"I think I don't hate you too much," England had said one day with a brightly flushed face and furrowed eyebrows.

He began walking away in a rather stiff manner.

France was shell-shocked, of course. And ungraciously gaping and staring at nothing in particular. It had taken him a while to have those words registered in his head. When they did, he turned to face the direction England had walked to, only to find that England was already far away.

So France ran.

When he caught up with England, he looped an arm around the other's shoulders. He had a lazy-looking smile on his face; only there to taunt England more.

He pinched England's nose with his hand and said, "I never knew you could be sweet, Angleterre!"

England huffed and pushed him away, albeit the redness in his face had never ceased to disappear. France merely walked beside him with an extra bounce in his steps.

"Well I think I love you, too," France whispered in England's ear in what he knew was a sensual way.

England pushed him away -- harder this time -- and marched away, his footsteps sounding crisp and clear in the morning air.

France merely chuckled and jogged after the furious and possibly embarrassed England.