Author's Note: After talking about Francy-Pants feels with I'mDoneDreaming77, I decided to finally write out this idea I've had in my mind for a little while. Enjoy!

During the January of 1939, France was recovering from a long headache. These weary European days were keeping him down, as of late. All these threats and too much unnecessary drama coming from his neighbors, it was exhausting to say the least. He and England's bosses had basically been asking them to turn cartwheels and do what they could to solve the problems that just couldn't seem to be fixed.

Germany just wouldn't let go of that damn grudge, not that France wanted to either, and little Italy decided to just hop onboard the fascist train recently. It was all way too stressful to try and solve anything, because England and him could only do so much to try and talk peace. However, he supposed that "peace" to them was more of something along the lines of: "We won and you did not. Pay up and stop crying over how awful your life is." Peace was a two-way street, so it was fair to say that things weren't working out.

France was actually starting to feel like a spring chicken with the way he was recovering - despite the cold chill outside. He had to keep his spirits up, one way or another. He could sense a war was coming right around the corner, so he had to enjoy the time he had to himself before he would be back to toting around a gun again. So, until war arrived again, it was easily observed that France was doing his best to be positive with any circumstance, even the unexpected ones.

It had begun to rain early of the morning of January 6, 1939. France was home, trying to stay snug and cozy and drinking a cup of coffee to warm him up. The rumble of thunder - normally associated with the summertime, continued to growl at the Parisians and tried to scare them into staying indoors for the day. He figured that he would take the weather's advice and let this Friday be one of simply catching up on his sleep and staying warm. He had caught up on his paperwork, so he didn't have to worry about anything today.

Which was why he was surprised when someone came knocking on his door.

With a weary sigh from having to abandon his warm spot on the couch, he stretched his arms over his head and called to the person at the door, "Hold on, I'll be right there..." Rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes, and letting out a yawn, he trudged over to front door and pulled it open, shocked at the person who was standing before his home - who appeared to look pretty drenched, and was shivering.

"Oh, America...come on in..." France stepped to the side to allow the younger, yet grudgingly taller nation step inside in order to get out of the freezing winter rain. How long did he have to walk here? Hopefully not long. He offered, "I have some warm coffee made, if you'd like some. Would you like me to get you a towel?"

America smiled, one that France remembered seeing on him ever since he was younger, "Yes, please." The youngster made sure to take off his wet shoes before he stepped further into the nicely kept house.

Even after the Great War, America still had some qualities that reminded him that he was no ancient country. He still acted like a child at times, and though sometimes it was quite annoying, it could be endearing. This time, it seemed to lean toward more of the endearing side. He wondered what business the Western nation had with him as he went to retrieve a towel.

The childish smile clinging to America's face was a tricky mask he was wearing. Within, America was a mess. Devastated and emotional, ready to burst into tears with the right trigger. He was doing his best to keep himself together, he had spent most of yesterday crying his eyes out anyway. Besides, France had invited him into his home and offered to get him warm and cozy. He couldn't exactly dump his tears and ask for sympathy right when he walked in the door.

France came back after a minute with a large towel, and handed it to the soaked country. America sniffed and said politely, "Merci." He didn't remember a lot of French, but some of the words and phrases he was taught by the country when he received his help towards the end of the Revolutionary War stuck with him. He wrapped himself up in the fuzzy towel, trying to get his body to stop trembling - though with what was on his mind, he couldn't manage it.

The older country grabbed a mug for America and filled it up with the coffee, calling out to him, "Take a seat if you'd like, America."

America nodded and went to sit on one of the sofas, looking over the back of the couch as France came around and handed him his mug of coffee, America immediatley taking a gulp of the warm drink. As if he could already tell that something wasn't right, the Frenchman frowned and asked, "You're pretty quiet today, mon ami, and you don't come to visit me very often. Is anything the matter?"

Setting the mug on France's coffee table, he clung the towel around him tighter, and chewed on his lip, trying to think of what exactly to say. It hadn't taken much more than that for the older man to figure out that America was about ready to break down.

"France," he spoke with a seldom heard hushed voice, "do you still think about her?"

"Her?"

"Joan of Arc."

Hearing her name was always an icy punch to France's heart, but of course he did. He loved her after all. "Oui...why do you ask?" he responded in the same soft tone.

America curled up even tighter still, raising his socked feet up to his chest, the towel and his knees hiding his face from the nose down, "After what happened to her...tell me, how did you cope with it?"

France sighed, leaning forward and tipping his head down towards the floor, "It was very difficult, I almost could say that I didn't cope with it." His throat was starting to feel tight, but he sucked in a breath and kept talking, "When I first heard that she was taken prisoner by the English, I didn't know what to do with myself. I was wreck. I wanted to take my anger out on everything. Officers had to keep stopping me from riding out to seek revenge. They had me locked up in my majesty's castle for the longest time, and I just wallowed in sadness. I was pathetic."

America nodded, sadness and empathy present in his eyes.

"I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I harassed every messenger to get me information pertaining to her trial. I was horrendous," France felt his eyes beginning to sprout tears at the memories, but he fought to keep them back, "And the day that she was executed...I had nightmares about it for a long time." With a sigh, he calmed himself back down and went on, "But, eventually - I came to terms that she wouldn't want to see me so sad, and that she was at peace. I couldn't continue to be unhappy because I know she wanted me to remember her when she was happy with me. When nothing worried us because we had each other. So, I came to just remember her as a beautiful and fascinating girl, and time did the rest."

"Did you resent England because of...y'know...?"

With a weak chuckle, France nodded, "It was easy to, we were in the middle of the Hundred Years War, after all. It took me a long time to forgive him, but eventually...I had to. He wasn't the one to make the decision regarding her death, so I don't think it was right to hate him for it for so long. But, you know me and him...we used to think that hating each other was the only thing we could accomplish. Nowadays, we just laugh at how foolish we must have been."

"Alright..." America still looked pretty torn up over whatever was sitting on his mind, and if he had asked him all of that, he was going to expect a similar story in return.

"...Did you loose someone too, mon garçon?" France asked, already rubbing his back with sympathy.

Unable to muster up words, America nodded, burying his face his knees and trying not to look weak in front of the older man. He knew that France was typically respectful with matters like this, but he didn't want his weakness to be blown back in his face from some country whom the wine drinker typically gossiped with. Like England or Spain.

"It's alright, America. You can tell me, you can cry. I won't let this conversation leave this house and I won't mention it to anyone," he soothed the American with his fingers on his back and with his kind voice, leaving America less bashful.

"She was pronounced dead yesterday...after a year and a half of not knowing anything..."

"Who?"

"Amelia. Amelia Earhart." France recognized her name, she was a pilot. A lot of the well known people at America's house were pilots.

"I'm so sorry, America."

"I just...I can't believe that she's gone. She was unbelievable. You couldn't hold a candle to her, she was just so bright and fun," America began crying, though he managed to smile through and kept speaking, "Everything she did was because it was what she thought was right. She didn't need anyone or anything to tell her what to do and what not to do. That's why I loved her like I did - she was just so determined and yet she stayed so humble. She never gave herself any credit when she felt that she didn't earn it."

France nodded, he could relate in that same way. He understood that Joan was a force to be reckoned with ever since he first met her, and his opinion stayed that way even after she was executed. Joan was vibrant and strong as well, so he could imagine why America would be attracted to someone like Amelia.

America shrugged, "She was married, so when I sought her out, I did so as a friend. I would never intentionally cause her that kind of misery - if she were to feel guilty about someone else liking her. But..." with a hiccup, he finished, "...I just wish I could have told her how much she meant to me. How much I loved her. But now...she's gone. I'll never see her again."

France brought in the younger country for a hug, trying to get him to stop blubbering, "It's alright, America. I understand how hard it is, but you just have to give yourself time. Remember the good memories you had with her, and eventually you'll learn to let go."

"It's just so damned hard, France," he curled his fingers into the older country's shirt, letting himself be coddled.

"You'll heal, garçon, we've all been through it...at least once."

America sniffed a little in surprise, though the sadness in his voice was masking it, "Really...?"

France nodded, "It's not just me...you could have gone and talked to Russia, even. He's lost someone dear to him as well."

"Someone like that...for Russia? Who was that?"

"I believe she was a Grand Duchess of some sort, or the daughter of one, named Anastasia. His loss was recent as well, though not as recent as yours."

America eventually got out of the embrace and finished his nearing chilly cup of coffee, intending to leave and head back home before France insisted otherwise.

"You only just got here, America. Stay for a little while before you return home."

America nodded, "Thank you." From there, France offered him to a bath - as he was still damp and sniffly, and reluctantly allowed him to borrow something from him to wear home, though he doubted that much in his closet could fit the boy.

Once America headed off to attend to his matters, France leaned back in the couch and closed his eyes, thinking upon their conversation.

It didn't matter who caught their eye and intrigued them, it was just a lost cause to fall in love with a mortal. Joan had proven that much for France, so he hadn't dared to try his luck at a mortal's love again. They would outlive their love, and it seemed that the people they chose to fancy were doomed to have a young life, ended in tragedy. It was all a hard lesson that each country had to learn - some had yet to learn of it, but now America's experience, along with the inevitable hold on her memory forever would be what told him to stay away from his people more often, or at least to not give into attraction.

It was a lonely life, and it wasn't one that France chose for himself, but...there was nothing more the countries could do but accept that they couldn't bear the pain of loosing another mortal's love. Love between humans and countries was a unbeatable game, one that always ended in death and heartbreak.

It was a gamble that wasn't to be played by a country.

Thanks for Reading!

Garçon = lad, youngster