To the rest of the world France and England were worse than enemies. Their act had been so engraved in everyones minds it seeemed unusual if they weren't trying to push each other off bridges. Their history together was thicker than any story book and you could read it a thousand times and still learn something new. They had slaughtered, tortured and conquered with no sideways glance it seemed but underneath the film of pain love was buried underneath the congealed blood that only few could recognise.

Their was bliss underneath it all. Raising Canada and America together and their shared family meals; fighting beside eachother in the world wars even marrying each other, besides they weren't fighting anymore.

His words to himself were comforting only for a moment as this glimner of peace were crushed by 'It's' harsh voice "you helped America leave him; you fought against him in the 100 years war and you only married him for money only to divorce later on when you were wealthy, YOU MAKE ME SICK, he hates you" It's voice chided filling the room with darkness and Francis's heart with pain. 

Recently the anxiety curdled with depression had been getting worse until he could no longer wake up in time for meeetings  consequently being called a lazy creole bastard by said english man. Looking down through his tears at the rope gripped in his once delicate hands. They were stained with red memories and scarred under the cold steel pressure of a knife. Dried blood clotted under his fingernails from where he scratched for hours trying to make 'It' stop talking; trying to get it out from under his skin. His legs dragged towards the stepping tool; his arms reaching up to seal his fate in the shape of an undignified thief's collar. The energy had been sapped from him as 'It' took control completely only allowing France to watch as if in third person or from beyond his eyes. He had become a slave to this disembodied voice. A thousand thoughts rushed past him as he looked down on his bedroom where he spent so many hot or cold nights. His eyes glazed over with emptiness, his final words were uttered on death ears "They only saw a mask. Everyone and anyone could fall victim to this masquerade"

~~~3 hours later~~~

The stench in the room had grown overpowering causing England to gag upon approaching the room. The apartment was left unlocked for a change which was concerning considering he had not seen France for quite a while. Arthur told himself that her was prepared but nothing could prepare him from this. His childhood friend hung their lifeless in the center of the room with a hung open mouth and given up lifless eyes. His chest was blanketed in only a this vest exposing his frail, gaunt and bony frame aswell as his shredded, bloodied arms who were the recievers of the physical abuse but it could not compare to the fear, driven torture in his mind. Arthur ran towards him; cutting the rope so that Francis fell forwards into his arms. He embraced his pale love tightly, screaming profanities at the heavens. Tears rolled down his face; wiping the ones his partner bore. England's usually strong unfeeling facial expression curved

 downwards revealing centuries worth of emotions that he kept stored away only to hand them over to the after life along with the man he considered to be his future.

~~~ :'( ~~~

Well sh*t,

 I Didn't expect that at all my original plan for this chapter was a makeout session in a janitors closet during a world meeting not bloody THIS. Sheesh I worry about myself sometimes when I write something angst-y. Either way good luck sleeping tonight it is around 11 o'clock (pm) when I am writing this so perfect, juuuuust peachy. 

Arrivederci bellas xx

I am so sorry