"You did what?"

England shouts a lot. He has a voice like the thunder that rolls low over his fields; a voice that has been trained in a thousand battlefields, carrying over the dull boom of cannons and the sharp bangs of muskets. France is used to England shouting.

But he isn't shouting now. He stands perfectly still, fists clenching, eyes brimming with fire. His voice is low and quiet and calm, bleached of all emotion. It is the sort of voice that had committed atrocities in a plethora of different countries; a voice that is enough to reduce the strongest man to a quivering mess; a voice that half of the world kneels to.

And it is directed at France.

Sweat drips down his brow, cold as English rain. He wipes it away, musing distractedly that although cold sweat is a cliché, it is undoubtedly a true one. "Well," he says, "well, I…"

"Prussia told me," England says in the same controlled voice.

Prussia. France wonders how the bastard found out, and vows to declare war at the first opportunity. "Ah," he says with an attempt at levity. "Good for him."

England smiles. It's worse than Russia's smile that smile, empty of all humour – less of a reaction to an emotion, more of an assurance that someone, soon, will be in a great deal of pain.

"So," he says, playing for time, feverishly working out strategies, "you know."

"I do," England replies, the smile tightening with the effort of holding back a tirade. "You fucked my colony."

France winces, not from the obscenity but from the choice of wording – my colony. Mine. His property. And England got very, very possessive.

But at the same time something stirs in him, and France stands a little straighter, a smile quirking the edge of his lips. "Well," he says breezily, "if you wanted to deflower him, you should have said."

Oh. And that's it. England's fragile control snaps, and next thing France knows he has been bowled head over heels, England's fists crashing into every inch of him, England's knee coming up between his legs and smashing with unerring accuracy into a very sensitive place and God, if France won't be singing soprano for a month. But he's strong as well, and fights back, lashing out, cracking England so hard in the side of his skull that the other country reels, his gaze sliding out of focus – long enough for France to push him off and leap away, on the offensive now, as England growls out insults.

"–motherfucking, cocksucking –"

"Actually, that was America," France chimes in merrily. A vein pulses in England's forehead, and he bares his teeth, growling like a dog.

"Syphilis-ridden, son of a bitch and a whoring, hunchbacked –"

England breaks off his rant on France's parentage long enough to dodge a blow, and then seize France's hair, bowling him over backwards, then rolling, straddling France's back – and France laughs, can't help but laugh at the irony of it all –

"Pedophile, bet you fucked Seychelles you twat, you wanker, you buggering -- fuck you'd bugger anything --"

And this, France muses, tasting his own blood, the shards of his teeth slicing into his tongue, is just taking overprotective-big-brother too far. Maybe he did want to sleep with the colony, afterall.

"--a fucking goat--"

France sighes gustily, sending droplets of blood spattering onto the street, and then flips over, seizes England's wrist and smiles. "Only the once," he says, and England snarls at him. "And it was only because it reminded me of your darling mother."

"Bastard," England spits, apparently oblivious to the fact that he is now kneeling above France -- straddling France -- as he lunges with his free fist, which France catches as well.

"Probably," France agrees, holding on as England tries to yank away; he slips his hands away England's sweat-slick wrists, and clings on tight. In one smooth movement he twists, standing, and England breaks loose, panting hard. France smiles a broken-toothed smile.

"Wankertwatfuckinglittlebitch," England says in one rush of exhausted breath. "This -- fuck, I'll kill you for this."

"You can try."

"I'll do more than try, you little fuck. You'll never set foot on America again."

"Foot --"

"--if that's another inane sexual joke then you can shut the fuck up," England interjects, and France sighs once more. It was a very good joke, but England looks downright genocidal so he aquiesces, and is silent.

"I'll kill you," England vows.

"Did you ask America?" France asks abruptly, and England frowns.

"Ask him what?"

"If he wants you to kill me. Maybe he liked it. Maybe he came onto me."

England scoffs, and France smiles, because they both know the likelihood of sweet little America trying to seduce France. But for the first part -- France would never, ever force anyone to do anything that they didn't want to. Ever. It's one of the few things he can point at, and claim the moral highground on.

"He doesn't get a say," England is snarling, "he's young and stupid --"

"--not that young anymore, actually," France points out. "He's growing up."

"He's still my colony. He belongs to me, and I have a duty to protect him."

"Does he want protecting?" France muses.

But he doesn't get an answer: England is striding away, muttering about marshalling his troops, and France realizes he wasn't kidding about that war.

Thus began the Franco-Indian war, a war between the French and their Native American allies against the English. (we won by the way.)

I like to think it started like this :)