responsible for. He turns and says something softly in the language he's fighting-

"Il n'y apasde Dieu,"

- And he walks away, leaving France to collapse to the ground.

Embers

England's kisses are like embers. Smouldering, deceptive, foolish to underestimate.

They're in France; they're in the Second World War. Soldiers are streaming passed them, a mix of troops, but most are England's. The coast of England's nation has rallied and all manner of sea vessels are coming across the channel to aid the rescue, the evacuation of the soldiers. France has fallen, to his knees in the sand and England drops down next to him.

Wind whips his hair into his face and yanks at his clothes, and he is limp in England's tight hold, neither of them speaking. It's hard to know what to say, it's been so long since they've been allowed to care for each other like this. Hundreds of years, in fact.

France hurts. He hurts so much he's barely able to breathe. His heart is still beating, black and out of sync with the rest of his body. Air leaves and enters his lungs in the same way, but unevenly, his body doesn't move with the fluid grace it has done for the past few thousands of years of life. But he is still thinking, his people are crying and afraid but they are still his. He wants to make sure it stays like that, but is too tired to even think of lifting himself off his knees.

Warm hands move to his cold face, tilting pale features towards bright green eyes. England looks tired too and frightened though he hides it well. France can't remember the last time he saw England frightened like this.

England moves towards him and captures his lips in a kiss. It's hot, hotter than France expected. Hotter than something that looked so weak should be. England is kissing the rest of his face now, moving round gently and spreading a steady, constant, nourishing warmth round him. France remembers that it has proved dangerous in the past to back England into a corner, and when he looks near the end of his energy if you dare take your eyes off him he is very liable to suddenly burst into flame.

France moves so it is him that catches England's lips, pushing against him and he feels England smile. He pulls back and grins knowing the expression is more alive now, stronger. He is France and he will survive this. England lets him go-

"You'd better be here when I come back, Frog."

- And France gives him a look that dares him to believe otherwise, shoves him towards one of the boats and turns to walk back up the beach.

Just like fire.

England's kisses are just like fire.

France decides this is a very apt comparison and maybe one that could spread to the other aspects of England. His eyes, his touch.

England's kisses burned, and he thinks he may have told him that before. He seems to recall England had acted offended. France smiles as he walks through the near empty streets of London. It's raining, heavily, water dripping through the sky and soaking him. He doesn't mind; he's not far from shelter now.

He doesn't bother to knock, easily finding the key that England has moved from its previous hiding place (that France found), to a new one (inside the now disconnected doorbell). He lets himself in, taking off his shoes and coat, and doesn't bother to announce himself either, walking through the familiar house quietly.

The television is on in the living room and there's a fire roaring in the grate, but England is not there. It doesn't take long to find him, in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea and looking out of the window at the rain. France snuck up behind him, looping his arms round England's waist and catching the tea cup in his hands before England has time to jerk with surprise and spill it.

"Frog, if you don't stop breaking into my house, I'm going to break that face you have such a high opinion of," England grumbles, pulling himself and his drink out of Francis' grip and turning to face the French nation.

"You always say that my dear England and you've only managed a few pathetic attempts so far," France replies smoothly and with a grin.

England rolls his eyes and shoves France away, stepping past him to put the kettle on again. "I've handed your sorry arse to you more times than I can count," he retorted. "And I suppose you want coffee not tea?"

France laughs and nods, following England forward. As soon as the other nation puts his drink down to free his hands so he can find the coffee, France catches him unawares and leans forward to press his lips to England's. This kiss starts off surprised but turns familiar and loving, for both parties. When they pull apart England smiles slightly at him before turning to reach into a cupboard.

"I was right," he says conversationally, locating the drink before continuing-

France's kisses are wet and refreshing- and just like one of the things England is most famous for thinking about.

-"Your kisses are just like raindrops."

Seriously. Read Just Like Raindrops. It's excellent.

.net/s/6772319/1/bJust_b_bLike_b_bRaindrops_b