Disclaimer: We all know I don't own this so I won't even bother writing it again later.

PROLOGUE

Husky pants and moans filled the room, sweaty bodies moving, rubbing, sliding over one another. Rumpled bedding and twisted sheets rustled in the dim light, and the smell of sex and strawberry lube filled the cramped space of the cheap hotel room.

Francis uttered a guttural noise of satisfaction as he pressed deeper, further into the man below him, trying to make them as close as he could. Arthur responded in quiet pants and half-hearted moans, sounding nowhere near the ecstasy the nation above him seemed to be experiencing.

The Frenchman bowed his head low, trying to capture the blond's lips, but the pale man simply twitched his face away, avoiding the contact. France frowned as Arthur tried to play it off as a roll of his head due to the pleasure, but he had seen right through it. He always could. There was barely anything he didn't know about the island nation he was sharing such an intimate moment with. Being enemies for so many years and living for so long, you begin to learn things about them, and he knew more about his 'enemy' than any other person in the whole world did. England was an open book for him to read, to write in. To smudge the words and lines together until they become a single garbled mess of shapes and shades.

At least he thought so.

Lately, the Frenchman had noticed that the Brit had become distant from everyone else, even more so than usual. He wasn't in his 'splendid isolation' phase anymore, and his boss and leaders didn't seem to be heading in that direction… quite the opposite, actually. So there really was no excuse for him to be so cold shouldered and shifty towards every entity that made itself known to him.

France's pace began to slow and become sloppy; he was losing his blissful pleasure to the dark thoughts filling his mind. No, he couldn't, he had to finish, not for himself, but for Arthur.

The two of them were here for a reason, and he wasn't about to ruin the moment and, further more, piss off not only his, but England's boss as well.

The two were here on official business. They were here to strengthen the ties between their lands and improve the political negotiations of both of their governments. It was crucial for nations to sleep with one another to strengthen bonds between both interested parties. Being the personifications of the lands themselves, when any two nations got together for political reasons - any thing from trade, alliances, to economical propositions - when the two or more join, the link that connects them to their lands is affected, thus improving the land.

It wasn't very ideal, or even favored among those involved, but it was done. If not, the treaty or whatever was being worked on would fail. The science was complicated and hardly even made sense to them, but it worked. It was the only thing that did without fail. So they did it, quite frequently. It was nothing he nor England were new to.

It was never uncommon for nations to sleep with one another, business or not. It was always more of a fling; a way for them to acquire pleasure, seeing as they couldn't sleep with humans so their possibilities were limited. Not only that, but relations between them, as romantic, would never work.

Despite how much any one of them wished, it was impossible. The risk of being torn apart was too great; they had duties to their nations and no one else. If one was to have a platonic relation with another, they could easily be turned against one another thanks to their people or leaders, and forced to break apart or even try to fight to the death in war. So to avoid the pain, they all just avoided romantic endeavors all together.

Italy and Germany were two prime examples. Constantly being thrown together and torn apart by the needs of the nation itself. It was agonizing and utterly unbearable to deal with, so they finally just drifted apart. It was obvious that their infatuation still remained, as stolen glances and tense physical contact were all too clear. Both wanting to have the other, but slinking back from the desire, hiding behind smiles and polite conversation.

England let out a huff as he noticed France had practically stopped thrusting all together, just weak, slow rocks, not even sliding in and out.

"What?" He questioned. "Can't keep it up?"

"...Non," France uttered out. He had tried to distract himself from looking at the Brit by softly rubbing the milky thighs that rested around his hips.

The blond began to use his elbows as support, using a great effort to find the will to raise his upper body. "Do you need some assistance? Want me to suck you off or what not?" England's voice was detached, calm, like he was talking about the morning newspaper. It didn't fit the situation at all. But it was normal. Many nations had trouble actually getting off when sleeping with other nations. Morals and other things got in the way of finishing the job, and other measures of 'getting the job done' had often been necessary to keep things functioning the way they were planned.

Feelings constantly disturbed Francis' performance and got in his way.

The green orbs of light before him were dull and listless, bored, detached, the fiery spark that was present for nearly a thousand years was long gone from the tired eyes.

"Non, non, mon ami, that will not be necessary, merci." France began to lean forward, his tongue dashing over his lips nervously as he slowly began to reach for the beautiful ones in front of him. England began to lean back, his eyes full of worry, clearly annoyed as he began to crane his neck so that the blond could not touch his lips with his own.

"No."

"Eets just a kiss, Angleterre, its all I want from you, its all I need. Please." France felt bad for begging, but he needed this right now. He needed this from Arthur.

And he would have none of it. "NO." His voice was firm, stern and settled. France would not be receiving any lip contact from him if Arthur had any say in it.

"Why?"

"You know why."

He did. England didn't kiss. He wouldn't. It was special, a form of love. And he didn't have any to give. Not to anyone. Not to the world, and not to him.

Francis' eyes flickered away. To Arthur's chest, his belly, waist, and finally, where they were still connected at. His ass. France was still inside him and only growing more and more soft within the warm walls of flesh.

He felt sick. He pulled out with a limp dick and rocked back on his heels, head downcast. England had no love for him, he'd never had.

Never would.

It was clear. Painstakingly clear. It's why he dreaded having to sleep with Arthur at all, to have the one he craved - yearned for - so close to him, having SEX with him, and knowing it was only because they had to.

They weren't young anymore. Spunky hot hate sex had quickly turned into a slow, almost love making form. Well it was for Francis; for Arthur, it was more of a chore.

France could try to delude himself all he wanted while having sex, but the reality ebbed away at his fantasies of actually doing what they were as a couple, of having a valid reason beyond sexual tension or an arrangement from their bosses. Because they wanted to. Because they loved each other.

But France wasn't stupid. He couldn't let himself imagine such things. It was too dangerous, too naive.

And completely and utterly ludicrous. England didn't love him, didn't want him, didn't even care enough to even phone him on his birthday. Would never love him. But that was to be expected.

How could England love him when the island nation couldn't even love himself?

It was a cruel reality. THEIR reality. And there was nothing he could do about it. England wouldn't let him in, he wouldn't let anyone in.

It was why he kept himself distant.

It all clicked in France's mind like a piece of a puzzle, magically falling together until it created a clear picture of his predicament.

"Englan-"

"No. I will not kiss you. I will suck you off, do any kind of kink or role play you desire, but I will NOT kiss you." He informed, voice hard and dangerous. "Is that understood?"

"..." France didn't answer, he couldn't. There was nothing to say.

"So what will it be?"

Silence. Arthur waited and waited, quickly growing impatient with the French man before him. Arthur stared, gritting his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he clenched them to keep himself from socking the man before him.

"A kiss." Arthur began. France's eyes flickered open. He didn't look up, but he listened. "Is that what it's going to take? There's nothing else I can do? Nothing at all?" France's refusal to lift his head and face him was all the confirmation England needed.

He lifted himself up and began to lean forward, his head tilted so his lips made contact with Francis' cheek, lightly grazing the skin, making his flesh tingle from the touch. Arthur's hot breath cascaded over France's neck and ear, his body was rigid and trembling in anticipation. England's lips brushed the lobe of his ear as he whispered words too sweet for something so dark. "Then I have no business here."

France felt the world crash around him as England pulled away, taking his shattered heart with him, dislodging it from his chest and making away with it. A cruel look fell over Arthur's face as he sat on his heels. His eyes were cold and dark, a sadistic smirk graced his features as the realization hit France like a freight train.

England did it.

He ruined him.

He brought him close, had him on the edge, dangling on the Brit's every word… and cut the string letting him fall, only to never catch him, instead leaving him to shatter everywhere. He pulled him close, just to break him first, just to make sure the France would never have the chance to save himself.

England worked for it and succeeded.

He had won the battle.

France could only choke on his sobs as England clothed himself in silence. He pulled on his jacket and gave France one last look. But it wasn't a look of guilt, shame, or even pity. It was satisfaction. Pure, raw satisfaction.

He had said something, but France hadn't caught it. The sound of the door was much louder than his arrogant words were.

France could barely register the fact that neither of them had succeeded in finishing the job, and he couldn't even bring himself to care. But the thought of that also being part of England's scheme was evident, just another way to drive them further apart. Now not only were they as far apart as they could be as individuals, but the nations themselves would be distant from the other as well.

The thought he'd had previously crossed him mind, and his trembling body froze at it.

Many nations had trouble actually getting off when sleeping with others, as morals or other things got in the way of finishing the job and other measures of 'getting the job done' had often been necessary to keep things functioning the way planned.

He began to chuckle at that. Raw, pain filled hysterical laughter filled the room. If someone had heard him, they would have thought it was the cackle of a madman. And perhaps it was. But Francis was not concerned with his sanity. The words kept ringing through his skull, rebounding and crashing through the pillars of his brain and causing him to laugh louder and harder than he ever had in his life.

He didn't get off. Things got in the way.

LOVE got in the way.

And Francis could see why Arthur did what he did and it just made him laugh until he had tears pooling down his face, and slowly, his laughter dulled into heart wrenching sobs.

((Okay kiddies, that's it for the prologue. Next chapter will start off at the world conference, which means it will be similar to the original story, but it will different. But yeah, I told you all that I was going to make it somewhat like the original and I wasn't lying. this time. So yeah! Let me know how it was? And I'm sorry if its messy or hard to understand, I don't have spell check on my laptop, and the last time I checked, I wasn't a Webster... : T))