{Playing with Fire}

Matthew does not know how much of herself Francine fakes. Maybe he never will know the real woman, the real France – the one who had longed for power, for freedom, for an empire that would last forever. He does not know how much she resents Alice for her time in the sun as Britannia, how Antonio's successes with South America means most everyone there speaks Spanish.

Yes, she had Vietnam, for a time. And she did influence bits of Canada so much that Matthew can hum love songs into her ear in the silky purr of French. But her empire had been small, and while she is now can be called the fashion capital of the world, even now that is in dispute with Feliciano and Lovina's talents with fabric and cookery.

Matthew does not know the bitter side of her, the side that lusts for power still, and the part of her that just wants her memories of the last thousand years to fade away and never return. Those sides of her are meant to stay hidden and all they would do is break Matthew's heart.

She intertwines their fingers together underneath the meeting table in the World Conference room in England, tries to calm her racing thoughts. Alice gives her a smug smirk across the table, lighting flashing off her wire-rimmed glasses so Francine cannot see the poison green of her eyes.

Alice knows what Francine is thinking as she rests her head against Matthew's shoulder. Francine is almost tempted to make a biting remark about Alfred to her, but she restrains herself. Insults will draw questions – Matthew is perceptive enough to know that Francine is only snappy and cruel when uncomfortable.

Lucky, lucky Alice, who had her time as an empire, who will be remembered as the one who changed the world. She set the lingua franca, she gave rise to one of the most powerful countries the world has ever known. Francine tries to comfort herself by remembering that England is not the capital of high fashion and her food is a joke, but those are superficial things that only last for so long.

"Hey," Matthew whispers, breath hot on her ear. She tries not to jump. "You okay?"

"Of course." Lying is like breathing to her, yet another thing Matthew can never understand. "Just remembering last night. I had a weepy phone call from Gilbert – he pissed off Roderich again last night and needed some advice."

Matthew looks unconvinced – eyebrows raised, skin crinkling between his eyes, a skeptical gleam to his pale blue eyes. "But no matter," Francine says quickly as Matthew opens his mouth to speak. "It's just Gilbert being an idiot again." Gilbert and Roderich fight often enough that even if Matthew asks someone it will be believable and Matthew will get no closer to discovering the Francine she wants to keep buried and hidden away from now until forever.

She turns away from Matthew, untangles their hands. She doodles a bit on the notepad in front of her, meaningless little things with no real worth to the world.

She does not like the secrets, nor the lies. But some things are best kept forever hidden, never mentioned, and her bitterness and anger is something she cannot allow to taint Matthew.

{Europe's Skies}

Matthew sometimes resents that Francine has so many others close to her, surrounding her light like moths, clustering in close. For her, it is nothing to board a train and zoom off to visit Feliciano, or head north to visit Louise or Alice.

Matthew has no such luxury. The other side of the Atlantic can be a lonely place to be sometimes. Yes, he has his brother to the south, and further down Mexico, and even further all of South America, but Alfred sometimes forgets he is even there when he is caught up in the worries of his borders and his economy and all the matters facing him that he has to deal with right away.

It can be lonely – something he hates his position in the world, his isolation as a northern nation away from most of those who care about him. Alfred tries – he really does – but Alfred is busy and Alfred is powerful, and the daily business of life and politics consumes his time. So he is lonely, and isolated, and he sometimes wishes he was in Europe so he didn't have to feel this way.

His thoughts are broken by the gentle bumping of wheels against ground as his plane glides to a smooth landing.

Something tight loosens in his chest as he steps off the plane and breathes deeply. The airport air is slightly stale and smells like Cinnabons. He's stiff from eight hours on the plane and his right foot's asleep; it tingles unpleasantly every time he takes a step. He suffers through the endless customs line; he's not here on business and his boss won't let him evoke his Nation status if all he is doing is sight-seeing.

Francine is leaning against the wall outside the customs office when he finally gets released. There are dark bags circling her eyes underneath her makeup, her golden hair is mussed and tangled like she forgot to brush it that morning. She's wearing tight blue jeans and a ephemeral green shirt that shows off the elegant curve of her collarbone quite nicely.

"Drinking with Alice last night?" he teases, taking her hand. His other hand is trying to juggle his suitcase and carry on and he's off-balance. She smiles and nabs his carry on, a shoulder bag with his laptop and a novel.

"Close. Antonio and Gilbert, actually. Didn't get home until two." Her voice is husky by sleep loss and she keeps blinking her eyes, as if she can wince away her exhaustion. She adjusts the strap of Matthew's bag on her shoulder and turns purposefully towards the exit. "I want coffee. Come with me."

"No Starbucks, please," Matthew groans, pressing the palm of his hand not holding Francine's to the bridge of his nose as he is tugged behind her. "Alfred dragged me there last time I saw him and I almost entered a sugar coma."

"Psh, this is France, darling. We don't drink that swill." There is a gentle ring of laughter in her voice. The world outside is very bright, the sky brilliant azure, matching the color of Francine's eyes perfectly. There is a lingering scent of fresh-baked sweets nearby, and the fading hint of rain. The cobblestones underneath their feet are still damp.

Matthew smiles as Francine drags him towards her car, tilting his head back so he can see the brilliance of the blue, blue sky.

{One Love}

There is elegance in the curve of her jaw, beauty in the breeze of her loud laughter, purity in the curve of her eyes when she smiles. It is the little things that make Francine beautiful, rather than her golden hair or the flirty gleam to her blue eyes; the little details Matthew likes to think no one but himself notices.

Her palm is slick with peach-scented lotion as she slips her hand into his, comforting and as warm as summer sunshine. "Matthew," she says with a cheeky smile, and there is grace in the way she tilts her neck so she can gaze up at him.

He smiles. "You are lovely," he says. Her forehead wrinkles, ripples on the water, as she raises her eyebrows at him, affection stealing away the teasing tints. The dying evening sunlight brings more warmth to her skin, a rosy tint to her cheeks. Her hair glitters gold, and her eyes are as beautiful and pure as the sky.

"Oh you," she says fondly, resting her head against his shoulder and winding their fingers together. They stroll slowly along the sidewalk, watching the world pass them by. It's early spring and cool enough to still need a jacket, but Francine had forgotten hers, and so Matthew's favorite crimson overcoat is wrapped around her shoulder (she'll never tell him she left it at home on purpose).

They have no plans, they have no destination. They walk, footfalls matching the others, hands interwoven. There is gentle chatter of other people going about their daily lives as they pass by, meaningless snippets that mean nothing when they are as wrapped up in each other as they are.

"We need to think about dinner," Francine murmurs as they lazily turn right and meander down another side path. Matthew smiles, trailing his fingers through her silky hair but doesn't reply; she'll keep talking if he doesn't and her voice is as pure as a trickling creek in the cool air. "I was thinking pancakes."

"...Are you serious?"

Francine shrugs; her shoulder is bony as it nudges against his arm. There is laughter tugging at the edges of her lips, a kind light in her eyes as she glances up at them. "Why not. We're young. We can get away with it."

"If I get a heart attack before I hit thirty, I'll blame you and your delicious pancakes," Matthew tells her, dropping her hand and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. They are slowing, almost stopped in front of a coffee shop Matthew's brother Alfred is particularly fond of.

There is an old woman sitting at the window seat by the flower pot overflowing with chrysanthemums, and something in her face relaxes, wrinkles smoothening out into a broad smile as Matthew kisses the top of Francine's head. Matthew wonders if she is thinking back to her own romances, but then Francine is pulling him into the coffee shop so they can share a cup of tea.

As she yanks him by the old woman, Matthew hears the faintest whisper of "love while you are young and all of is grand" and all he can do is agree. What he has may not last forever, but he'll hold onto it while it does.

Author's Note

Playing With Fire - Ovi

Europe's Skies - Alexander Rybak

One Love - Bob Marley