A/N So I was digging through my files and decided to work on this again! Modern!AU Les Miserables and Hetalia, two of my favorites. Plus, It's always interesting to see how nations deal with their memories, both the good and the bad. No warnings in particular–preestablished Fem!FrUK, and one sided E/R. My headcanon (and let's face it, p much canon) Enj is asexual/aromantic, so that will probably show through. Hope you enjoy!

France lay motionless, curled up stiffly on the edge of the bed, but England could tell she was still awake and troubled.

"What's the matter?" He asked, propping himself up with one of her insanely poofy pillows. "It's not like you to be so...tense."

"I'm trying to sleep," she said crossly.

"You've been acting odd like this all day, and it's freaking me out. In case you don't remember, it was your idea to drag me into this vacation trip thing in the first place, and you haven't shut up about your plans for the past two months until today. So what's going on? If you're planning on being sulky–"

"I'm not being sulky."

"–You might as well let me know what's going on."

France didn't respond for a long time, and England was just about to drift off to sleep himself when she piped up.

"Angleterre?"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever–you know–made a wish that ended up coming true?"

This was uncalled for. What's going on with her? He thought, and shrugged. "Not that I can think of right now. I kind of wished that it wouldn't rain today, since I haven't had the chance to get proper clothing."

"That's not what I meant. I'm talking major things. Things like life and death and love...Things that transverse centuries, that can alter history. Those kinds of wishes." She sighed, and he heard her breath tremble.

"Uh...no, I don't suppose I have. I don't really think about that sort of stuff." Utterly confused, he tried to make sense of what she was saying. France was characteristically inclined towards hyperbolic statements, but usually she said them with a sly intonation in her voice indicating that she wasn't being serious. Not like now. "What does this have to do with you? Did you wish for something?"

"Yes." She sat up, holding her pillow in front of her like a child clinging to a stuffed animal. Her eyes were shiny and damp with recent tears, and her face wore the mysterious distant, melancholy expression that had dominated it all day. "I did indeed."

Thinking of nothing better to do, he drew her closer. She blotted her tears on the pillow and sniffled.

"Tell me about it." She nodded, and complied. Once she started, the words rushed out of her as quickly and effortlessly if a dam had been broken.

"It was June, in 1832," she began. "There was a funeral procession for an esteemed general by the name of Lamarque. The facts are that a group of young students soon hijacked the procession and began a revolt. This particular group decided to fortify themselves against the palace guards in a makeshift barricade blocking the street. Naturally, of course, it couldn't last. The army razed them, and that was that. Forgotten.

"It's amazing what the history books will decide to include and omit, don't you think? From my brief little summary there you probably don't think much of them at all. They're just nameless, faceless figures, a few drops of rain in the vast ocean that is history. That's what it's like to be a nation–we see so many people throughout the decades; they are born, they live, they grow old and die, but we live on.

''Though I depart, the state shall remain,' as Louis XIV said to me before he passed away. When you see so many faces don't they just seem to blur together sometimes, into a single, faceless mass of shirts and hats and shoes? You're a nation too, you understand. Yes, that happens, but sometimes–sometimes–there is someone who is brilliant, whose face stands out amidst that crowd, who forces you to consider your own people as people, not just a crowd. Some will make it into the history books, others will be forgotten, but I will never forget. Oh, God, by heaven and earth, let me never, ever forget." She paused for breath, exhausted by the sudden release of the thoughts that had been building up inside her.

"Okay," England was still reeling from the unexpected outburst. Everything she had just mentioned was true, as he knew too well. It was difficult to continually be fully aware of one's self, as a nation. To consciously remember hundreds of years and millions of lifetimes took an extreme amount of energy and sanity and could drive one mad with guilt, pain, or euphoria. It was far easier, rather, to keep the past safe in the cupboard, easy to reach but not in the way, and live in the present, going about business and politics like any other human being on earth. However, occasionally but inevitably, something would knock that cupboard door ajar and spill a long-dormant memory back into plain sight, in all it's rawness and glory.

Doubtless that was what had happened to France.

"I understand what you mean," he tried to pick his words carefully and tactfully (granted, something he needed to work on.) "But what does this have to do with today? Your revolutionaries died more than a hundred years ago."

"I knew them." She brushed his question aside. "Such bright, wonderful boys. Such idiots. They would meet up every day after classes at the Café Musain, to chat and laugh and drink and discuss political opinions. They were all direct children of '89, you know. Especially the leader." She stopped and took another deep, trembling breath. A few cars drove past outside, sending thin, cold rays of light over her white arms and across the blankets. "He was very idealistic, a champion of the people, who held fast to his convictions and truly believed that things could be improved...he was very young, with a furious and pure sense of justice. Pure. I would say Incourruptible, if that word was not already corrupted by previous use. But–what I meant to say was–he loved me. More than life. More than anything. And I loved him too." She laughed, sadly and uneasily. "It's funny, isn't it? Straying from the government into the arms of rebellion and renaissance. I had a bad habit. Would you understand, Angleterre?"

"Not as well as you, perhaps," he said. "But–" I understand, yes, straying into anarchy–I remember him clearly, I went with him, even before they burned his effigies in the streets later, every fifth of November I remember him, when I see the fireworks tear the sky, I remember, remember, gunpowder, treason, and plot– "More than you might think." He felt the cupboard of history slipping open, and hastily ran to slam it shut.

"I was his only love, his only mistress. He believed in me, as a state–a person–intrinsically. Not whether or not I was rich, or had great kings or empires (believe me, by that time I'd had my fair share of those) but simply because I was France, and no one else. He loved me, he worshipped liberty and democracy, he believed I could and would make use of it without screwing it up badly again." She tried to laugh again, but her eyes started to well up and overflow. "And damn it all, was he beautiful too. Michelangelo could hardly have done a better job. I loved him so much, I couldn't have him live and be successful only to turn into another Robespierre. I couldn't have him fail and live and grow old in the shadow of that shame and failure. I couldn't, I wouldn't allow that to happen." She took another deep breath and stiffened, as if anticipating a blow. "So I killed him."

"Wait–you what?"

"It was exhilarating at first, being part of a revolution, but soon all I could think of was the failure of the last one. So I balked at the last minute, along with most of the crowds who had once joined them eagerly. I left him and the rest of them alone and at the mercy of the army. I didn't rise, didn't revolt, I killed them I killed them I killed them–"

She buried her face in the blankets and began to wail.

"You're delirious, and you haven't even drunk anything," said England, grabbing her shoulders and trying to steady her. "I should have known all along! This is what happens when you don't keep a proper cap on your memories; you turn into a babbling pile of nonsensical sentiment! We've all done things we regret, yes, and droves of lost loves, but you'll never get anywhere if that's all you think about! Can't we just have a nice, relaxing time this holiday, and not have to worry about the nineteenth century? Wasn't the whole point of this trip to enjoy ourselves like normal human beings? Enough with this "France" and "England" rubbish. I'm Arthur. You're Marianne. Forget it already, and get some sleep!"

"No."

The retort felt like a snap.

"What?!"

"I will never forget, Arthur. And I saw him today, at the station. Standing by the benches, on his phone. I saw him. That face–those piercing eyes–I would recognize them anywhere."

"Wait–saw who? Your revolutionary lover? What in blazes are you talking about? Marianne, he's dead! Has been dead for over a century! You've been telling me that yourself! " He got out of bed and started feeling around the ground for his socks. "Alright. It's official. You are being a total nutter, and I really apologize, but I can't stay here any longer. So goodbye. I knew it was a mistake to stay over at your house, and–"

Marianne grabbed his arm and secured it in a firm grip.

"I told you earlier I made a wish, once," she said quietly, deliberately, with an intense and determined glare. " I saw him, and you have to believe me. If my wish came true, then I have to see him again. I have to find the others. Please, Arthur. If anyone should believe in magic, it should be you."

Magic is not the same thing as being hysterical, Arthur thought grimly as he tried to wrest his arm free from Marianne's freshly painted and manicured nails.

"He's here. And you've got to help me with this, okay? I need you."

"What do you need me for? It's your own business, even if it is crazy business, and I'm pretty sure you're not legally allowed to claw people into working with you, especially if it involves dead people! You can be batty if you want, there's nothing wrong with that, you're a free country, but I'll be damned if I let myself get tangled up in all of this, you hear?"

"I'll be damned."

England sat groggily at the café table approximately thirty-four hours after that night's awkward confrontation, steam from his tea condensing on his face as he tried to keep an inconspicuous eye on the young man sitting at the opposite table. France had won out in the end, of course (apologizing for the resulting red marks on the skin of his forearm), and the very next morning had dragged him over to the park and university, waiting for the students to enter and for him to appear. Many hours of fruitless searching and wandering about the campus later, just as he was sure she was going to give up and go back to normal, she suddenly jumped up and grabbed his arm again, gesturing to a student on a bench, busy reading and listening to his iPod.

"I guess I have to take your word for it, but he doesn't look like the revolutionary type, if you pardon my saying so," England had whispered once he had pulled them both safely out of hearing range.

"You haven't met him yet."

"Well, neither have you. In this life, at least, if we assume that your theory is true and he's a–a reincarnation or something. Don't get your expectations up! Coincidences do happen."

"It is not a coincidence! I just know it isn't!"

At this point England had basically given up all hope of trying to reason with her, and crossly went along with her plan, which, as far as he was concerned, meant that he was going to have to be a stalker for the rest of the day while she went off to do...something else. She obviously didn't want to tell him her side of the plan, which meant that

a)She didn't really have a plan and was making it up as she went along, or

b) she had something large and dastardly figured out that she didn't want him to have the option of backing out of.

Neither option seemed extremely appealing, but the fresh sting on his forearm and the memory of her unexpected sentimental outburst spurred him to obedience. So far, though, as he wasn't required to do anything too embarrassing, England had to admit that the job wasn't too bad. To get in the mood, England had decided to wear the new sunglasses he had bought for the vacation. They helped conceal the fact that he was staring–observing, that is––and while he wouldn't admit it to France, they made him feel much more savvy and spy-like, straight out of a Cold War movie. He sipped his coffee and decided to "observe" the other inhabitants of the café. It was mostly students from the university, as expected. Some were studying quietly in corners, others were chatting outside, getting to know each other better. France's own reincarnated revolutionary wasn't studying, but he did seem intent on ignoring the outside world, plugged into his headphones and concentrating on reading the thick book he'd brought with him.

He was dressed casually but relatively conservatively, in a plain jacket, button-up shirt and jeans. No pins screaming political opinions, no anarchistic symbols sewn on his messenger bag, no outward signs of any sort that one would expect from a modern student rebellious of the system. That is, assuming this doppelgänger had the same personality of his predecessor. Sure, he was handsome enough, but to England he looked too delicate, too young, too refined to be the kind of person to march into a fray of soldiers, leading a band of eager young souls into revolution, like what France had described last night.

But as he knew all too well, looks could be deceiving, and delicateness could cleverly conceal wells of passion and strength.

"For I may have the body of a weak and fragile woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a man!"

He forced himself to suppress the memory. Didn't need that historical cupboard to come unhinged, not now, not here in public. He decided to distract himself, and turned to look at the other customers at the café. An old man was reading the newspaper, a couple fawned over each other, blushing and giggling, some parents were sitting at a table with their two young children on their laps. But he didn't pay attention to any of them. England noticed an odd, fidgety sort of fellow sitting behind him, sketching. He looked young enough to be one of the university students, but his paint-splattered pants and ratty hoodie made him stick out amongst the neat stylishness of everyone else in the room.

Great, thought England. An art student.

He glanced at the grungy Art Student and back at the handsome Reincarnated Revolutionary, and thought he couldn't have possibly found two such drastically opposite people in such close proximity. He wondered if they knew each other. It wasn't completely out of the question, since young people always seemed to gather together in clumps, but still...

His train of thought was interrupted as another student burst through the doors of the café, ran up to the Reincarnated Revolutionary, and spoke to him really quickly and quietly. The Reincarnated Revolutionary looked irritated that the newcomer had interrupted his reading, but after hearing what the newcomer had to say, he hastily stood up, took out his earphones, shut his book, and walked out with him.

England knew he should probably get up as well and follow him, since that was his job after all, but he couldn't help but look back one more time at the Art Student before he left. The Art Student had put his pencil down, and instead was staring furtively at the door, as if trying to decide whether or not he wanted to follow them as well. Curious. England would have preferred to observe him, as he seemed much more interesting, not to mention a lot less intimidating than the other guy.

But he had promised France, and couldn't give up so early in the search. He picked up his coffee and went to trail the Reincarnated Revolutionary.

Thank you for reading! Lol England don't stereotype people...