France unlocked the door. It had been a long day, and as always, the Allies' meeting had been a waste of time. Well, almost. He had gotten to see England. Ah, Angleterre, he thought, as he made his way to the shared bedroom. It had five beds, one for each of them. Of course, England had specifically requested, no, demanded, that France's bed be as far from his as possible. He stepped into the room, pausing abruptly when his eyes fell upon a lump in one of the beds. To be exact, England's bed. France sighed. He'd expected to be alone; after all, America, China, and Russia had all gone out partying. But, come to think of it, he hadn't seen England since the meeting.

His blonde hair stuck out from under the sheets. Silence coated the room, broken only by the sound of the two's deep breathing. Frozen in place, France stood by his own bed, watching him. He still sleeps as he did as a child, he mused, laying his jacket down on the untouched bedsheets. He plopped down on the mattress. France enjoyed that sensation, when one first lays down on their bed and the blankets puff up around them as their body sinks into the fabric.

A muffled noise escaped from England's side of the room. France cocked his head, wondering if he had heard correctly. It came again, and this time he was sure of it.

"Francis...," England whispered. France slowly rose off his bed. England hadn't moved. Is he talking in his sleep? That was out of the ordinary. In all the years France had known him, he had slept silently.

Hesitantly, he stepped across the wooden floor, hoping the boards wouldn't creak under his feet. As France approached, he noticed England's breathing had become more heavy and ragged.

"F-Francis!" He was practically talking now, eyes still shut tight. A small moan escaped his lips. His fingers clenched his pillow, so much so that his knuckles shone white, even in the dark of the room.

France sat on the edge of England's bed. He almost certainly knew what he was dreaming about, or at least what he hoped he was, but, non, that was impossible. England always treated him coldly whenever others were around. When they were alone, well, the Brit never let that happen in the first place. Even at just a hand on his shoulder, England would whip his head around and smack France's hand away. France pondered the thought. Was it just his imagination, or had England been blushing the last time that had happened?

Suddenly, France gasped, shocked out of his thoughts. He looked down to see a thin, bare arm wrapped around his waist. Glancing curiously at England, he confirmed the question in his mind: he was still asleep. But at this point, France was beginning to doubt that. He brought his legs over the edge of the bed and laid down, or rather, was pushed down with surprising force from a sleeping man's arm. Even more surprising was England pressing his own body against France's side. His face nestled between France's arm and chest, France could hear his uneven breathing even more clearly. He pressed his face to England's shaggy blond hair and inhaled, taking in his scent. Mmm...tea, he thought, likely Earl Gray, his favorite...and something burnt. He smirked. England's endeavors in the kitchen were the thing of legend, especially when he made scones. He always insisted they were delicious, but everyone agreed that they tasted more like rotting mud and concrete.

France could feel England's slim fingers softly digging into his chest. He may not have known completely what the other was dreaming about, but he knew that England lying there, in his arms like that, was the perfect dream for him, and he didn't ever want to wake up. France brought his hand to England's face, stroking his cheek gently.

"Mmm..." England pulled his body even closer to France's. He was drenched in sweat, and an idea briefly popped into France's head, to remove his own shirt to avoid it getting wet. It was just as quickly evicted; France didn't want to wake him. England's legs tangled in France's and he moaned again. France noticed something hard brush his thigh. Mon dieu! He's not seriously... Before he could stop it, a grin spread across his face. He had to admit it, he was actually enjoying this. England was the only person, man or woman, he had ever truly loved. Of course, there was that girl, Jeanne d'Arc, but that was a different kind of love. She had, after all, saved him in a dark time.

Beside him, England panted and moaned in France's arms, his body tense. He clutched France's chest tightly.

"Ah...ah! Francis! Francis!" At that last cry, England relaxed. His clenched fingers straightened out and he sunk back into the sheets next to France, his arm still lying across his chest. France's eyes widened like saucers as his mind registered a growing wet spot on his leg, right where that particular place on England's body was. Before he had a chance to react though, England awoke.

Hello there, Wasabi97 speaking! Ahhhh~ it's been so long! *cough*NOPE*cough* Well, it has for me. This is just a little oneshot I made a while ago, and I figured I might as well post it. I'm dividing it up into multiple chapters because it's ridiculously long, so oh well, here goes nothing!

For those of you who know me, this is just one of the very few happy stories I have. I tend to get pretty dark in my writing. Anyways, nice to see you all, and feel free to review and comment! It would be of great help to me.