Even Frogs Need Thanks [1/2]
anonymous
August 11 2009, 22:07:33 UTC
It was late into the night when the meeting finally finished. Outside the air was cold yet refreshing, a feeling of rain hanging in the air. Waving a hand to decline the waiting taxi, England started walking to his hotel, letting the cool air wash away the frustrations of the meeting.
He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings as he followed the river, twisting and turning through the city like a snake, until a bridge came into view.
There was a person standing on top of the railing.
He suddenly became aware of his heart, pounding rapidly, and strode faster, in the hopes of pulling the daft soul back onto dry land. The river far below was cold and undoubtedly very fast. There was no reason to justify jumping, no matter what had happened. As he neared, he recognised the waves of the blonde hair. England stopped dead, his eyes wide, breath haggard.
"Fr-france!"
The Nation turned his gaze from the rushing water with an initially surprised gape, slowly melting into a wistful smile upon his lips as he recognised the Briton. It was the saddest expression England had ever seen on him, the man who was usually teasing and playful. England was reminded of France's unusual silence towards the end of the meeting. He remembered how he usually insulted the Frenchman, ignored him, interrupted him, beat him up; no Nation gave France a loving smile.
His words from earlier hit him like train.
Fuck off, twat!
I don’t want to see your ugly face right now!
Go and die in a ditch, frog.
And suddenly England felt the guilt fall on his shoulders like a dead weight.
“No no no! Don't you-!” His legs pounded the tarmac as he threw himself forward in a desperate attempt to reach the Frenchman in time. “You can’t!”
He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings as he followed the river, twisting and turning through the city like a snake, until a bridge came into view.
There was a person standing on top of the railing.
He suddenly became aware of his heart, pounding rapidly, and strode faster, in the hopes of pulling the daft soul back onto dry land. The river far below was cold and undoubtedly very fast. There was no reason to justify jumping, no matter what had happened. As he neared, he recognised the waves of the blonde hair. England stopped dead, his eyes wide, breath haggard.
"Fr-france!"
The Nation turned his gaze from the rushing water with an initially surprised gape, slowly melting into a wistful smile upon his lips as he recognised the Briton. It was the saddest expression England had ever seen on him, the man who was usually teasing and playful. England was reminded of France's unusual silence towards the end of the meeting. He remembered how he usually insulted the Frenchman, ignored him, interrupted him, beat him up; no Nation gave France a loving smile.
His words from earlier hit him like train.
Fuck off, twat!
I don’t want to see your ugly face right now!
Go and die in a ditch, frog.
And suddenly England felt the guilt fall on his shoulders like a dead weight.
“No no no! Don't you-!” His legs pounded the tarmac as he threw himself forward in a desperate attempt to reach the Frenchman in time. “You can’t!”
But alas he was too late. France jumped.
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