A few nights ago I was trying to go to sleep so I could wake up at a relatively decent hour. Then the idea for this story hit. =_=;;

I worked out the entire thing in my head before I could fall asleep because I was afraid of loosing the story if it wasn't "finished". I'm not sure if that's a weird mix of insomnia and OCD, but either way, here it is.

England and France shared a strange relationship.

They were enemies, two countries whose entire existences were the bane of the other's. Their people fought, their leaders argued, and the two personified countries themselves never really got along.

Or at least to the public eye.

In private, Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy were strange friends. They still argued and called each other every derogatory term in the book, but at the end of the day, it was completely possible for the two of them to sit down at a bar together to share the afternoon.

A glass of rum in Arthur's hand.

A glass of wine in Francis's.

They kept in touch with each other often. Every few weeks they would send letters explaining what their lives were like without the other there, both trying to one up the other in a perpetual game of "This is why my home is better than yours."

It, of course, was all in good fun.

But after two straight months of not hearing from Francis, Arthur felt antsy. His home had its own problems but he could not shake the worry from the back of his mind. Francis's letters were delivered notoriously punctual. He missed receiving the overly decorated envelope with a kiss mark as a seal.

Arthur booked the first trip to France he could. Travel by ship seemed to take forever, each lazy wave pushing the boat along took more of his patience with it. He remembered seeing newspapers and hearing chatter of his citizens as he walked toward the loading docks. Rumors of revolution in France.

Could that be it?

The ship docked after what seemed like an eternity and Arthur made his way to Paris. As soon as he stepped into the city, he was thankful he wore his cloak. The entire city had a feeling of unease. Normal bright, beautiful Paris was reduced to a mass of grey and brown buildings, people rushing around in a panic. The usual attitude of welcoming and flirting was replaced by one of distrust. No one made eye contact. Following their example, Arthur ducked his head, lifting his hood to cover his face, and ran to Francis's apartment.

Arthur pulled out a key ring. Out of the twenty or so keys, he picked out the spare key to Francis's apartment on his first try. The door clicked open, and he walked into an empty house. When he managed to get away from his duties back home to visit the embodiment of France, he usually arrived while something was happening at the apartment. Parties, dances, random social get-togethers…Francis held them all. But now…

Now the lamps were not lit. There were no extravagant decorations. No one cooked in the kitchen. No one danced. No one spoke. The place was empty. Arthur felt his heart sink at the sight, knowing Francis would throw a fit if he saw his home this way.

Where was Francis?

And then he heard a cough. A weak, choking cough.

It took every ounce of self control he had not to sprint up the stairs to where he knew Francis's bedroom was. The room was dangerous territory, and he didn't like to think of what all went on in there, but considering the circumstances he figured he would risk it.

"France…?"

The Frenchman laid in his bed, curled up with his face buried in the sheets.

"France?" Arthur moved closer and his mental radar of "something is wrong" went off the chart. France wasn't dressed as he normally did to bed (naked). He was not even in fancy, silk nightwear… No, Francis wore plain brown cotton pants, a cotton long sleeve white shirt, and for some reason, a short scarf.

"Go away…" Francis coughed out. Arthur barely heard it.

"What?"

"Leave…please." Arthur moved closer, enough to see Francis's face scrunched up in pain. One of his long, delicate hands curved around his neck. It was shaking slightly.

"…What's wrong…? France, what is going on here?"

Francis looked at him, his eyes glazed over and out of focus. "England… it is all…gotten out of hand."

Could it be? "The Revolution?"

The Frenchman smiled sickly, sarcastically. "No one knows what they are doing anymore… At first there seemed to be plans. To…to fix problems. Now, now it is only killing. They treat it as a sport…" His voice cracked toward the end. A strange half sob that make Arthur's insides twist.

Once the mental floodgates were opened, Francis let everything out. "The rich, the poor, men, women, the guilty, the innocent… they kill them all. And people just like them come to watch. Come to watch that accursed piece of metal come flying down."

Arthur's eyes went wide. The Guillotine.

"France, for goodness sake they are your people! Get out there and do something!"

"Don't you think I have tried?" His chest heaved, reducing him to another coughing fit and some gagging. He fell limply onto his bed, gasping for a few moments before continuing. His eyes wet with tears that threatened to fall. "There is no government right now… There are so many groups claiming the…the title of government but… No one can do anything… And they, they rely on that machine instead of courts. I cannot do anything. Yet they hurt me…"

"How?" Arthur felt a surge of protectiveness rush over him. Not only as friends, but as one country to another. "How did they hurt you?"

"They hurt themselves…so they hurt me. I am them, oui?" Francis sat up, swaying a moment. Shaky hands fumbled with the scarf and it fell onto his lap.

Bandages wrapped all the way around his neck. Toward the back, blood soaked through.

"France. They…they didn't-"

"Non… This happened out of the blue. It started out as a scratch on the back of my neck, barely visible, but I can feel it growing. The doctors all say the cut is not deep, but it bleeds constantly." Two long fingers reached behind his neck and dabbed the bandage. Francis inspected his fingertips and frowned. "They need to be changed… England, may I ask for…for your assistance?"

England could only nod. "Of course."

The Englishman moved to help him out of the bed. Arthur was shocked at how light his friend was. Francis was not heavy, by any means, but due to this sickness he seemed to be weightless in his arms.

The two slowly walked to the bathroom down the hallway. Francis's stomach got upset from all the motion, no matter how subtle their footsteps were, and as soon as they entered the bathroom he collapsed in front of the toilet, vomiting what little he had in his stomach. Like any friend would, Arthur immediately pulled Francis's hair back. From that angle, he saw that Francis was only vomiting up clear liquid. There was not anything in his stomach.

"France…when was the last time you ate something?"

"I cannot keep anything down...I do not feel well enough to..." He looked down as he worked on loosening knots in his stomach muscles.

This sickness took so much from him. Arthur looked his best friend over, his throat tightening from realization on how severe this was. No appetite, weight loss, his hair felt brittle and did not shine like it normally did, and that cut…

That ring around Francis's neck, bleeding constantly from the back.

Francis slowly stood, and Arthur was ready with a damp washcloth to wipe his mouth. The Frenchman thanked him and motioned to the cabinet above the sink. "There are bandages in there."

Arthur opened the cabinet and retrieved the bandages. He looked over and saw Francis pull the old bandages off. Just as he imaged, a clear cut ring circled his throat. It opened wider in the back of his neck, and bright red blood dripped slowly out of the shallow cut. The back of the neck was where the Guillotine would hit first. Did this mean that if the Revolution kept going the cut would get progressively deeper, like an invisible blade cutting France's own head off? It would not come to that, right? Right?

"England…?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." He stuttered as he began dressing the wound. Francis held still. No smooth talk, no arguing or instigating…Nothing. If anything, he looked more tired than before. The worst part was there was nothing he could do, nothing either of them could do to fix this. This was the people's problem, one of the few they had to solve themselves. Francis was just another casualty.

Francis inspected the new bandages and nodded. "They are good. Now I think I need sleep…" He gave Arthur a weak smile, who returned it with his own shaky smile. The two walked back just as they had came, and once they arrived back at the bedroom, Arthur pulled the sheets away and laid Francis down. He tucked his friend in and held his hand.

He wanted to say something. It'll be okay? No. That didn't sound right. They won't kill you. Well… This will pass soon enough?

No. He squeezed Francis's hand. No, no, no…

"…Arthur."

He looked at his friend. Francis smiled. "Thank you for your help, mon cheri. I will be back on my feet as soon as this whole mess has blown over."

He tried to ignore the sting in his eyes. It was not tears. He did not want to cry. He believed in France. He just had to believe.

Arthur brought Francis's hand to his mouth and gave him a soft kiss. The older country's eyes brightened up. He smiled.

"Francis Bonnefoy, don't you dare die on me."

With whatever strength Francis hand left before sleep took him he put into pulling Arthur down to his level. The two countries lips met, barely brushing. Francis grinned as the Englishman stood up again.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Arthur Kirkland."

Psudo-Angst fic is angsty?c

The Guillotine was used on anyone and everyone during the French Revolution, usually with very little (if any) justification. From what I have learned in school and read it was a time of mass chaos. Wouldn't the personification of France be hurting from all that craziness? I think all the countries in Hetalia have scars and the power to hide those scars. France's larges scar he hides is the one on his neck (Or at least I'm gonna pretend he does.)