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France really should have seen it coming. All the looks, the oh-so-innocent touches, the blushing faces, and especially the pitying glances he received from other nations should have tipped off France long ago. Somehow though, he never saw it, never could put two and two together.
The phrase 'love is blind' had never more aptly fit his life.
France couldn't really remember the exact moment that he started loving England. Perhaps it started when they had lived together under Rome. Though much of his memories of that time were hazy at best, living under Rome had not exactly been a very pleasant experience at times, he could still remember the moment he had seen England- Britannia back then -for the first time. Back then he had been but a toddler in size, his small body cloaked in a shroud of forest green that accented the emerald of his eyes, his arm clutched tightly in Rome's strong grip as he struggled against the inevitable- never admitting defeat even in the bitter end.
He had been beautiful.
England had never tried to interact with the others, preferring the solitude of the gardens and the company of his invisible friends. Later on, France would realize that it was possibly the only place that reminded him of verdant hills and untamed nature- of home. He was often at the unfortunate end of Rome's wrath, screaming and snarling in a harsh mix of Celtic languages that sounded more like unintelligible grunts to France's delicate Latin ears. Even at such a tender age the island nation had been brimming with pride in his people's culture, and would not, could not take up Roman culture no matter how hard Rome hit him.
France could admit to himself that back then he had not treated England well. That same mysterious aloofness that drew France in like a moth to a flame repelled him just as avidly.
The were polar opposites even back then. France was one of Rome's most favored prizes, the pinnacle of how a conquered land should act. For the most part he and the majority of his people embraced the new Roman culture, prospering under the Empire's guiding hand. England's appearance was haggard and his Latin jagged and halting. France was always dressed in the latest fashions in Rome and his Latin refined. His Latin could lap the island nation five times in the time it took him to string one sentence together. While England had nobody, France knew everyone and was friends with Spain even back then.
The two took it upon each other to make England's stay as miserable as they could. They had been jealous in that petty way small children can be when the parent's attention is focused upon another child. Rome paying more attention to England, even if most of it was negative, was not an option in the two boys' minds.
France could remember making him wet the bed night after night, chattering in his ear about how his fairy friends weren't real, that his culture and people were backwards. It was truly amazing, thinking back on it, the amount of cruelty children can inflict upon each other.
England gave back as good as he got though. The most horrifying was perhaps when England had stained his entire wardrobe with berry juice that had been allowed to dry, thus ruining everything France owned. There was also the time that England had managed to cut off most of France's hair one night when he had been asleep. Spain suffered as well, England made sure of that. Spain had nearly broken down when he found his beloved battle ax destroyed nearly beyond repair.
This constant cycle had continued up until Rome had crumbled, suddenly leaving them with the task of running their own respective countries. It wasn't until 1066 that the two personification met again, this time on the battlefield.
France had grown up some more during that time, the seeds of domination and expansion just beginning to take root in his mind. What better way to test his growing strength as well, than on his unsuspecting northern neighbor who, from what he'd been hearing, had been having a rough go of it lately. What better way to help take some of the load off of his shoulders? Along with some land of course. The Norman invasion, led by William the Conqueror, allowed him to hold sway over England for nearly a hundred years and he had made sure to leave a lasting mark on England, in more than just culture and language. It was perhaps the first time that England had ever been forced to bow in silent submission.
It was the beginnings of a beautiful rivalry.
Perhaps he was a masochist, but he had never seen England more beautiful than when he was trying to beat the holy hell out of him. He was akin to a firecracker: spontaneous, hot-headed, and liable to blow up in your face if you did not handle him correctly. France found him to be more than a worthy adversary and, dare he say, looked forward to confrontations with the younger nation.
However, he found after a few centuries that he was lagging behind, watching with envy as England gathered and horded colonies like precious diamonds. Not to be outdone, France colonized his own lot, particularly in the Caribbean and in New France along with a smattering in Asia. He just couldn't keep up though, could only watch with wide eyes as England kicked Spain off his pedestal and took his place as king of the seas, feathered hat tilted over one eye and blood red coat fanning out beneath him with that acidic smirk that sent his heart skipping a beat or two. He was truly in his element back in his privateering days, flourishing under Queen Elizabeth.
He watched in awe as England threw himself wholeheartedly into the wars ravaging Europe at the time, growing and thriving off the chaos he left in his wake. His Empire had begun to be feared by everyone, even the other great empires made sure to stay out of his way as much as they could, except for France. France was the only one at that time who would antagonize the island nation, taunting him every which way he could think of with a smile.
That smile had quickly turned into a pained and disgusted grimace the day he forced himself to sign Canada away. He avoided those acidic eyes and twisted smirk as he wrote his signature with elegant flourish. He hated how they could send butterflies exploding in his stomach and render him speechless even when he was furious with him.
He glanced past England to see his prized colony waiting at the door for them to finish. So this was the boy who'd stolen England's attention and affection from him for the past century? France could admit that it wasn't hard to see how America had charmed England.
America held onto the hand of France's own- now former -colony, his blue eyes bright with excitement as he tried to explain how much fun Canada would have and how great it would be to have a brother. France scowled at the boy's childish optimism, the spark of excitement and nativity when speaking about England- as if he were some sort of guardian angel.
France had no doubt that sooner or later England's toxic presence would warp America, just has he had France, and once done there would be no escape. England was a wolf in sheep's clothes and sooner or later he would have to be forced to show his true color. France only hoped he would there to witness England's fall from grace before the eyes of his beloved colony.
Now it was France's turn to smirk as he watched England fall to his knees from afar as America vocally declared his independence from the Empire on the muddy, blood-soaked grounds of York Town. Though his heart ached dully at the sight of tears in England's eyes- he didn't think he'd ever seen England cry before him, cry over anyone. The jealousy that had washed over him had been like a tidal wave -he didn't regret his involvement.
It had become a type of game between the two of them after 1066 to see who could destroy the other the most. England may have won a small victory with Canada, but it was France that had truly won- even if it felt a bit like a hollow victory. He had utterly destroyed England by aiding America in his quest for independence.
Honestly, in France's opinion there truly was not anything particularly special about America, why England had tried so damn hard to keep him France may never know. However, it never hurt to have another trading partner and it was simply a bonus that America hated England and everything his Empire stood for.
However, he soon found that America had little inclination in Europe past trading, leaving France to go through the horrors of a revolution- it had practically been a civil war in a way -and watch as one by one all their heads came flying off and Parisian streets were stained red. Not even allowing a chance to recover Napoleon swept the entire country off its feet. And perhaps, as selfishly personal as it was, perhaps England would see that he was strong and worthy of island personification's attention. After all, if there was one thing England valued above all it was strength. Everyone was convinced that he was going to be the next Roman Empire as country after country fell beneath his mighty army.
All except for England.
Russia had ended up being his ultimate downfall with that damn winter of his, but the fact that he had not been able to conquer England had weighed the heaviest on France's mind. He hadn't needed to see England to know that he had been laughing when France had been forcibly removed from his throne, his army returning home with its tail between its legs.
Francis spent the next decades licking his wounds and focusing on the colonies he already had. The dream of expansion and domination had burned to ashes, now he only wished to preserve what he already had. He would find a different way to win England's affection.
Things finally went in France's favor in the years before World War I. The entente cordiale had been like a gift from the heavens in France's eyes. For once they were not enemies but allies, and even though it was merely a political ploy in order to protect themselves and the two had no obligations other than to be civilized when in each other's company, France had used it to his full advantage.
It had taken a year and a half before France finally bedded England. The island nation had made it explicitly clear that this was nothing more than releasing steam and that he in no way had any feelings for France nor would he stop seeing other people. With the moans and mewls that he elicited from the blond France couldn't care less. Even if this truly meant nothing, France could always pretend that they had had something.
He could pretend they were in love.
Then the Great War had hit and France had been halfway delirious from sleep deprivation and starvation as his land was ravaged and torn apart, trenches extending for miles upon miles, bodies carpeting the land in various stages of decay in between. Perhaps that was why, whenever he could have his way with England, he didn't notice the subtle changes- the hesitancy, the muffled moans and choked groans of names that were not his but another's.
What he did notice was America's arrival- it was merely a strange coincidence in his mind that that was when England began to change. His childish enthusiasm for the war was both an aggravation and a morale boost all in one. His constant bickering with England over the chain of command and the sequence of operations never failed to entertain France, even in his shaky state. It seemed after all these years they still did not get along. He and his men were what won them the war, especially after Russia's sudden removal. France had no qualms over making Germany pay him back along with England for all the damaged the young nation had caused, even with America's warning that it was a mistake.
It was after the war that everything had begun to fall apart.
France had certainly seen better days in the 1940s, along with the rest of Europe. He still couldn't believe that Germany had been able to bypass his defenses so quickly, and he had shuddered at the thought of what London must look like after the most recent bombs had fallen. He thought the first World War had been horrifying enough, with the tanks and gas and machine guns, but they had only become that much more terrifying, that much more deadlier.
America once again took his sweet time with getting involved, but red flags should have been popping up all over France's mind when America began to secretly reach out to England, sending supplies and arms covertly through the Lend Lease program even while under the guise of neutrality. He should have been suspicious of the sudden increase in correspondence between the two that could not all be about the war effort. It should have worried him how close the two nations were growing, how slowly but surely bridges were being mended and reinforced. But it didn't, for he did not notice. He was still tucked away in his own little bubble, too worried about the war than the fact that perhaps the one person he had ever loved was slowly slipping between his fingers.
After the war he was not surprised that England wanted to spend time without him. It was understandable what with the condition of his people and cities that the personification simply didn't have time for personal affairs. France was in a similar state and therefore only saw England during the newly formed United Nation summits that he was required to go to. He would watch with a bemused expression as other nations poked fun at America and England's 'Special Relationship'.
France knew there was nothing deeper to the meaning unlike the other nations for he knew America and England could never come to care for each other in such a capacity. It was amusing to watch the two turn cherry red and sputter like fools though. It was strange, seeing England a blushing, scowling mess. The war had stripped England of all his former colonies and left only a sense of humility in its place. Instead of a ruthless pirate, or a cunning Empire, he was now a gentleman- albeit a cranky one at that. France found himself falling in love all over again with this sweater vested, blushing version of England. Besides, no matter how much the other nations talked about it, France knew the Special Relationship would never last.
Looking back he wondered when he had somehow become the naive one.
It had all fallen apart during one of their biannual meetings. Nothing had seen amiss that day, nothing that would hint that the lie France had been creating for decades was about to crumble to dust. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky with a crisp light wind. Paris was beautiful as always and France couldn't help the smile that crept up on him as he made his way to the designated conference building.
It had been a few months since he last saw England, perhaps they could go out for a nice dinner before heading back to France's city apartment for the night. He knew that something was up with the Brit, he was ignoring his personal calls and turning him down every time France suggest they 'relieve their stress'. He had considered that part of it might be work related, after all with this whole financial mess they were in the paperwork on their desks had grown exponentially. Somehow though he knew that there was more to it, some important detail that he was missing.
He didn't let it bother him though as he walked in a few minutes before the meeting was to start. Most of the other nations were already there, Germany naturally sitting at the head of the table with Italy practically hanging off his shoulder and Japan seated on his other side. Even disbanded the former group members of the Axis were still fairly close. Unlike their counterparts, the Allies had split into two decisive groups- France, America, and England and China and Russia -with the fall of the Iron Curtain, as Winston so aptly named it, back in the 50s. Russia and China were there, sitting off close to each other while England sat merely a seat down from him on the opposite side of the table. France gave England what he knew was a silky, sexy smile- one of the best in his arsenal. England only scowled at the Frenchman, the lightest dusting of pink on his cheekbones, as he angled his chair just enough to give France a swift kick to the leg before going back to looking over his notes.
Naturally, America arrived ten minutes into the conference- right in the middle of France's presentation much to his displeasure -carrying his briefcase in one and a paper McDonalds bag and extra large coffee in the other.
"Sorry I'm late guys!" America smiled as he made his way over to the seat next to England, everyone learning early on in the beginning of these conferences that America would only sit beside England and no one else. One time he'd even dumped Prussia, technically now Eastern Germany, right out of the seat beside England, he liked Japan too much to have done it to him, and plopped right down beside the irate blond.
Mostly everyone merely scowled and muttered underneath their breaths at the American, far too used to such occurrences, and Germany quickly reprimanded America before they all turned back to France and silently told him to continue. France only glanced occasionally over in America's direction, watching as he picked out a breakfast sandwich and happily munched on it with the occasional swig of coffee to wash it down. What surprised France was when he picked out a second breakfast sandwich and handed it over to England, who wordlessly accepted the food and began to nibble on it, occasionally jotting down notes with his free hand. Hadn't England always gone on and on about how much he hated that fast food crap that America was constantly shoving down his throat? How long had this been going on?
As much as France wanted to ask England why America's food was suddenly edible while he still refused to eat anything French he couldn't. It would be childish and France really had no excuse for getting worked up over a sandwich of all things.
Once he finished his piece he sat down and allowed Greece to replace him. As the cat-lover talked France glanced over at America and England from time to time, watching as their heads bent close together and whispered back and forth. It was not an uncommon thing for the two to do, they were very close allies after all, yet France felt irrationally jealous at the close proximity the two shared. Even after all these years, France had never been allowed so closely into England's personal space unless he was pounding him into the mattress, and even then he had to fight for every inch.
Yet somehow even in such a public setting, this innocent display seemed more personal and intimate than anything France had ever accomplished. He watched with gritted teeth as America's hand slid lightly over England's to point to a part of the Brit's notes, how both of them seemed to glow just by being close to one another.
France mentally slapped himself, forcing himself to focus on Greece's words. It was irrational and stupid to think that there was anything between the two. His mind was merely playing tricks on him, letting him see something in nothing. It was simply because he had been away from his beloved for so long that he considered even an idiot like America to be a potential rival.
That had to be it.
France was grateful when Germany signaled that it was finally time for them to take a twenty minute reprieve. He made a break for the restroom before the inevitable line formed- for once the tables were turned and it was the women who were done in five minutes while it took the men another five minutes of waiting before they could relieve themselves - and struck up a conversation with Spain and Prussia briefly outside in the hallway. He remembered the looks the two had given him a bit odd when he declared that he and England would be spending the night rekindling their love. They put him on edge, his body receiving the message but his mind refusing to translate.
He absolved to go and find England to ask him exactly where he would like to eat out tonight. As he walked by one of the office rooms on the floor a garbled moan drifted out the slight crack in the door, freezing France mid-stride. A Cheshire grin crept up onto his face as he heard another, much louder, groan escape the confines of the room.
Obviously, two of the nations at the meeting hadn't been able to wait long enough for the meeting to end before jumping each other. Perhaps this would provide France with good blackmail material later on depending on who the two were.
Sidling up to the cracked door France quickly glanced to the left and right to make sure that he wouldn't be caught by someone outside the room before he carefully nudged the door open just enough for one eye to glance inside.
He felt his eyes widen as the world around him seemed to shudder and begin crumbling beneath his feet. For a second he wanted to believe that they were just two other blond countries, hell anyone besides those two human or otherwise, but that damnable cowlick and shaggy straw colored hair were unmistakable.
He watched in horror as England slammed America down against the desk, causing the mahogany- for Christ's sake were they really going to do it on mahogany? -to creak in protest and send papers fluttering to the ground. He watched as America spread his legs and wrapped them tightly around England's waist and dragging him closer, both moaning as France assumed their hips ground together. He wanted to say that America was forcing England, that the man he considered his lover did not willingly go along with the young nation's actions. But even France could see that that was far from the case, that in truth if either of the two were being dominant it certainly wasn't America.
He watched, rooted in his place by some sort of morbid fascination, as England's deft fingers opened America's dress shirt while the younger nation did the same to him. It was abundantly clear by their deliberate actions that this was not the first time the two had undressed each other. Chests bare France watched as the two lavished each other, getting high off each other's mewls and whimpers.
France had always figured that America would be an enthusiastic and vocal lover as he was not the type to hold back, but what astounded him was England.
In all the times they'd slept together France had never been able to elicit half the sounds the Brit was currently letting lose, and by God those two hadn't even gotten to the actual act yet and they were already acting like they were seconds away from creaming their pants!
France couldn't see England's face, merely his back, but it was easy to imagine the adoration and lust in his eyes with the way his hands carefully worshiped the bronze skin beneath his fingertips, the way he bent down and kissed America long enough to make even France's head spin.
He knew that England had never looked at him like that. Perhaps the lust had been there, but never the adoration, never any of the soft emotions that he used to scoff at. He had merely been another conquest in a very long line.
There had never been any love in those beautiful, acidic eyes.
"H-how long do we got?" he heard America managed to get out, followed by a moan that he muffled using his fist.
"Ten minutes give or take," England answered in a low, husky voice. "And it's 'do we have' not 'do we got'." America let out a quick breathless chuckled at that.
"Such a -nngh- grammar Nazi even n-now. I swear it- fffuck -turns you on, pervert."
"I'll take that as a compliment," England replied, France watching a shiver race up his spine as America possessively grabbed his ass.
"Well then let's get this show on the road then," America told him, voice deep and rough as he dipped into a southern twang. From his vantage point France could see the smoldering emotions in the American's eyes that he directed at the man hovering above him. France watched England shiver again and America's legs tighten around him, drawing him impossibly closer.
"Hm, I suppose we should," England replied, slightly breathless. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone walking in on us, would we?"
France felt his body turn to ice, eyes widening to comical proportions. England knew that he was there, that he had been there for some time now. And he let him see this, let him see the cold hard truth that England had never belonged to him, had never been his to begin with.
Suddenly everything fell into place, all those suspicious events that France had never paid much attention to came to the forefront of his mind, showing him example after example of times when it should have been clear to him that England did not care for France as he did him. Showing him that others were more than aware of his one-sided affection. That England did not love France, had never loved France, had never seen him more as an ally, and probably a damn annoying one at that.
Unbidden, tears overflowed and cascaded down his face as he finally, finally found the energy to back away from the door and start to head in the direction of the conference room. He winced as he heard the echo of the door clicking shut and lock sliding into place.
He knew he couldn't go back to the conference room, he knew that he was just barely holding himself together and he couldn't let everyone see him like this. He ducked into the nearest open office and locked the door behind him, sliding down against the hard wood of the door as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the desk in front of him. Unbidden, his mind supplied him with the images of England bending America over the desk, of the two moaning and groaning each other's names as they made love to each other. France let out a strangled noise and buried his face in his hands as his shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. His world had come crashing down.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
The next time he saw England was not by his choice. Their bosses were having a meeting that both personifications had to be present for. The two blonds studiously ignored each other as their bosses chatted amiably with each other. France knew that the chaos swirling inside his body had manifested externally. His clothes were put on with little thought of fashion, his hair falling in limp waves, his beard in need of a dire trimming two days ago. England on the other hand seemed as well put together as ever, dressed prim and proper in an oxford tweed that had gone out of style a decade ago but still held a timeless quality to it.
A stern hand held him back as the meeting concluded and their bosses headed out of the room.
"Is there something you need, rosbif?" France asked, acid dripping off the last word as he refused to look at England.
"Don't you dare talk to me in that tone when I've done nothing," the shorter blond hissed.
"Oh, you've done nothing wrong?" France accused, finally turning to face him. "Please explain how leading me to think that you loved me for nearly the past century and then driving a sword through my heart by having sex with your former colony in front of me is not your fault?"
"Please, it's your own damn fault for peeping you bloody pervert!" England snapped. France felt himself flush in embarrassment. "And I never once led you to believe that I harbored feelings for you, that you imagined yourself. I thought I made it clear all those years ago that I did not care about you like that, we were simply using each other, a beneficial way to relieve the stress and tension in the prewar years," he continued on.
France just watched him fume silently, unable to contradict any part of his statement. Yes, he had said all of that. Yes, France had known that it had meant nothing to England back then and even now. But still he had hoped…
"How- how many know?" France asked, hating the stutters in his words. "About you… and America?"
"Hm? Not many really. Matthew knows of course and by extension Gilbert since the two are dating and that damn albino is always letting himself in the house at the most inopportune times… anyways that's not important. Since Gilbert knows both Ludwig and Antonio also do. I believe Italy does as well but Ludwig's made him swear to never tell anyone. Perhaps Romano knows because of Antonio but he's yet to say anything. Kiku knows of course as well since he and Al are close friends, and of course Hungary knows because… well actually I'm not even sure how she knows. She just knows these types of things, a bit odd if you ask me."
"Is that everyone?" France asked, his eyes wide at the sheer amount of people who knew, many of them being his friends…
"Yes, as far as I'm aware. Of course there are my brother's too- bloody twats the whole lot of them -but they leave us well enough alone. But look, I didn't keep you in here just to destroy whatever is left of your pride. America and I did not keep our relationship a secret just to toy with your feelings. Believe it or not both of us value our private lives very much and don't want our love lives to be common gossip between nations. I… apologize for you finding out about our relationship in such a way, but honestly I didn't know how else to get the message across that I do not love you the way you wanted me to."
France stood there, flabbergasted that England, England had actually apologized to him. They were about as rare as his smiles.
"America told you to say that, didn't he?" England's lips twitched, as if fighting the urge to smile at America's name.
"Yes he did. He's not exactly happy about you peeping in on us either, but he still feels bad. Told me to apologize for the both of us."
"Ah, well…" What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to accept the apology? Reject it? His mind was a mess, jumping from one thought to another. How could England just stand there looking at him with those cool, collected eyes that were still as bright and beautiful as the day they'd first met an- dammit!
"Look, you don't have to say anything," England told him, shifting from one foot to another, a tell that he was nervous about this discussion as well. "Take it if you want, or don't. I don't care. I just want to make sure that this does not affect relations between our governments. It'd be annoying, let alone downright embarrassing, to explain to the Prime Minister that relations with France are in the toilet just because I'm fucking the United States of America." France couldn't help but flinch at the bluntness of the last few words, his heart aching all over again.
It was clear that England just wanted to forget that this little incident had ever happened and move on based on his body language. Perhaps, France should at least try to do the same. Meet him halfway. Perhaps then his heart could start to heal.
"I know a little cafe just down the street that makes very nice tea," France said, forcing to keep his voice neutral. "Would you like to join me before you head back to London?"
France watched as England relaxed, the tension flowing out of him now that the situation had been diffused.
"Well, I suppose just this once wouldn't hurt," England sniffed and followed France out of the room and down out onto the busy streets.
"I have only one question," France said as the two sat across from each other at the cosy little corner cafe. England glanced at him curiously as he sipped at his tea.
"How did you train America into such a beautiful bottom?"
The tea soaked hair and ruined dress shirt had been completely worth it as England chased him up the street screaming bloody murder.