France awoke from his blissful rest to find his arms empty. He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes before he looked to find his quarters empty too. Something wasn't right. France through the blanket off himself and sprang out of bed, naked in the warm late day sun. England was nowhere to be found. His clothes were gone. France quickly pulled on trousers and ran onto the deck. His ship was still safely nestled in harbor, the red and golds of the setting sun throwing the water into an ever moving cascade of color. France ran to the stern, his heart beating in a panicked rhythm of loud booms. He went below deck and searched his crew's quarters, the kitchen, the storage barracks even in a desperate frenzy that had his breath coming in pants. The cold hard reality hit him like a solid wave. England wasn't on his ship. The whole day he'd wasted sleeping, not having the slightest idea that England wouldn't be there when he woke. He wouldn't have slept if he'd known.

France tried to calm his frantic breathing. England wasn't far. He couldn't be. He'd lost,-

No. England's exact words. What were they.

Fine, I'll do as you wish.

Those were not ' I lose.'

" Putain!" France fell to his knees, his whole body, down to the last nerve, trembling in fury. When he tasted blood he had to remind himself not to grind his teeth. He had no idea how long he kneeled in the dark of the storage barracks. He was overcome with disbelief. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't grasp it. His entire being rejected the reality that was presented before him. " Merde!" If England wasn't on his ship, than England wasn't anywhere else that he knew of. He wouldn't have gone to shore without waking France first. He wouldn't have gone anywhere, not without a ship!

France lifted his head and wiped the tear streaks off his face as he realized. England didn't have his ship. That meant he was traveling by foot. France doubted that proud Captain Arthur Kirkland would have bartered passage on a foreign ship. No, he'd be traveling by foot.

France ran back up the dank stairs and into his quarters. He disregarded his bright, flashy captain's clothes and dressed in commoner's rags. He tied his hair back with a blue ribbon and donned a black cloak. His boots were worn and he wore and leather belt ridden with daggers and hidden weapons. He tied his sword's sheath to his waist and left. Under the cover of darkness, he knew he could find England. Foot games were his specialty. And this was his country. He knew every inch of this land. England did not. And besides, France had a good guess as to what England would do. He'd find him. And this time, he wasn't giving him the chance to escape.

...

England walked through the dark of the forest on a well worn travelers' path. The weather had steadily grown dismal and stormy as he had felt since the morning, and a few moments ago it had started raining buckets. He'd started walking hours ago, and it was well into the night now. He'd asked a young woman in a green skirt who he'd passed what the next town over was, and if there was an inn on this road. She had replied that the inn was at a crossroads, about about thirty kilometers and two left turns down. He'd thanked her and been on his way, traveling until now.

In the distance he could see the glow of the lighted lanterns of the inn. He hurried towards it, his green cloak soaked and his body wet and cold. In all honesty, he was physically and emotionally exhausted and yearned for nothing more than a glass of brandy and a good night's rest. He needed time to lick his wounds, and figure out how to start his life over. Perhaps his reign of the sea was coming to an end. He didn't care.

From what he could make out through the blur of the rain, the inn looked cozy, if somewhat worn and used. He entered, hearing the little bell above the door ring and announce his arrival to the innkeeper, who stood behind a bar where a few tired souls sat drinking their sorrows away. England put his hood down, and went to join them. The innkeeper watched him sit down, and set a heavy glass in front of him automatically.

" What's yer poision?"

" Anything, Everything. I haven't a care." England muttered.

" One of those times, eh?" The innkeeper chuckled and poured the brew. England felt the smell it fill his nose, and welcomed it like a familiar friend. He wrapped his pale hand around the glass and drank the frothy contents.

" I'll be needing lodging for the night as well." England told the innkeeper.

" Aye." The man reached beneath the table and pulled up and key. " The third room on the second floor." England paid the man and took the key, appraising the man.

" Say chap. You look rather familiar. Tell me, what's your trade?"

The man grinned, and England saw a flash of gold. " A good eye on ye, lad. Today, I am nothing more than a humble innkeep. But in my youth.." The man leaned forwards and rolled up his sleeve to reveal his forearm, and the tell tale brand of a capital P. He spoke in a whisper. " I was quite the troublesome lad." He winked.

England grinned. A former pirate. Kinsman.

" I must say, your trade, is, well, a bit all too familiar." England smirked over the rim of his glass as he swallowed the last of the drink. The man grinned in kind.

" Is it now.? It's good to know it carries on, never changing." The man had a faraway look in his eye that disappeared quickly. " By what tides do you sail, my fine fellow?"

" I sail all year. But recently, a storm bucked me from my ship. I'm heading up to port, to listen for rumorings of where she is."

The man gave him a sympathetic look and pressed his lips together. " Tis a sad day when a man's lover throws him away." He sighed.

England felt his heart clench sharply at the man's unintentional double meaning. He swallowed the lump in his throat. " Yes, well.. I must retire now, I'm afraid."

The man nodded. " Aye, you'll want the sleep if you're heading up to port. It's at least another two days' journey, and this is the last stop with a bed and fire!" He chuckled.

England nodded and excused himself. He went to his room, feeling like his feet and heart were made of iron. He shuffled into his room and closed the door. A young boy, probably working for the innkeeper, was starting a fire in the fireplace, and the lamps were already lit. He scurried out when England entered.

He shuffled out of his wet clothes and shoes and cloak and laid them by the fireplace to dry before extinguishing the lamps and going naked into bed. He wet hair laid against the pillow's coolness and he shivered. Finally giving in to the inevitable, he cried.

The cackle of the fire was quiet, and England held onto the sound for comfort. If he could hear the fire, no one else could hear his sobs. They wracked his shoulders, and caused his breath to come in shaky, erratic gasps. His nose ran with snot and he couldn't find a damn to wipe it away with. Tear soaked his pillow and yet they didn't cease to flow.

With time, he knew, the agony would fade. He knew the pain he felt now would go. Slowly, albeit, but it would eventually go. Until that day, when he could lay his head on his pillow and not think of him, when he could wake in the early dawn light and not feel the painful emptiness of his bed, when the day came he could pull his cheeks into a grin and not feel as if it was the deepest of betrayals, until that day he would love France. But when that day came, he would be free.

The price he would pay for that day was this. A soggy pillow and empty soul.

But, he thought, flipping the pillow over as the fire glowed and cast his dancing silhouette on the wall, it was a cheap price, wasn't it? The love he and France had was not a mere trinket, or a worn out old book. It was a grand monument, a vast library. He deserved a much more reasonable price for breaking such an exquisite, irreplaceable thing.

Hell, he thought. I deserve hell.

A lifetime of misery was really too cheap.

...

There. There he was. The sleeping man, oh so peacefully resting in the glow of the dying fire.

It was as if he'd wanted to be left alone what with the secrecy he'd gone about with his travels. He'd put on a new disguise, or so France had figured out, each time he'd asked directions or questions, so he became very hard to track. A port connects a million different towns, or webworks of travelling roads to a million different towns! It was a very easy place to get oneself lost in.

It's almost as if he'd tried his hardest to ensure France didn't find him.

Which would make sense, mon Angelterre, he thought, if it wasn't for ze fact zat you tricked me. I won't be giving you a second chance.

France took off his soaking cloak and tossed it to the fire, not bothering to be quiet. He didn't care. He was beyond livid.

A 25 mile hike through the woods in the rain at night was not the best of trips to put a jilted Frenchman in a good mood.

He walked to the bed, and kicked the sleeping figure clean onto the hard, cold floor.

England sprang awake, instantly furious. He got to his feet unsteadily, wrapping the blanket around his naked waist and shouting, " Who in the ever loving fuck is-" He stopped when he saw France stand on the other side of the bed. His body glowed in the firelight, and it seemed like hellfire illuminated his silouette. He glanced away, his throat closing.

" I'll give you one chance." France's voice was a low rumble, barely containing his rage. " Repeat after me: I lose."

The air was tense, the tension so thick you could cut it.

England remained silent.

France sprang.

He jumped over the bed and kicked England in the chest with one powerful blow that sent him to the ground. He grimaced from the pain but quickly rolled out of the way of France's two big boots landing where just a second ago he had been. He sprang up and tackled France's middle, and they crashed to the floor.

" Stop it!" England punched him once, just to rattle him enough to get some sense into him, but it only further enraged France. France kneed him in the back and hit his face with a cold, bony fist. England fell to the side with his head spinning, and France was on top of him before he could move, punching his face with ferocious speed.

France let out everything he had bottled up on the way here. All the heartbreak, all the confusion, all the anger at the betrayal. Each punch to the traitor's face eased his mind just a little, so without mercy, he wailed on the Englishman until he was out of breath, not pausing, not ceasing, not allowing any spot where England might make a counter attack. He beat him ruthlessly, and England, even if he'd been physically able to, did nothing.

He accepted each blow. He deserved them. Even when he saw stars, and felt the blood that flowed from his mouth and nose pool beneath his head, even when he felt like he couldn't breath, he did nothing.

And France stopped. After who knows how long, he stopped. They both were out of breath. France looked down at the man below him. The left side of his face was swollen and purple, almost unrecognizable with an eye swollen shut. He was bleeding heavily. England didn't care about the pain, he was more concerned with breathing. His breath came in ragged cries. No, wait. That wasn't his breath. He turned his head, and through his one good eye he saw France staring down at him, tearing flowing down his livid face. England's heart stopped.

He'd done this. He knew he would. He couldn't bear it. But he couldn't just-

" Why?" England looked at France, who stared down at him, wondering why his vision was blurry.

England found his voice. " Why what?"

France pulled one arm back and slapped him as hard as he could. England spat blood.

" Why, Arthur!?" France slapped him again, on the other side. " WHY!" He couldn't see anymore, and he could barely breathe. He heard himself sobbing but could hardly comprehend it was himself who let out those sounds. He couldn't make out much anything except his fury.

England took a deep breath, trying to brace himself, preparing to explain himself.

" I.. just.. I can't.. Francis." He looked at the man he loved, the man he was breaking above him. " I'm England. I can't lose our game." He choked out. " If I lose than it means my whole country, all my people, my whole culture, will be gone." He looked up at the man, trying to get him to understand, even though if he did it would still be pointless. " I can't lose." He whispered.

France slapped him again.

" As if zat is your reasoning! I know you, mon cher, and I know you are lying! Your country may be as important as you say, but do not zink for one second zat I am fooled by you! You knew what would happen when we started zis! You knew what one day you may have to give up! I did too! We both did! Still, we went through with it, and do you know why, you stupid, pig-headed fool!?"

He waited until England shook his head yes.

" It was because we love each other."

And in that moment when those beautiful words escaped his lips, all of the fury and despair was gone, leaving in its memory only the hurt and ache they both felt.

France kissed him, and England kissed him back.

" All zese years, my love, and you haven't changed at all. You're still a proud, stubborn fool." He whispered into his lips.

England felt his tears land on his face. He wrapped his arms around his head, all reason lost in the magic of the moment when France whispered,

" You win, mon cher. I lose"

England froze. He sat up, and France watched him.

" What did you say?"

France smiled a bitter, teary eyed smile.

" I said it first, mon cher. I lose."

England just stared, confused, and France smiled, getting to his feet and dusted off his knees.

" Well, I suppose ze real problem is simply zat you are far too proud. So if I say it first, zen you, zen zere is really no problem. Because if I lose, and you lose, mon amour, it will simply mean zat you and I lose to each other, not our whole countries. Our people will sacrifice nothing. The French will still be French, and the English will still be English. Nothing will be lost, just you and me, together forever."

France pulled England to his feet, and kissed him softly.

" All zat is left, my life, my love, my Arthur, is for you to say it."

England's mind was racing. Could it really be that simple? He couldn't see if France was tricking him, because France had already said it! If he didn't say it in turn, it would mean he would be victorious. France was putting the fate of all of his people in England's hands. He loved and trusted him to that extent.

The only question was: would he say it back?

...

France held his breath, everything on the table. He had no aces, no safety net, no lifeboat. This was it. He had showed England, stubborn, proud, oh so very insecure England the true extent of his love. The true thing he was asking right now, as he held his breath and waited in tense silence for his reply, was if England loved him the same way he loved England.

That was it.

He had placed his entire country on a gamble of love.

It was almost poetic.

England licked his lips, and buried his head in France's shoulder. France heard the tiniest of whispers, quiet, embarrassed, but oh so very there,

" I lose."

France kissed him with everything he had, his heart, his spirit, his soul, he poured it all into that one kiss. He pulled England to the bed, pulling off his own clothes and kissed him, and England kissed him back just as passionately. Everything lick and flaming touch was met with a stronger one. They couldn't get enough. They were insatiable. It was impossible, and beautiful, and miraculous.

They made love until dawn, and then lay in each other's sweaty arms as the sun slowly rose, whispering sweet nothings to each other and smiling.

" I love you."

" And I, you. Even if you tire me."

" You near exhaust me." England replied.

" You're impossible." France retorted with a smirk.

" I really don't think there will ever, in history, be a game quite as tiring as that one was. Let's pray that no one will have to go through something like what we put ourselves through."

" No other lovers with be stupid enough to play such a game."

" Such a tiring sport."

" One hell of a sport. Mon dieu."

" The Sport, I should say. No other sport could compare."