History

by Xinette

"How much of a pushover is he if you've never fought? Not once, in the fifty years you've been dating?" "Angleterre, I know you're upset that I'm happy now—"

"History"

"He's a tenth of your age," The words came from the other side of one of the heavy oak doors that lined either side of the hallway. "What do you even see in him?" Received pronunciation. England's voice. Eavesdropping was wrong, Germany knew, but he had a feeling he knew who he was talking to.

"Maybe a vision for a peaceful Europe," France said. Germany could picture his boyfriend in that expensive grey suit of his, no doubt draped over one of the chairs in the conference room.

"Is that enough?" England asked. "Country of love and all that. I didn't think you would marry for convenience."

"We're not married," France said in such a low tone of voice that Germany had to strain to hear him.

"Date for convenience, then,"

France sighed. "He actually loves me, you know."

"Do you?" England asked, and Germany's heart constricted. He should leave. He really should leave.

France ignored him. "Really, we've never fought."

"Well, except—"

"Since we've been together, I mean," France said. "Before that is … different."

England sighed. "And you don't think that's a little weird?"

"Huh?"

"How much of a pushover is he if you've never fought? Not once, in the fifty years you've been dating?"

"Angleterre, I know you're upset that I'm happy now—"

"Happy now? You're not happy." England said. "He will never make you happy."

"I know it's impossible for you to conceive—"

"Impossible! No, I've seen you happy and it's—it's—nothing like what you're like with him."

Germany takes two steps forward, expecting England to burst out the doors and for him to have to act like he wasn't eavesdropping. This conversation was not only not meant for him; it seemed to exist as part of a different universe, one populated with people he knew but devoid of himself.

"Angleterre—" France said. Germany pictured him walking across the room to put a hand on England's shoulder like he did when Germany had been working too long. "I know it is impossible for you to think, but I didn't like the fighting."

"You're wrong, frog. We're not together. There's no reason for you to lie to me," England said, his words cold and punctuated with a downturn of his voice.

"Let me finish," France said. "I—never hated you, but I hated—" he dropped his voice even lower, and Germany had to almost put his ear on the door to hear it. "Not being able to tell when you were happy or angry or whatever you are right now."

England said nothing in response.

"You wanted it that way, didn't you? You liked playing with me, keeping me second-guessing at all of your actions, starting fights over nothing," France said.

England still didn't respond.

"Maybe you still like it that way, but I'm over it," France said. "I have a stable relationship with Allemange."

"I'm happy your tryst is going well, but I know you'll always come back to me, frog," England said. Germany felt himself pale at that, then shook the feeling away. England didn't know anything, and he always said stupid things when he was angry.

"You think you know me so well," France said. "But you don't know me at all. You don't even know yourself."

England sighed loudly. "So, what? Germany told you his favourite colour and now you think it's true love? Well, I know you better than that kraut ever will."

"You don't even know if you wanted me, or if you wanted to win,"

"What's that supposed to mean?" England asked. Germany could picture him now, his face red and those massive eyebrows bent in an obtuse angle.

"The Hundred Years' War. The Seven Years' War. The War of the Spanish Succession. And then, the alliance. What did you want out of all of that?"

"My military objectives are none of your—"

"Oh, since when?"

"Since you and that kraut—" England's chair scraped across the floor.

"Angleterre—"

"You have no history with him! None! He doesn't have any history at all! And you left me for—for him!"

"And you don't think that's relieving?" France yelled. He sounded angrier than Germany had ever heard him. "To be with someone—and not have to think about all of that? He's a blank slate—no baggage. Unlike you. All you have—it was always about you with you! Your brothers—your relationship with Rome—it was always baggage with you!"

England said nothing.

"And you see—this is what you want, isn't it? To make me angry? It's always what you wanted—and well, you have it now!"

"What are you going to do when you realize that your tabula rasa isn't so blank after all?" England asked. "When you remember that he was our enemy, and that he destroyed half of Europe—"

"So were you,"

"Excuse me?"

"You were my enemy, too, Angleterre," he said England's name like it was a curse. "Or have you already forgotten?"

Germany pictured England shaking his head, trying to forget. "Ah, yes, but he won't be everything you thought he'd be. I know my relationship with Scotland wasn't perfect—"

France scoffed at that.

"But what about him and Prussia? Or Bavaria? Germany has brothers, too, you know. And they've fought many times. And you and Prussia have history. When are you going to tell him about the Holy Roman Empire?"

Germany had heard that name before, in whispered tones from some of his states. Holy Rome was one of those things they had all decided to never discuss.

"You're just bringing this up to hurt me," France said.

"Maybe," England said. Germany found it hard to picture how England would have said that. Maybe he sneered, lifting one of his lips, or maybe he leaned forward to get into France's face. "But you haven't told him, have you? That you took Holy Rome, a child—"

Something knocked into something else in the room.

England went on, "And stabbed him through the heart."

"Non," France said.

True, the states did treat Holy Rome's death as a tragedy, but why would a war that happened so long ago matter to them now?

"And not only that, but," footsteps sounded from the room. They sounded like England's, slow and deliberate. "once you had impaled him like a kebab,"

"Non,"

"You took the sword," he paused. "And twisted."

"It was war," France said. "It wasn't like that was—"

"Oh, you know it was, frog," England said. "And then what happened? Another blond, blue-eyed boy appeared out of Holy Rome's land—"

"You're not saying …"

"Did you think no one was going to notice? That you and Prussia could keep your little secret all to yourselves—"

Germany should have left. It wouldn't have been hard, to continue down the hallway and pretend like he had never heard anything at all.

"Angleterre—"

"And what do you do with that boy? You fuck him," England said. "Don't tell him anything, either, wouldn't want to ruin that domestic bliss you have together."

"It's not my place—"

"Well, do you expect Prussia to say anything? Prussia, who's been in love with Hungary for a millennium and not said a thing? Who's dying? So, what, he'll be out of the picture and no one will tell Germany?"

France said nothing.

"That's not your problem with it, is it?" England said. "It's that—if he knew—he would run back to Italy, where he belongs. You know they have a history together, and yet you continue to sleep with him."

Italy had always been waiting for Holy Rome. He was the first person that Germany had heard that name from, in a stupor from drinking too much wine.

"No, Angleterre." France said. "You really think Allemange would rather hear that from the man that killed him rather than the one that raised him? Not everything is so dramatic," France paused. "I've never had a problem with jealousy, unlike some people."

"Trying to turn the conversation back to me? You won't get away with this so easily," England said. "How long, do you think, before Italy finds out the truth?"

"He didn't discover it during the war," France said. "And Allemange has grown up—he looks different now than he used to."

He did, based off the one portrait of Holy Rome that hung in Austria's house. But their brows were the same shape, and they had the same square, serious jaw.

"So, never? You think he'll never put it together, and only you and Prussia will know the truth? And Prussia will be gone, and it will just be you and you'll still be sleeping with him? Is that the plan? Has it been like that from the beginning?"

He wasn't surprised that Prussia had never told him—he wasn't the master of emotional or hard conversations.

France sighed. "Prusse doesn't know that I do."

France, though, was different. It was part of what had attracted Germany to him in the first place—one of the only countries in Europe that didn't treat him like a child or with the disdain from the past war.

"Oh, so you never thought to tell him about that? Not during all of those nights you went out drinking together, and couldn't be bothered with me?" England asked. "How ridiculous. And to think I actually believed that—you and Spain and Prussia as friends."

"We are friends. Some of us think outside of our own history."

"Is that what you tell yourself, before you fuck the man who grew from the boy you killed?"

Both of them were silent.

Maybe what England said was true—France was jealous. Germany's feelings towards Italy had crossed over from Platonic during the war, but he'd been trying to force them back ever since. France made that easier.

But, at the same time, England was angry, and he always said ridiculous things when he was angry. Bringing up what he'd heard wouldn't be worth the distress he'd cause France.

"This is what it's like with you," France said.

"What?"

"You always just want to fight. Even now." France said. "I'm sorry that I'm in a happy relationship and that you can't use your love life to self-harm anymore."

England said nothing.

"I think you're afraid of being happy," France said.

"That's—that's ridiculous,"

"Oh really?" France said. "Then do yourself a favor and get together with Amérique."

"Wha—what?" England sputtered.

"He's been giving you the eyes since the war," France said. "Even you can see that, I'm sure."

"America …"

"Don't say he's like your younger brother," France said. "You were barely even there when he was growing up, and you know it." France paused. "You want Allemange to know he is the Saint-Empire romain, tell him yourself. I'm not arguing anymore with you."

"You can't just do this," England said.

"What?"

"Leave me. Tell me to sleep with America of all people." England said.

"Why not?"

England said nothing.

"It was different, when I was Gaule and you were Albion and we were still living with Rome. The world is larger now. You have more options." France said. "You don't have to keep falling in love and fighting with the same people, over and over again. There are new continents, now. And other free, sovereign countries—"

England sighed. "You don't understand. It doesn't matter how many more countries or continents or whatever there are, I will still love you. You have to admit—there is a rush from fighting you, from loving you—"

"You're afraid to be happy," France said. "Fighting with me never made you happy, and you—"

"I think you still love me, too," England said. "It doesn't matter how long you spend with Germany."

For a moment, the room seemed silent.

"I know you disagree with me, now," England said. "But one day, you will come back to me."

"Maybe," France said. "But, in the meantime, make yourself happy. Talk to Amérique."

England didn't respond.

"I don't think you're capable of it, and you've never hesitated to prove me wrong before," France said.

England sighed loudly.

"Really, though. There's no need to fight anyone anymore," France said. "That's the vision Allemange and I have for the future. No one fighting anyone else, at least not in Europe."

"I think it's nice that Germany has thought to include you in his plan for world domination this time," England said.

The this time bothered Germany more than it should have.

"And I'm sorry that you don't want to be a part of it," France said. For a moment, there was some shifting of cloth.

Germany stepped away from the door and started to walk down the hallway.

France stepped outside of the door, his jacket unzipped and thrown around his shoulders. "Oh, Allemange," he said. He looked more tired than Germany had seen him in years, with his eyes and shoulders drooping. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Just the tail end of it," Germany said, the lie slipping off his tongue like silk sheets in the late morning. "Fighting with England again?"

"Oh, like you wouldn't believe, mon cher," France said. "What would you say to lunch?"

"You know," Germany said, silently reminding himself to never bring up anything he heard in that room.

France smiled a little half-smile and kissed Germany on the cheek. Then, he took his left hand and lead him down the hallway.

A/N: I didn't research this historically, beyond looking up a Wikipedia list of all the times France and England have fought each other. It's a lot of times. I'm not sure I got the War of Spanish Succession right, as that seemed to be a complete shitshow for everyone involved.

Draws a lot of inspiration from SanSoucis's Kissing Knuckles series on AO3. Really, a lot. Those stories are very good, if you like FrUK but also for England to suffer.