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To Win A War

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    “France?” The country in question cracks his eyes open, flicking his gaze across the blonde hair and blue eyes beside him.
    “Oiu Amérique?” France traces one of his fingers up the younger nation’s bare chest, sweeping over his collarbones before taking one of America’s hands and stilling.
    “Do you think we're going to win?” America squeezes France’s hand in his own, eyes fixed over on the other’s purple iris’ and following his sweeping blonde hair as it falls across the other man’s face.
    “I couldn't say, dear Amérique, but we do have at least ‘alf a chance.” France brings up the hand he's holding to press his lips against it, brushing across the knuckles and clasping their joined hands up to his chest.                        “I won't let ‘im kill you mon Amérique, you are too petite et précieuse for Angleterre to ruin.” His free hand brushes back America’s hair, clearing off his forehead to make room for a kiss placed there by France.
    “Could he kill me France? Wouldn't I just come back like you did?” America draws his hands up to France’s chest, past the old scars to find the fresh one set in the nation’s skin. France had been shot in a battle several weeks prior, and died on impact of the bullet right beside his young comrade. Since the nation woke nearly a week ago, America hasn't left his side for fear of the country dying on him again.
    “Non mon chéri, you wouldn't. You would die.” France rakes his fingers through America’s hair, sighing softly as the young nation looks up to him in confusion.
    “You aren't a country mon coeur, a bullet would kill you just as quickly as it would a human. That's why I beg you to step back and let me take the front lines Amérique, so you can be safe.” America shakes his head, a frown slanting his features as he waves France’s hand away from his hair.
    “War isn't safe France, this is my country they're fighting for and I'm going to be right there with them.” His fists curl in the bed sheets, drawing a smile to France's lips. He graces the young nation's lips with a kiss, soft and sweet that curves America's lips up as they part.
    “Mon amérique, vous êtes si courageux, mais si jeune.” France strokes America's cheek, shaking his disheveled hair from his face to look clearly down at the younger almost-country.
    “Woah, that was too much French to compute less than three hours after we had sex. Translation?” France laughs, lighting up his face and making the room feel warmer to America while he watches the older nation.
    “You're very brave for one so young as yourself amérique, I don't wish for you to die and waste your potential. You're very passionate, in many areas and I wish to be acquainted with you for a long time after this.” France goes on more than he had before, pulling back his hair with a tie to hold it away from his face and prevent it from obstructing his vision.
    “France, I can't win my war sitting on the sidelines. I want to fight with my people; with you.” America takes one of the other man’s hands, clasping it between both of his own and looking up at the older country with wide, earnest eyes.
    “Your eyes sparkle like glittering stars mon amour, I could never deny you while you look at me like that.” France’s lilac eyes soften, hands caressing down America’s chest and drawing invisible patterns on his skin. Love bites both older and fresh dot across the bronzed skin, blending from red to purple and back to his tan colour that France so adores. So much more appealing to mark up, much more so than that of a certain Brit.
    “France, can you teach me?” The European nation glances up, a smile already settled on his face.
    “I think I've taught you plenty jeune.” America's face nearly explodes in red, his hands coming up quickly to cover the blush.
    “No, not that; I mean, if I'm fighting with you I should know what I'm doing.” The boy is still pink, but looking at France with the confidence the other nation needed to be convinced.
    “Oui amérique, I will teach you what I know.”