AN: Just to clear some things up, I do have several more Hetalia ideas to pop out, and I will finish my multichaps, but I just won't be so... enthusiastic? I don't know, but I am still writing for Hetalia.

I was reading the book, not really paying attention to the voices in the background. Then again, I was not really reading either, just making mental notes of the stains on each page. The television broadcast was the same stuff I had known for the past 7 months, and what France was saying did not really matter. I glanced away from the book in reaction to him prodding my shoulder.

"Quit it, France," I muttered, swinging the book lightly in his direction. He frowned and moved several inches away from me.

"Can you not even yell at me properly since you cannot listen to me so?" he asked somewhat melodramatically. I rolled my eyes and flashed a glare at him.

"Remind me why you are even here, France," I said, now irritated. He scoffed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

"Your prime minister still thinks you need a friend here with you." I deadpanned at him.

"Then why the hell are you here?" I grumbled.

"Ah, there is the cranky lutin I know!" I winced at the French, even if it was just a single word.

"Well please leave then now that you got your insult, you filthy woman."

"Oh! Another one!"

I groaned and returned my attention to the book, trying to block out the giggles France was giving off. After a few moments of his laughter only getting stronger, I slammed the book shut and glared venomously at him. He stopped, a final snort elicited, before he cleared his throat and turned to the television.

"And colonisation of the remaining land is still-" France turned the channel.

"Turn that back," I muttered.

"Is it healthy to watch those constantly?" he inquired, flipping the channel back.

"Doesn't really matter... He's been gone for almost a year..." France hummed, keeping the controller pointed at the screen.

"Although a newer confederacy has been founded, vast amounts of land are unkempt still. No official governments established, these almost city-states are surviving on their own with personal currencies and-"

"Hmm... Maybe we could pick up colonisatio-"

"No, France. We both know that that is not a good idea." He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

For several more moments we heard the report switch from talking about the remnant of the States to something about local crime.

"Mon Dieu, we are old..." France muttered. I glanced at him with curiosity.

"I beg your pardon?" He looked at me with a grin.

"We outlived America and many nations are younger than us... It is a weird thought, no?"

"I suppose so... I mean... He lived for four centuries. That is not terrible..." My throat clenched, my mind telling me I was walking on eggshells.

"Hmm, but even we are nearing our end."

"Indeed we are."

We were silent for a few moments until France sighed and looked into his lap.

"Does it disturb you?"

"That we are dying?" I hummed in thought. "Not really... Twelve-hundred years has been an awfully long time. And you have more on your age."

"That is not what I meant, but I agree with you." He swore under his breath and turned the television off. "I meant... That America came after us and parted before us. That he was with you for only a fraction of your life."

I bit my lip, my eyes stinging.

"Ah... Well, I suppose it was odd. You'd think he'd outlive us," I said, laughing hollowly at the end. "He was so vibrant and full of life... But his own stupidity got the better of him."

"Was there anything you wish you could have done with him before he passed?" I glared at France.

"What are you, my fucking psychologist?"

"Just trying to console a friend... You said you were over his passing, but I suppose you are not."

"Since when are we friends? God, France, have some damned tact..." I froze. Dear Lord, why did I say that. France pursed his lips and stared intently at me.

"I haven't heard you tell someone to have tact in quite a while." I turned away from him and rubbed my eyes.

"I am sorry for bursting like that. I-I guess that you are right."

"Of course I am," he said smugly. I almost glared at him had it not been for the fact that my eyes were actually hurting pretty badly. "Look, it is nothing to be ashamed of... I too am still in sorrow about our dear friend."

"I don't think you understand, France..."

"I probably don't, but-"

"Oh God, and those that celebrated when he deteriorated away. How the hell could they-" I interrupted myself with a choke on my breath.

"England..."

"And I never told him just how much I actually liked his regional accents... And that he was really intelligent, just immature and daft... A-and-"

"Do we need to change the subject?"

"No... No, I am fine..." That was a lie. But I would be damned if France saw me in some state like some bleeding housewife that lost her spouse.

"Fine then..."

I nodded and for several more moments we sat on the couch, me trying to dry my eyes with my hand, France sighing every ten seconds.

I was no where near fine. There were no more obnoxious laughs in my ears to annoy me; no more shouting voices to wake me from the kitchen downstairs; no more embraces that nearly crushed me. No one would be able to see his conceited grins or his visionary plans any more. He was not there to comfort others or help them with his stupid hero ideals.

"Ah, damn it," I muttered, my thoughts getting the best of me.

"Something wrong?" France asked, his attention shifting to me slightly.

I laughed a few times even though my eyes were showing anything but happiness. "France, do you remember when America chose me over you because I was sulking? Or when he threw you clear across a field when he was still a child."

"Ah, yes I do, are the me-"

"Or when he joked, and said that your sure were something pitiful if you had to have your military trained by his; him being so much younger. O-or how even after me being at war with him twice..." I froze for a moment, my eyes widening slightly.

"He still chose to be with me..." France shifted in his seat slightly, moving the tiniest bit closer to me.

"Oh God... All those times he said that he had always loved me... You don't think that when he was young that-?"

"It is... a possibility," France offered. I blanched slightly, the thought something that had plagued me for the past couple of decades. America had hinted at it so much, but I guess I had more or less not wanted to believe it.

"Oh dear Lord..." I muttered. "And I was always so rude to him..."

"You were just yourself... And he seemed to enjoy the banter, no?"

"Why did he love me through all that...?" I whispered to myself. France set a hand on my shoulder, but I swatted it away. I did not want France of all people to comfort me.

I wanted America.

"Love is crazy at times..." he offered.

I pressed the palms of my hands against my eyes and sucked in a shaky breath.

Indeed it was crazy. It was also painful, extremely so.

"You two will see one another again," France reassured.

"Stop giving me hopes, you imbecile..." I muttered. France bit at his lip and turned away, not knowing what to do.

But I did hope that anyway; it was for a split moment before I crushed it. Out of all the times America and I had to part from one another, the permanency of this departure made it that much more bleak.

And so I sat on the couch of my main room, a little yellow book in my lap, dying. Just the thought that I was was not nearly as comfortable or calm as I had been when he was still here.

"I am not giving you hopes, England. You will see him again."

"I doubt it..."

"Fine then, if you want to remain your bitter old self, you may. I am just trying to console you a little." I scowled and turned to him.

"Well don't. Please, it isn't your job to do it, so I do not need you to just because our bosses wanted you to." France swore again, me now just irritated.

"I suppose kindness is something you only accepted from him anyway..."

"What are you mumbling about now?"

France sighed and stood up, gathering his coat that was on the couch. "I am leaving, England. You told me you did not require me so I shall... what was that phrase he used to say... Ah! Make haste and scram." I winced a little at him.

"If you are going to be bitter, I do not desire to be around while you are so. Especially since you made it so plainly obvious you do not desire me to be here." I scowled at him.

"Fine then, you bleeding troll."

France glanced at me before sighing and shaking his head. "Good bye, England," he muttered, irritation in his words.

"Bye," I replied bluntly. He walked out of the room and exited from the nearby front door, taking enough consideration to not slam it like I expected him to.

When I heard a car start up and then depart, I sighed and fell onto my side.

"Well going, old chap. Just scared away the only person that can really tolerate you..." I snickered; France did not tolerate, he took things with a grimace and an insult in his language. I groaned and rubbed my hand.

I was being bitter and rude though; I was supposed to be stronger in a situation like this. Maybe I was an old man on the inside like America had always said.

I wondered what America would be doing right now if he was still here.

I inhaled sharply and yawned before sitting myself upright and grabbing at my book. I needed to put this away.

So, I stood up and begrudgingly began walking to my library. The halls seemed smaller than usual, the feeling of me getting there much quicker than I estimated nagging at me.

When I opened the oak doors to the room, the click of the handle echoed upon the walls and many dusty books.

"It's filthy in here," I mumbled, the examination a sad truth. I began walking to the shelf the book belonged to and pushed aside space to slide it in, when something shimmering caught my eye.

Immediately below the window nearest me was a table. It had only been there about a year, but yet seemed completely native here. I stepped towards it and glared down.

In the center was a small wooden box with a glass top, revealing the meticulously folded brown leather within.

I hummed and reached for the top of the box, unlatching it more eagerly than I would like to admit. The compressed fabric pushed the lid upwards, already inviting me to take the jacket inside. So I did.

I walked over to the couch and set both the book and America's bomber jacket on the arm before trotting over to the radio not too far off.

I was digging myself a hole and I knew it.

Turning it to a station that always had the classical music, my eyes already began to hurt. It was not the same song with the singing that America had listened to, but it just very well may have been. The melody was familiar anyway, so I began humming to it, swaying my hips slightly.

"Dear Lord, I am a sentimental old fool, aren't I?" I asked nothing in particular. I snickered somewhat sarcastically at myself and walked back to the couch.

No, I did not want to believe we would meet again like France had said. I am not sure I wanted to see him again; one could only take so many departures.

I did want to see him again though.

With a sigh, I picked up the two items and sat down. I hung the heavy jacket over my shoulders and inhaled its scent once before berating myself for being ridiculous. With a shake of my head, I opened the book up and began to read.

I wondered if America would be smiling right now.