L'histoire Nous

England pulled away from France's sleeping embrace as his skin softly brushed against the silk sheets. The blond nation blushed, in vain not to remember what had occurred in the night previously. England shuddered, as if from the cold, but that did not make him close his eyes from the sight of a sleeping France either. England sighed. He was naked, of course. How many times have I made this…mistake again? England had opted not to wear the clothes that were now scattered across the room like many times before. For some reason, he had decided to wear the frog's robe.

It was as red as the roses that he always seemed to have, and even smelled like him. When he sniffed and could taste the scent of rosemary and flour on his tongue, England immediately scolded himself. What the bloody hell are you doing? You're not attracted to him! At this moment, England was looking at anything but the frog. His emerald eyes scanned the room, surprised to find a picture of him on a nightstand. What the bloody hell? he thought. It was true.

It was a picture of him, bloody and ragged. There was a large cut on his cheek, still leaking blood, and his dark green uniform full of mud and gore. A small smile graced his normally scowling face. Ah… England thought, remembering that time. It had been after World War II. England had celebrated with a free France shortly after the war had ended. He had been so happy that he had even allowed the frog to take a picture of him. Why the bloody hell isn't it a picture of Canada or his bloody friends? England thought indignantly as his face grew hot at the thought of France having a picture of him near his bed. Why did he? Why not a picture of Canada, who he had raised until England had stolen him, of Spain or Prussia? England didn't know why France continued to best friends with those wankers. Both Spain and the "awesome" Prussia were too carefree and somewhat wild at times for England to have respect for them in the twenty-first century. England fingered the robe unconsciously. Although, I'm not much better. I must be the laughing stock of the century. England's emerald eyes darkened at the thought. Sleeping with the frog for almost one hundred years! I should be ashamed of myself! A surge of anger pulsed through the nation. Am I not the bloody United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland? I should just tell the frog to sod off! He took advantage of me when I was drunk! England was about to state those very words to the sleeping cheese-smelling Frenchman, but then he stopped.

…But I wasn't drunk. The thought echoed through his mind. And…I haven't been for a while. England sat down with his head in his hands, trying to breathe slowly but failing. I slept with him…and I knew what I was doing. His hands shook. "What the bloody hell is wrong with me?" England whispered. His hands were still shaking, and he felt as if his mind was splintering in half. "Knowing what he is…I…" But England's thoughts recoiled from the accusation that had slipped through his lips far too many times. He thought about of France had looked after him when he had been sick, and of how he had teased him about his hair as a child and had cut his hair. Even deeper, he thought about his fondest memories, of when it had been just the two of them, playing the fields filled with breathless laughter and love. "Oh, bloody hell…" England whispered. His eyes were starting to sting. Goddamn it, he thought. Goddamn it all.

England's oldest memories were of France. The taller blond – always taller – had been with him, always. Almost always. England sighed from deep in his chest as the memory of his mother's death echoed in his mind again. She had been killed by Rome. His eyes, emerald green, as they faded in death and the blood as it rained on his infant face burned in his mind. He hadn't been able to do anything as she suddenly faded away. His plump and tiny hands had tried to grasp her again, but she was gone. Tears had immediately streamed from his eyes then, but before he could cry out, a huge arm had grasped him. It was Rome. England couldn't even cry out. He could see his brothers behind him, their eyes shocked and burning with something that the infant nation would come to know in later centuries. It would be almost four hundred years before he could see his land again. England had been forced into a cage. It was dark. There were no stars, and his mother… Cries immediately escaped from him. They echoed against the dark space. England's cries were hushed and his tiny body was held in another's. It was only later that England came to realize that the person who had comforted him was another infant nation. His name was France.

It was France who taught him how to speak. Although England had been alive for centuries, he had yet begun to speak his brothers' and mothers' language even though he could understand them. He would never forget that his first word had been "France." Of how France had laughed and laughed. England had never thought he had heard such a beautiful sound. Both of them had been forced to learn Latin. Even now, France and England still talked about those times of when they had been taught the language of their captors. Sometimes, England still spoke it – it's not like he wanted America to know what he truly felt about his ideas in the World Meetings – and when he was drunk too.

Contrary to most of the nations' beliefs, England didn't become drunk all the time. He didn't have liquor hidden in his cabinets either, unlike his brother, Scotland. He only couldn't drink a lot – something he inherited from living in that bastard Rome's house for too long. Rome couldn't handle his liquor well either. The problem being drunk was that England spoke not only Latin – it was French too. How was he supposed to explain to the frog how he knew his language when many times England denied ever even learning it? French was the first language England knew how to speak – France had taught him. It had been their secret language, the language that they had spoken to each other in their cages, whispers of their memories of when they were very small and freedom reaching their lips. France hadn't always been England's enemy. He had been England's best friend. His savior. His sanity while he was in the dark unforgiving place known as Rome's house.

Then France had disappeared. England had searched and searched for him, but he couldn't find him anywhere. Finally Rome had calmed down the crying child and told him that France had gone back to his own house. Instead of quieting the nation however, it only made England cry harder. England didn't know how long he sulked. There were days that he could barely see his eyes were so red. Finally Rome had enough and had beaten him until England didn't even whimper anymore. The small nation had curled up into a ball and silently cried as pain wracked through his body. Why did you abandon me? England wondered as sobs of loneliness threatened to tear from him. Why, France? Why did you leave me alone? Soon after, England had been told to go back where he came from. England had been so happy. He had dreamed of this very day for so long. But in his heart, he was happy because he would see France again.

"France, I'm home!" England had laughed and raced through the fields, finally seeing the sunlight and grass again. He was happy. Maybe France was waiting for him. The small blond smiled at the clouds in the sky and the wind that caressed his plump cheeks. Where was his friend? "I'm –" England hadn't been prepared for the chaos that had overtaken his house when he had come back. There was nothing but sorrow and torment for his people. There was so much warfare, so much death, and people were starving. And he hadn't been able to find France anywhere. England had been so sick that time. He hadn't even known who had rescued him from his plight. When France had found him lying against a tree, wan and weak, England hadn't known who had gathered him in his arms and nursed him back to health until he had seen the familiar blue eyes.

England hadn't been able to speak for France for weeks after. The pleading face of the older nation had almost made England forgive him until he remembered the century of loneliness he had endured as France was free. So England hadn't said anything. One night though, after a nightmare, England had a nightmare and had run to his friend's bedside. He had shaken France awake, calling his name as if the monster was still there. France had awoken and had comforted him. That was when England had started telling him what he had kept inside for so long. France's sad blue eyes had bored into his own. "I'm sorry I left you. If I could have taken you with me, I could." His embrace had never felt so calming "I will never abandon you again, mon petit lapin." That had been the first time France had called him by that nickname. Even though France had presumed that England had forgotten when the nickname had surfaced, England hadn't forgotten. It was around that time that England had stayed in France's house.

Although England had denied staying there while his people were suffering, France had refused. "What if you are killed, mon petit lapin? Most of our people don't even know that we exist, and it would be a tragedy if we were killed because of something our people did, oui?" England had no argument. Besides, he did enjoy France's company. It was like being in Rome's house again, only better. Both of them had so much fun together. Together they played and ran around the fields, acting like the children they were for hundreds of years. England remembered the meals that France had always cooked for him, smelling delicious and wonderful. He was always happy to see France brighten when he had said something that complimented him. France taught him a lot about the world, but it was England that told his older friend about legends and stories that his mother had told him and his brothers. Sometimes the two would sometimes – meaning always – sleep in the same bed, although none of them would delve the information to Germany and Italy. And it was always France who held him after England was hurt by his brothers, either by words or by stone and arrows. It was always France that soothed and bathed his wounds.

But the idyllic life they had together didn't last. As soon as France was unified, his new boss forced England to move out of the house. England had expected France to defend him or say anything, but France hadn't said anything. He hadn't even looked at him. England had cried alone then, without any warm and comforting arms. It was around that time when France started to tease him – England didn't understand. Where was the France that always explained things gently to him?

The young nation had created a barrier around himself, masking the hurt with equally unmeant words. He wondered if France knew how he truly felt. If he did, France showed no sign. It was around that time that England himself was unified. England was annoyed – more so by his bosses, because they never believed him when he told them that he was England, and instead of getting the respect that he knew he deserved, England was always beaten and told to go away. France had always been the one to comfort him on such things, but now he was different.

Too different for England to handle. Besides, he probably would say that I was too small, England thought indignantly. The small rabbit that had been at his side since his time at France's house had said nothing as England sobbed and screamed at it – it didn't even tease him. Although he would later deny such actions, England had hugged his knees and was lonely. For some reason though, England didn't like the thought of fighting his friend when war was declared against France. He didn't want to fight against the nation that he still dreamed about. England had been the human age of six years old at that time, and he still remembered the snickers and taunts of his people as he marched along with them. They had even called their country an uncivilized serf! England's irritations at his people diminished when he had seen France.

Their bosses had wanted them to fight. England still remembered of how he had trembled in front of France, feeling tears built up in his eyes. The mockery of his boss was something that England had come to expect, but the mockery that he heard from France was like an arrow in his chest. England didn't quite remember what France had said. He could only remember the shaky parries had made against France's sword and the heartbeat against his chest and the small cuts against his cheeks. He couldn't even remember who had won the battle…only knowing that it felt as if his heart had been stabbed. The hate for France hadn't come yet. England still dreamed of him.

Then France made an alliance with his brother. England had only laughed when he had heard the message. There's no way that France would do that! My brother is the one that tormented me the most! He wouldn't do something with someone like that! England's laughter had died and choked in his throat when his boss had stormed into the room and called him a bloody fool. "I was there when it happened, you stupid excuse for a nation! He wants to crush you! Do you hear me? Crush you, and kill you citizens!" The bloodshot eyes and fury within them burned into England's mind. His face paled. "Do you hear me?" The screaming wouldn't stop. England's eyes started to widen when he realized that his boss was telling him the truth and the messenger was staring at him with pity. "He wants to kill you, England! Is that –"

England didn't remember what happened after that. He only recalled waking up hours earlier with the entire room destroyed. The spikes of glass against his fingertips and the blood against his bare feet didn't register in his mind as he stared dully at the ceiling. The sharp glass embedded against his skin and his breeches as the blood dripped on the floor. France…wants me destroyed. England thought of the nation that had sung him to sleep and of the meals he had made. Of his kind voice. France… He thought of his brother, the hard and sarcastic Scotland with his fiery hair, and thought of France being in the same bed as him. For some reason the thought made England want to cry and laugh at the same time. Why do I care if they fuck? England thought as whimpers escaped from him as old memories resurfaced. Why do I…feel so sad? Hysterical laughter bellowed within the room as sobs soon replaced it. The nation was on the floor, whit his face against the glass. I hate him, England thought. I hate him…! I can't wait until I destroy him myself!

For the next two centuries England had stopped meeting with France. The only time when he met his former friend was in war now. War was all each other cared about now. They had beat each other up so many times that it became customary to punch each in the face as a hello. Still, it sickened England whenever France mentioned Scotland or of any lady that he appeared to fancy. "Stupid blood frog, can't you keep the blood thing in your pants?"

France had misunderstood. The eyes that England had come to hate so much brightened, and France even seemed to smile. "Does that mean you want me, mon petit lapin?" The question had frozen the smaller blond nation for a moment before violent rage replaced it. England had obtained three broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a large wound on his side by the time their bosses decided to break them apart. The Hundred Years War, as historians now called it, was devastating to both England and France. How many times had each of them collapsed from wounds in the middle of a fight? How many times had either of them – grudgingly of course – had stayed by each other's side before they awoke?

Both of them had been crazed with fever from the Black Death, and yet France had stayed by England's side as he coughed blood and gape-sized bulbous grew and exploded from his body instead of saving his own arse. England had been so delirious he had spoken Latin, and thought that he was in France's house again. "Please…don't leave me," England had sobbed. In French. England could still hear the frog's laughter in his ears months later. They still fought. They still gave each other wounds. But somehow England found himself dreaming of days long past. He remembered Joan D' Arc. How could he not? The nation had seen it for himself of how France loved her. Through the bloodied battlefield and the screams of his people, England witnessed the adoration in France's gaze as he witnessed a kiss between them. Rage had surged through him, for reasons unknown to him. "You were jealous, England!" France's face, full of rage and hurt as tears streaked down his face, echoed in his mind as if it was still 1453. "You killed her because he couldn't stand her standing beside me!"

His cold eyes, once warm or bright with passion, now bored into England's stunned emeralds. He had told England that he would hate him for what he did, and for good measure, he told England that his brother was a good fuck. England hadn't replied. The words seemed to be nothing. Nothing like the nothingness in England's heart as he watched sob as he walked unsteadily away from him. Although England had met Joan D' Arc and had insulted her and her precious France before her death, England hadn't been the one to give the orders to burn her. He hadn't even been there when she had died. He had simply watched the burned branches and the ashes with a stunned face. That was when he became aware of France beside him. He had seen her burn. He had seen her die.

He blamed England for her death.

England understood France's anguish when he had met Elizabeth I. He had loved her, as much as France had loved the young girl that had died too young and in such a tragic way. Her soft smiles towards him and her gentle caresses as she touched his cheek and kissed him always remained one of England's most precious memories. When he had heard that Spain what planning with his Armada, he hadn't thought about his little brother America, or the bloody trade, or even his people. He simply thought of Elizabeth. And of how he could never see her face again. When his dear Elizabeth had taken her final breath and as he held her cold hand in his own warm living hand, England understood of how France had felt more than one hundred years ago. He had been too sad to even cry.

As he stumbled as he walked as the bells chimed in London and as his people wept, England only became aware of his desire to see France. They hadn't spoken in more than two hundred years, and yet a broken England wanted to see someone, anyone. When France opened his door to a soaking England on his doorstep, his said nothing as he pulled England into an embrace and as sobs violently tore through the smaller nation. France had whispered something to England as he lay exhausted and almost unconscious on his bed. "I forgive you," he had stated with tears running down his face. "Ever since I walked away from you, I've…always forgiven you." It was only when his memories were clear that night that England realized when France had said before dismissing himself as a blubbering fool that had lost someone more significant that his life.

Somehow in the aftermath of the American Revolution, France had always been the one that had stabilized him. Despite the rage of his betrayal of aiding America with his revolution, England shamefully found it easy to forgive him. Whenever he stumbled upon France's house drunk, in rage or in sorrow, France was always there. "Your bloody house is mine now, frog!" Wincing at the memory of himself proclaiming that France's house and France was his during his many drunken encounters with the Frenchmen, England remembered too of how France had even bathed with him, he had been so intoxicated. Even while cursing France for everything he did, and hitting him as he cried about America, the taller nation didn't leave him. England remembered his surprise when he found France sleeping in an uncomfortable chair by his bedside, his hair tussled and dark rings under his eyes.

A decade later it was England's turn to comfort. England had mocked France for his royalty and their carelessness to their people. "They have too much power, frog. Soon it'll go into their bloody heads." France hadn't liked his boss either, but he was hopeless to do anything as the revolution shook his house. Stupid gits, he thought sipping his tea as he watched France look outside as blood was spilled and as anger raged. Revolutions only cause pain and suffering…especially for nations. Steadily as bodies increased and blood soaked on the land, France had become insane during the French Revolution.

Through his madness, England muttered under his breath that he should just leave the cheese-smelling and wine-obsessed bastard to die, but whenever he found France screaming and crying about blood and heads and the guillotine, England couldn't look away. He found himself soothing France in his sleep – even stroking his hair at times and attempting to cook – and looked after him, as France had done to him. No matter what his bosses stated about England not staying in France's house, England stayed. He would not leave his enemy to die in such a pathetic way, and he would eventually owe him.

That's what he told himself as held France in his sleep and kissed him gently on the forehead whenever a nightmare came. Just as France had held him against his chest during his drunkenness or when he cried, England took in France's fits of madness. How many times had France thought he was an enemy and tried to kill him? Too many times. Still, when the nightmares plagued and the tears trailed down his cheeks, England could do nothing but hold his friend.

Then Napoleon had become France's boss and had almost destroyed France. He had kicked England out, telling him chillingly that France would soon destroy him. No matter how many times – for diplomatic reasons – England would knock on France's door, France became more and more disheveled and his eyes bright. A brief mention of his empire passed his lips during one of his encounters, and England had to hold in his laughter. How could France have an empire? How could the cheese-smelling surrender monkey have an empire? It became too real suddenly. The threat from France was real. And that was when England began chasing him across the globe.

Finally, in 1815, England finally found France in his own house, blood on his hands and a crazed-look in his eyes that England recognized as his own. Stupid frog! England thought as he battled the deranged Frenchmen. Come back to yourself! As blood rained down underneath their knees and as their bones shattered, England found himself not being able to take a breath as he fought France. A faint scar of where a saber had pierced his stomach remained of what happened that night, but the memory of France's defeat was in his mind. Sometimes as he lay awake, unable to fall asleep, England thought back to that time. It had rained that time too, only this time it was England who was staring at the defeated France. Although his boss had called him back as soon as the war was done, the Englishman didn't move until a blissful smile was on France's lips again as he slept.

The world wars had been hard on them, but England didn't think he would be desperate enough to sleep with the Frenchman on the day the war ended on that May night. England only remembered waking up to an empty bed, the sheets caressing his naked skin, and feeling almost peaceful as the sun's light echoed against his face. Then he had seen a not by his bedside, and had read it. England had been more than furious. He had been murderously enraged. Even his boss – who he respected and quite liked – didn't dare to make a joke on where the gentlemanly England had been last night. England had been in denial. He told himself that if he did sleep with the frog, then he must have been intoxicated, and France must have taken advantage of him. But he hadn't been drunk that night.

Like this one, England thought irritated as he heard France start to stir. And like all last month, he added bitterly. For some reason, the English nation found himself spending more and more time with France. This past decade especially. Although he told himself that the meetings that they had were nothing short of business and dealings with politics, England had to admit that in truth, he enjoyed France's company. Last night, England had the most peaceful night of his life simply watching the night sky with France and seeing the stars. But then something had changed within England when he had stood beside Francis. Something that he had felt such a long time ago for a young queen with red hair. When I look at him like this, he's actually…more beautiful than the stars. England had then mentally slapped himself and pulled France away from the terrace, telling him that he was bloody hungry and needed to eat the snails that he loved so much. Pretending to be drunk was easy. Waking up was the hard part.

Now England wondered where he stood. He had been sleeping with France once or twice a year since the night World War II had ended. But…how did it come to be this way? How long had he felt…this way towards France? For a long time, he knew, but when? Had it been when France had stroked his hair when he thought he was asleep and told him he was beautiful? Or had it been even before, when both of them had been fighting for land with blood trailing down their faces? Or…was it when England had told France his human name, whispered it to him softly, and felt France's soft lips against his neck as he told him his own name? "Call me Francis, my beautiful and stubborn Englishman," the taller blond man had whispered sweetly into his ear and as they kissed. The kiss was sweet, so gentle and seeping of love that England had never felt so alive before.

The only thing England had left of France of that time was a broken, bleeding heart when France had made an alliance with his brother. It made it worse by the sight of seeing Scotland brag of how good France was in bed. It was then that I loved him, England thought as his hand eased across his chest and his felt the frantic beating of his heart. …Before that, I loved him. I would do anything for him. I would give my heart to him if I could. As I do now.

"I love France," England whispered. The words unconsciously left a smile upon his lips. A sigh eased from him as he thought of the dear memories of his dear friend…and love.

"And I love Angleterre." A soft pair of lips caressed England's neck, and England's emerald eyes stared stunned at the Frenchman who was suddenly beside him with England's slender fingers in his lap.

"What are you doing here?" England screamed. Despite trying to pull away from France while slightly untangling the robe that hid his nakedness, France smiled at the blushing Englishman fondly. He had never told France, but he always loved it when France called him that name in French.

"How long?" he asked. The question ceased England's struggles to cease.

"What?" A hoarse whisper escaped from his lips.

"How long, Angleterre?"

England could hear his heartbeat pounding against his chest. He tried to look in France's blue eyes, but it was impossible. England licked his lips, trying to gathering his thoughts as memoires of last night's activities emerged through his mind. "Since the day you told me your name," he whispered. England watched as France stated nothing as an unreadable expression came on his face.

"Since that day?" England nodded. Suddenly he was enveloped in arms that smelled of rosemary and wine.

"Je suis désolé, mon Angleterre." England was stunned to hear a sob choke from the Frenchman holding onto him, holding him as silver tears soaked England's bare shoulder. "I should have…done something to ease your pain, but I only hurt you, didn't I?" France's tear-streaked face lifted, and England could even smell the salt from the tears.

"I should have told you I feel the exact same feelings that you had." England's slender hand rested against France's chest, and a frantic heartbeat was all that he heard as France softly rubbed his nose against his. "I didn't ever sleep with your brother, Angleterre." He paused to take a shaky breath. "Never." His blue eyes echoed into England's emerald depths, which were starting to overflow with tears.

"Never?" England choked.

France's answer was a soft kiss on England's forehead. England's eyes closed, and his head lied against France's chest. He felt France's fingers lovingly stroke his hair as he spoke with guilt lacing his lips. "I have loved you longer than that, my dear England. Much longer. When I formed your alliance with your brother….I simply did it to make you jealous. I didn't know you would hate me for it.

France's words were stopped by England's lips upon his own. They were soft and tender, speaking of the love he had for the nation for almost one thousand years. His slender hands that France loved so much glided against France's face, making involuntary shudders across his skin. Then the kiss ended, with the nation of the sea and ocean smiling at the nation of love. "I love you, Francis."

It had been such a long time since anyone had called him by his human name. A surge of love and tenderness overcame the nation as he gently fingered the hands of Arthur Kirkland. He still remembers, Francis thought with pure joy as he stared into Arthur's beautiful emerald eyes. "Je t'aime, mon Arthur. Mon amour…"

The two kissed again, knowing nothing but their own bliss as the moment created a new page of history together.

L'Histoire Nous - The History of Us