**I'll give you a few warnings, FrUk, Yaoi, British stuff and French stuff, maybe a cameo here or there and maybe a couple mentioned pairings.**

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", you git?

Honestly, every single time you waltz over to me I say that word clearly. Yet, what do you do? Laugh, touch me inappropriately, and call me names that really have no effect at all.

Now, I really hate you – what insane are you? Asking me to marry you? I would rather suck Russia's cock then get married to you!


Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", you frog?

"Angleterre, oh, Angleterre!" You come rushing over, holding a stupid rose and having that devious smile on your face, "What are your plans for this evening?"

I choke on my tea, coughing before snarling at you, "Why do you care, you wino?"

"Ah, it is Valentine's Day, non?"

My face suddenly turns red – f-for no reason! There isn't a reason to my face turning red! I-it's cold! – I spit at you again, "So what if it is? It's just another normal day for me."

"Aw, that is very depressing." You grin, laying the rose in front of me, "So you are busy this evening, non?"

"I am, if that's what keeps you the hell away from me." I slam my cup on the table, get up, and storm away from you – leaving your damned flower sitting behind.


Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", you wino?

Just because I was stumbling down the streets of London drunk, didn't mean you had to find me.

I groaned and hit my head against the wall of a building, "Where... 'he fuck is m' house~?" headlights then blinded me. I covered my eyes and hissed at the pain, "Go 'way 'unlight!"

I heard a car door open, and then I heard your bloody voice; "Angleterre? Are you alright?"

"Go 'way Francis..." I stumbled forward some, "...I'm not 'onna let you touch me..." I face planted into the sidewalk, laughing at the pain.

You clicked your tongue while kneeling down, "Here, let me take you home." You picked me up without any problem at all, probably ignoring my comments and insults.

What was worse, you were actually there the next day while I suffered a hangover.

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", bastard?

I didn't want you to find me at the park, sobbing my head off on a bench after Alfred – literally – broke my heart.

"Angleterre? What is wrong, mon ami?"

"Go away..." I hiccupped, "...I don't want to talk to you right now.

Ignoring me, you sat down and carefully wrapped an arm around me, "At least vent to me a little, cher."

I sobbed a little more before I answered you, "Why? S-so you can bask in my misery?"

"Non, non. I'm worried about your well being right now, Arthur." You pulled yourself closer, "Talk, it will help you."

Seeing that you weren't going away soon, I lifted my head and told you everything – from Alfred sitting on that couch with his brother, holding his hand; to him laughing as he said; "Sorry, Artie. But... I love Matthew more. W-we can be friends again, right?"

Such. A. Bastard.

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", Francis?

"Angleterre!" You call, "Angleterre!"

While I run through the rain, scared and shocked while crying.

First of all, you shouldn't play pranks like this twice; I don't care if you claimed that last time was to "stay a nation" or whatever.

Second, don't scare me by looking as if you're about to cry yourself.

And third, don't even ask me again. I saw that bloody smile on your face after you asked your question – making it all look like you meant it until that point and time!

As I round the corner, I start to slow down and tell myself – "No, I don't love him, no, I don't love him..."

Fuck you, bastard. I actually thought you meant it that time.

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", idiot?

Why did you come to my door the next day, knocking and ringing my doorbell all day long?

I ignored you, using the fairies and Flying Mint Bunny as a distraction from you wanting to enter my house legally.

"Why are you not answering the door, Arthur?" Flying Mint Bunny asked me.

I grimaced as you slammed a fist against the door hard, "I don't hear anyone at the door."

"It's Francis."

"What did I tell you about speaking his name in this house?"

"Well, he's there! And he's getting annoying! Answer it already!"

I snarled at Mint Bunny, "I'd rather eat a million of Alfred's greasy hamburgers then put up with him."

You broke a world record of staying at someone's door, not entering, that night.

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "hate", you... you...

Just explain why you and I "ran into" each other at the store almost a month after not even thinking about each other. Also, tell me why – whenever you and I made eye contact – you grabbed my shoulder and said under your breath; "Arthur..."

...and tell me why I actually felt awful for not talking to you at all during the past month. Inform me why I dropped my basket and embraced you, as if you were my husband after returning from a long, frightening war?

Tell me why I wasn't humiliated by this public display of affection.

Do you not understand the meaning of the word, "odium", idiot?

Your friend Gilbert is laughing his arse off because I used my fancy language around him. Why did I even bother going out to eat tonight?

Oh, because I saw you waltzing around with your friends, Gilbert and Antonio.

Clarify to me, why did I feel like I had to make sure you weren't leaving me on a limb?

"Arthur." You made me jump, after I had stormed away from your table at that diner. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong." I spat.

"Then, come with me."

"If you're going to try and –"

"Non." You pulled me down the street, ignoring your acquaintances calling after you.

...no, I'm not trying to look smarter than them just to get your attention!

Do I not understand the meaning of the word, "forgive", Francis?

Why did you drag me down here to a valley outside the metropolis of Rome, ignoring the fact that you had a presentation to make for tomorrow's meeting?

"Arthur." You say quietly, "I'm... sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm just sorry." You look at me, "For fighting with you over the years whenever I didn't really want to."

I look at the sunset before sighing, "Apology accepted. And..." I bite my lip before continuing, "...I'm sorry to."

To be honest, I didn't like fighting with you all that much either. But don't take that as a hint to where I might be dropping to that level of liking you, git.

Do I not understand the meaning of the word, "adore", Francis?

Yes, I understand that we were in Paris that evening, and that we just so happened to both be craving French food (n-not that I do all the time), and that you just had enough money to "treat me out instead of your friends"; but that wasn't what made me happy.

I realize that we were both cheerful in the other's presence at that table, you ordering me something you figured I would like, and how we both laughed whenever you "accidentally" got some sauce on my shirt from trying to share some of your dinner with me.

I know that leaving the restaurant that evening, you were much closer then I'd thought you'd be comfortable for someone like me, and that you shot glares at anyone who looked at me – as if I was someone you really didn't want anyone else near.

But what I didn't comprehend was why – whenever you asked me that damn question again – in front of your Eiffel Tower at night; I started crying. Why did I look at you, on the ground with my hand in yours? Why wasn't I marching away thinking this was a joke, again?

Why did I say, "Y-yes!"

Why did you stand up and kiss me after I agreed?

Do you not understand the word, "flashy", Francis?

First of all, I was not letting anyone lead me to where we were going to say our vows – after I had to do it for Alfred and his wedding with Matthew.

Second, I was not going to wear a white suit while you wore a blue one.

Third, I was not going to be saying, "I do" after you.

Fourth, I am not the bride here – so don't even make Feliciano say those damned words.

"...you may now kiss your new husband France nii-chan!"

Ah, that's what I was hoping for.

Oh, and fifth, there wasn't going to be too much alcohol (wine specifically) for a fight to start between me and another country!

...save it for tonight, please. I'd love to sip some frog juice before I get in the mood.

Do I not understand the word, "married", Francis?

Some days I'll wake up and wonder why I'm even in the same bed as you. That question will be answered by the sight of that ring on my finger and that night playing in my head again.

Other days, I'll wake up and see you entering the room with breakfast on a tray and a smile on your face. "Morning, mon cher. Had a good night's rest?"

Rarely, you and I will wake up at the same time, seeing each other's faces before laughing – always getting the damn morning breath in between us.

But, somehow, during the night – I keep on forgetting we're married and think that a certain event is still heading our way.


Do I not understand the word, "gone", Francis?

I get that – yes, it was an emergency – I was running out to get some tea in a rainstorm, late at night.

Saturday is the night when the local pub sends home a lot of drunks.

And the rain was almost flooding the roads, making the friction between my cars tires and the roads disappear.

So, brakes were worthless at the time.

And I could have turned the other direction if it weren't raining so hard.

Well, maybe if he wasn't driving drunk, or if I had bought that bigger package of tea last time I was at the store, this would have never happened.



I'm over here, Francis.

I-I'm back! What are you crying for?

What, is my bloody name your new mantra now?

Why are you sobbing so much? When does my picture serve as a substitute for me?

Who was on the phone, and what did they say?

Hello, I'm right behind you –

What the...


...am I...


I'm going to open my eyes, and if I'm not in my bedroom that I share with you, I'll know for sure I'm dead.

I slowly lift my eyelids just as you do yours. I blink at you, watching you smile as you say, "Morning, Arthur." You blink back while you look at my face even more, "Aw, were you crying? What's wrong, cher?"

Now that you mention it, I feel my cheeks are a little sticky from tears running down them in my sleep. I lunge forward and grab you, whispering while choking back another wave of tears; "If I die, I want you to know that I'll die happy."

"W-why..." you pause. "...bad dream?"

I nod.

"You died?"

Another nod.

You sigh and pry me away, looking me deep in my eyes and saying; "If you do go, wait for me. I'll not be too far behind."

"OK." I whisper.

Do we understand the meaning of the word, "love", now, Francis?

**I love typing in this style! It makes the story flow much easier for me, and maybe it makes for an easier read for you as well. Thoughts on improvement, something that bugs you, and just plain old "OMG THAT MADE ME HAPPY/SAD/ANGRY/WANT TO BUY A FRENCH AND BRITISH FLAG AND RUB THEM TOGETHER" comments are welcome. I might read them on a review checking spree.**