It was almost midnight, a few hours after a World Meeting, and England just wanted some goddamn coffee from that quaint, twenty four hour bakery down the street that had somehow converted him to coffee. Was that too much to ask from the Universe? Apparently so, because it was few minutes from midnight, where there was almost no one to bloody fucking piss on, and it had started to rain. No, rain was an understatement. It had started to shit water bricks. Pounding, stinging, pai- and oh bloody hell, was that hail? - water bricks. Looking left and right, he noticed that most of the shops were closed, in fact, not a single light was on in the entire street. The only light was the pale lamplight, shining onto the old cobblestone road and flashing fragmented memories in his mind of when the street was still new. Shaking his head to clear out the nostalgic and unwanted memories (because what he really needed right now was a reminder that he was old), he reached for his umbrella when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Reflexively, he brought up the umbrella he was clutching (why hadn't he opened it when the Universe starting pissing?) to swipe whatever it was away. A second after he realized how juvenile the action was (he had just batted what was likely someones hand away like a child), he turned to apologize to whoever it was that approached him at this ungodly hour, only to find a soaking France looking at him through dripping golden locks, that had turned a shade darker. He absolutely hated the way that he knew exactly what shade of fucking-gorgeous-gold his enemy's hair was. After all, it wasn't like he stared at those golden locks when they fell into France's face perfectly as he tipped his head to take notes at the World Meeting. Absolutely not! Because men did not fantasize about running their fingers through their male enemy's soft looking locks like some giggly school girl. ESPECIALLY men who were god-I-really-really-REALLY-don't-want-to-remember-how-old, old. And now said luscious-hair-endowed enemy was looking at him weirdly. Fuck, he probably said something! He was going to ignore the little voice in his head that pointed out how odd it was that he hadn't been focusing on those deliciously soft lips. Because fuck that voice.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here frog? It's almost midnight!" He turned his head down, refusing to look at France and hiding his slight blush all in the same smooth, used-before move (there's no need to fix something that ain't broken).

"I could ask you the same thing, Angelterre."

"You could, but I'd rip your balls off."

"So then I probably shouldn't, non?" France gave him that absolutely perfect half-smile, eyes glittering in amusement, and England couldn't resist a half smile of his own.

"No frog, you probably shouldn't."

"Then may I ask why you haven't opened your umbrella?" His eyes widened in recognition as he realized he was soaking wet, and suddenly, as if all at once the rain he hadn't felt was being dumped onto his head, he felt a torrent of water beat down on him. Cursing, he weakly lifted a hand to stop the onslaught. Upon seeing this France laughed.

"Ah, chere, you know your umbrella is right there..." France gestured to his umbrella with his own, waving it around.

"Ah yes, but I'm already soaked, so is there a point?"

"Non, I suppose not. But you might catch a cold, you should find somewhere to wait out the rain." England didn't hear a teasing tone in his voice, in fact, it seemed laced with genuine concern. For some strange reason he was absolutely not willing to accept, this made him feel kind-of warm and fuzzy inside. KIND-OF. Because there was no way France could make him feel warm and fuzzy. After all, old men (yes, he resigned himself to the fact that he was old) did not feel warm and fuzzy. They also aren't supposed to blush... Fuck you little voice! Begrudgingly, he admitted that he was also... maybe... slightly... worried about France.

"What about you... frog." But the insult didn't have its usual, biting tone, it seemed almost... endearing. He looked France over (TOTALLY not checking him out! He was more mature then that!) He was wearing a pair of dark jeans that he had probably changed into after the meeting, which were even darker and soaking wet, sticking to his legs because of the rain. His black boots were slick with water, and he just knew France was going to slip by the time the night was over (no-not that he'd stick around for that!). His black jacket was also soaked, not meant for the heavy English rain. He had a deep purple scarf would around his neck, the ends hanging limply. His golden locks clung to the side of his face, dipping. He also, England noticed wryly, was clutching an umbrella in the hand that was not stuffed into his coat pocket. Yet despite the fact that he was soaked, he seemed genuinely happy, a soft smile on his lips and a gleam in his eyes. All in all, he looked fucking gorgeous. But-but... ah fuck it, in the privacy of his own mind he could at least admit his enemy's attractive-ness.

"I like the rain, I think I'm going to take a walk." England sputtered.

"Y-you idiot! You tell me about catching a cold and you're going to bloody walk in Universe piss?! Wh-what if you watch a cold and I have to watch you walk around with a cute red nose! AND WHY THE BLOODY HELL DID I JUST SAY THAT?!" France had merely listened to his speech with an amused expression, his eyes widening at the last part. England, for his part, managed to send heat to his face despite the cold that now bit into him, blushing a deep red.

"Ah, Angelterre-"

"Not. Another. Word." The venom and sheer force of his words effectively shut France up, and he allowed himself a small mental victory dance, despite the embarrassment still prominent on his cheeks.

"Oui, oui, désolé." He had spent MORE then enough time around France and understood his French partially, enough to know he was apologizing. It was quite nice, actually, to hear the frog admit he was wrong. They might even be having a moment.

"But, without mentioning it, may I say you look absolutely adorable when you blush?" Ah, there it was, the inevitable moment ruin-er.

"N-NO! Absolutely not, I am not adorable you bloody frog!"

"Ah, je désolé, sexy." England's blush, which was just starting to recede, intensified with renewed vigor. Bloody frog and his seductive accent!

"Arsehole."

"Tu sais que vous l'aimes."

"I have no bloody idea what you just said, wanker." Maybe it was a little late, but he just realized that they had been standing here, bathed in lamplight, getting pelted by rain, for god knows how long, without really attempting to kill each other. Just a few half-hearted insults and a simple comment from France to rile him up.

"Um, France?"

"Oui?"

"Why aren't we trying to kill each other?" France let out a chuckle.

"I don't know about you, chere, but the rain calms me."

"I-I suppose it is nice." England had grown up surrounded by his country's rain. To be honest, he was sort of desensitized, the rain not really having much of an effect on him anymore. But ah, such was the effect of age. In addition, rain brought back painful memories, memories of revolutions, war, sadness, nothing good ever seemed to come from rain.

"Ah, mon chere, do not lie to me."

"I'm not saying that its bad... I just don't really care all that much anymore."

"Oui, I suppose one wouldn't, after spending so much time in the rain." Ever since his realization, he had been acutely aware that they were just standing there.

"France, would you like to... go to a coffee shop with me?"

"Like a date?"

"NO! No, of course not! Just something to get us out of the rain. We have just been standing here." France looked as if the thought had just hit him.

"Oui, I suppose I lost track of time. Well, Angelterre, I would love to go on a date with you at midnight."

"It's not a bloody date!"

"Whatever you say, chere, whatever you say."

"Can you at least be consistant with what you call me, frog?"

"Very well, chere."

"At least you're not butchering my country's name with your froggy language." France merely laughed and took his hand out of his pocket to grab England's, intertwining their fingers. England's not-quite-gone blush darkened slightly. France's hand was cold, his long, slender fingers callused from years of war, yet somehow soft. England tried to force himself to yank his hand away, but found he couldn't. He began to tug them toward the coffee shop, France sticking closer then necessary, and him still trying to manage that feeling of disgust. In fact, all he could do was feel the others hand in his and smile. Maybe he was getting old? A few minutes of walking in silence, linked hands swinging back and forth, curtsy of France, soon yielded to an inevitable bored France. Using the hand that wasn't attached to hid, France poked him with his umbrella.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Another poke.

"Are we close?"

"You'll see." ANOTHER poke. England's very little patience was wearing thin very fast. Without asking a question, France poked him again. The next time he moved to poke him, he batted France's umbrella away with his own, much like the beginning of this odd midnight adventure. He stopped them right in front of the coffee shop, the only light besides the tall, olden style lamps on the street, to turn around and childishly poke France in the chest with his umbrella. France poked him in the shoulder. England retaliated. France blocked said retaliation. Smirking, confidence oozing out of said smirk, England stepped back, motioning for France to come forward with his hand. France's smirk twined his own, and he lunged forward. England effectively parried, lunging at France's stomach. Sadly, France managed to dodge just in the nick of time. France spun around, trying to hit his shoulder. He smiled as his old fencing and swordsman skills came back to him, and blocked. What started out as a simple poking and prodding became a window to the past. But not the many wars they had fought against each other, no, but the times they had sparred for fun, when France still wore dresses and England was still learning to fence. Both men were laughing out loud, play-taunting the other. England lunged, and just barely caught France, but left himself open. France caught the opportunity and jabbed him in the gut, causing England to lean over, slightly out of breath. He quickly caught his breath and stood up, shaking his hair to get the soggy, wet hair out of his eyes. The rain pelted down on them as they jumped back and forth in front of the coffee shop, lunging and laughing and swearing. Good god, he couldn't remember having this much fun, letting go like this! They continued to lunge back and forth until they ran out of breath and had to call a cease fire to catch their breaths. Throwing his head back, France let out a laugh, and England soon followed. He leaned against the cold brick wall of the coffee shop, slumping slightly, breathing heavily, rain still falling down. He turned his head up, looking at the sky, the rain, the stars that weren't really there in the middle of the city, everything. Suddenly he felt something press against his body lightly, and a hand reached up and brought his chin down. He found himself face to face with beautiful azure blue orbs. He lightly sucked in a breath of surprise. France was pressed up against him, France's face was literally millimeter's away from his. France's lips were so goddamn bloody close.

"F-France?" France didn't respond, merely pressed his lips lightly against his. England's eyes widened, but quickly fluttered shut. France's kiss was perfect. It was soft and sweet, his lips gently moving in harmony with his. Perfect. England couldn't think, only watch from the back of his mind as pure instinct and maybe something else he didn't want to think about drove him to respond, moving his lips with France's. His lips were so soft, and tasted faintly like mint and wine and France. He put a bare, ungloved hand on France's cheek, feeling the cold on the others skin. France pulled away slowly, letting his lips linger just above England's. They simply stared at each other, France's eyes filled with compassion and kindness and something he really didn't want to think about. When had this happened? Where there signs? Since when... it didn't matter. He had no idea when it happened, of course there were no signs, it was just there. And it felt right. He kissed his enemy softly in the rain and it felt fucking right. They looked at each other and something just seemed to click, because suddenly France's lips were shoved roughly on his and it was a whole other kiss than before. It was rough and full of need and want and something he was not afraid to acknowledge as lust and oh-god-when-the-fuck-did-this-happen. But he didn't care because good god France could kiss. His lips moved against his roughly and hotly, passion spreading through every inch of his body and causing England to let out a loud moan. France dragged his tongue across his lip and England didn't have the strength to deny him, parting his lips. France's tongue slipped into his mouth, beginning a harsh battle for dominance that of course France won. Their lips pulsed against each other, never slowing down. Finally, they had to pull away for air, their breathing ragged. But as soon as they caught their breath they were at it again, France's lips on his, his tongue in his mouth. England needed an anchor, and he tangled his hands in France's sopping hair, finding it to be just as soft as he'd imagined. He tugged the sopping locks roughly, causing France to moan into the kiss. France snagged an arm around his waist, pulling his body as close as possible, practically smashing them together. His other hand buried itself in England's soaked hair, giving a light tug, which caused his lips to part, allowing France entry once again. England gladly submitted to the sheer pleasure France was causing, letting France completely dominate the kiss. His knees buckled, but the taller mans arms around his waist held him up. When they parted again, France's lips were slightly swollen, and he could only imagine how he himself looked. Once their breathing settled, France's lips twisted into a smirk he guess he HAD to admit he found extremely sexy.

"Merde, Angelterre..."

"Yeah, I know..." France chuckled, digging his hand deeper into England's hair. And the rain was still pouring.

"We could call a cab back to my place..." England suggested.

"Of course we'd have to occupy ourselves until it arrived, non?" An identical smirk appeared on his lips.

"Of course." He quickly dialed a taxi, desperately trying to ignore France's hand slipping up his shirt throughout the call. Finally, the second he snapped his phone shut, France's hand tugged at the waist of his pants, pulling him towards him. As he roughly kissed the other man, he had a brief thought before he was overcome by pleasure.

Maybe France was right. The rain is nice. Very nice. And maybe he can help an old man feel young again?

Why are AN's so hard to write? T.T Seriously, I've deleted about six of these X.X -_- I guess that's what happened when you're blessed with Social Retardation mixed with a dash of Sarcastic Bitch. Everything I say comes out cut, dry and blunt. #-_-

Oh, but oddly enough, I like smileys.

Anyway, fellow kind fans of FrUK, please click the little review button and give a new author the satisfied feeling of ohmahdeargawdareviewohmahdea rgod .

~Much love, Madame Pervert (who does not own Hetalia)