Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers

America watched England watch France.

France was talking to Belgium. Actually, more specifically, he was flirting with her. He was giving her chocolates with a flourish and he was kissing her hand and he was whispering things that…America did not even want to think about.

England's face was impassive. He sat across from America, sipping tea in his immaculate navy blue suit and tie, and his expression didn't change at all. He caught America looking.

"What is it, brat?"

America stared at him. He oh so wanted to know. But Mattie always said, and he had said it recently in fact, after England and France had signed that 50-year defence deal; that they shouldn't ask them. Because it was sensitive stuff and England and France needed to figure it out on their own. Whereupon America had felt compelled to point out that he and Prussia hadn't let America and Ivan figure it out on their own. In fact, there had been quite a lot of help involving closets and beer and…

"America, Alfred!" England shouted. America jerked back to reality and impatient green eyes. "Stop daydreaming, for God's sake."

"Sorry, Iggy."

England snorted and went back to sipping his tea. What was wrong with good, healthy Coke, America wanted to know.

"Iggy."

"What?"

Well, Mattie wasn't always right, was he? "Do you, like, love France?"

England choked. Tea splattered onto the table. America stared at the brown liquid. Yep, Coke was better.

"What? Love France? Are you bloody sick today, America?"

"No, I'm not," America said defensively. His economy was recovering, really, it was! "Everyone knows you like France."

Well, he hadn't until Mattie and later, Ivan, told him. But, that wasn't the point.

"The bloody frog doesn't love anyone." England said, with conviction.

But, America thought, that wasn't the point.

XOXO

America persisted. He was the hero, after all! He should interfere in England's private life if it meant England and France would fall in love and live happily ever after. And besides, England would be unendingly grateful in the end, right?

"I do not think this is a good idea, dorogoy," Ivan said.

"Yes, it is," America insisted. They were standing outside Scotland's door. There was a lot of green hilly land around, and was that a castle? "Scotland would know, wouldn't he? They're brothers!"

"England and his brothers are unlike you and Canada."

"But he should at least know something."

The door swung outwards, nearly hitting America in the face. Scotland stared at them suspiciously. "Did the lil' brat send you?"

"No," America said.

Scotland stepped back a little. "What the 'ell do ya want, then?"

America looked at Ivan. Ivan looked at America. Ivan sighed. "Alfred wants to know if friend England –"

The door slammed.

"– likes France," Ivan finished.

The door opened.

"What did you say?" Scotland looked like he was going to burst into laughter. In a not so nice way. "The brat and the frog?"

"Well, yeah," America said.

"Answer's obvious, innit?" Scotland made to slam the door again.

America stopped it with his foot. "But, why doesn't he just tell France then?"

Scotland glared at him. "That's obvious too."

America made an exasperated sound.

Ivan said, "It is not so obvious to us. Therefore, you will tell us, da?" His pipe materialised. America always found that amazing, how it came out of thin air. Ivan wouldn't tell him how he did it, because apparently, America should already know how, since he made burgers materialise out of thin air all the time. He did not!

Scotland shrank back a little. "Watch that pipe," he muttered. "Well, they've been at each other's throats forever, ain't they?"

"Ivan and I were too," America pointed out.

"Kolkolkolkol."

"Well, there's Jeanne, ain't there?" America wondered at Scotland's ability to glare and shrink at the same time.

"Who's Jeanne?"

"Do you know nothing, America?" Scotland asked. There was a certain amount of not so nice incredulity in his voice. Ivan brandished his pipe. Scotland waved his hands. "Joan of Arc! Joan of Arc! Put that thing away!"

America thought he remembered a little about a person called Joan of Arc. England had crammed his head full of British history when he was a colony. It had been so boring; he was sure he'd forgotten most of it already. Joan of Arc. Wait a minute –

"I thought England had her burned." America said. "I thought he had her thrown in the Seine."

Scotland laughed. "There you have it. Now git your foot outta my door."

America absently complied. "But – "

Scotland slammed the door in his face.

XOXO

Spain's house was strangely quiet when Lovino wasn't around. "Lovi's gone to visit Feli and Ludwig," Spain told America and Ivan, as he gave them tomatoes to eat for refreshments. "So what did you want to ask me?"

America took a bite out of the tomato. Seriously, who ate tomatoes when they weren't crushed into tomato sauce and poured on burgers and fries? He told Spain this and then added "Dyo yoo know anyfink 'bout Hoan of Hark?"The words were barely discernible around the tomato in his mouth.

Ivan translated, "Do you know anything about Joan of Arc?" America noticed that he wasn't eating tomatoes. Ivan had a severe dislike for tomatoes or strawberries or anything red that spewed red juice, actually. It was an eccentricity America did not yet fully understand.

Spain's expression had gotten wistful. "Ah, you mean Jeanne. A lovely girl, so much spirit. But why do you want to know about her?"

"What does she have to do with England not telling France he loves him?" America asked.

"Ah," Spain said. He smiled. "You should ask France that. I don't think I have the right to tell you."

"But – "America said.

"So when are you and Russia getting married?" Spain asked, cheerfully.

Silence.

Then chaos.

XOXO

The next part of the journey was not at all helpful. It went like this:

"Mattie!"

"Alfred."

"Prussia."

"America. Where's your boyfriend?"

"Gone home. Natalya called him."

"I'm going to watch hockey. You wanted to talk to Gilbert, right?"

"Well, yeah, but don't abandon me!"

"So, Prussia."

"America."

"What has Joan of Arc got to do with England and France?"

"Not telling you a fucking thing." Add completely manic laughter.

XOXO

On the flight to France, America looked through some photos he'd stored on his laptop. Looking at photos of himself and Ivan always managed to calm him down after a meeting with stupid Prussia. Mattie had such bad taste.

There he was, with Ivan, in a field of sunflowers somewhere in his own country. Ivan was asleep beside him; America had taken the rare opportunity and photographed both of them together. It had taken several tries to get the camera to go off at exactly the right time. But he'd done it. And Ivan looked – beautiful, he thought. The sun was shining in his pale white-gold hair; it looked like a halo around his face – relaxed and tranquil for once. Ivan always looked so on edge. America remembered looking at that peaceful, quiet, trusting expression, and making a promise to himself, that if anyone ever dared to hurt Ivan, he'd destroy them, he'd never forgive them, he'd – wait a minute.

XOXO

"France!"

France looked up as America bounded into his house. He was in the kitchen, making something that made America's mouth water just looking at it. Fuck, why couldn't England cook anything half-decent? No, wait, why couldn't England cook anything that wouldn't kill a grown elephant?

"It is crème bulee," France said. "Do you want a taste, Amerique?"

"Hell, yes!"

After America finished stuffing himself, France took him into the living room and sat him down with a drink. "Cognac," France said, fondly. "Only in France."

Tea. Cognac. God, what was wrong with Coke? Or Pepsi, or 100 Plus, or F&N? America didn't understand why England and Spain and France and the lot of them didn't go into withdrawal or something – he would have, if he deprived himself of those basic necessities. It was like – self-harm.

"Did you love Joan of Arc?" America asked, carefully taking a sip of cognac. Coke, I miss you.

No answer. America wondered if France had heard. He was just staring at him, expressionless. It was unnerving.

France said, "Why would you ask that question?"

"Well," he said, "Scotland wouldn't tell me, Spain wouldn't tell me, and Prussia just laughed." He scowled. "I don't see what Mattie sees in that bastard."

For once, France didn't jump onto the topic of mon petit Mathieu. He said, instead, "But why would they have mentioned Jeanne?"

Something inside America – the working part of his gut instinct – told him that it would be a bad idea to say anything about England at the moment. "Um, I was curious about French history?" His gut instinct didn't extend to plausible lies. "Um."

France was silent for a long time. America considered going to book a hotel, sleeping the afternoon away, and then coming back; France didn't look like he was going to move any time soon.

"It's been centuries," France said, suddenly. Or it seemed sudden only in contrast to the silence, because France's tone was slow and careful. "I might as well admit it. Yes, I loved Jeanne."

America thought he might as well get on with it, now he had confirmation. "So is that why you won't forgive England? Because he killed her?"

France stiffened. "What does Angleterre have to do with this?"

"Iggy loves you."

France barked something that should have been a laugh.

"It's true," America insisted. "Everyone knows it."

"I know," France said. He took a long drink of cognac, swirling it around the glass just so, like America's boss had tried to teach him to do. America had just spilled all the wine out, and proceeded to go find some Coke.

America stared at him. "You know?"

France nodded.

"But then – so, you don't love Iggy back?"

"I never said that."

"So you love him."

France sighed. "Amerique, do not press me on this. It is unpleasant."

Mattie always said that he was bad at respecting people's wishes. "So you love him, but you haven't forgiven him."

France said nothing. America took it as silent consent.

"Is there anything that'll make you forgive Iggy? Like," America had inspiration, "you could find a way to get even with him, or something. You could dig up Queen Elizabeth's grave."

"Don't be silly, Alfred," France said, sharply. "And I have already tried 'getting even' with mon cher Angleterre."

"Really?" America said with interest. He'd never heard about that before. "How?"

"I helped you win your Revolution."

America scowled, disappointed. "That? What does that have to do with anything?"

"You are dense, Alfred."

America withdrew with dignity into the glass of cognac. What? It really didn't have anything to do with anything. Sure, England had been pissed off because his Empire'd gotten shrunk, but it wasn't on the level of France losing someone he loved.

"Anyway, Angleterre tipped the scales again, when he took Mathieu. So we are still not 'even', as you say."

America tried to rack his brains. Surely, there was something England had done to make it balanced again. "What about World War II? He helped you, didn't he? He stuck with you when giving in to Germany would have been easier."

"That is aid," France said, "it is not revenge."

He remembered something Mattie had told him, when he was agonising about falling in love with Ivan of all nations. They had been supposed to hate, hate, hate each other. The entire Cold War had been about hating each other. America smiled at the memory, at how warm and free it had made him feel suddenly. And then, he'd gone on a flight to Russia.

America said, "Love doesn't have to be about revenge."

No answer.

"You should know that, shouldn't you? You're the nation of l'amour."

France murmured, "Your accent is abominable, Alfred."

He didn't manage to get anything else out of France, except, of course, dinner. It was wonderful dinner too, even if France told him later that one of the dishes contained snails. Snails! Fucking snails!

XOXO

Russia watched Alfred watch England watch France.

Alfred was staring rather too hard, he thought, for someone who boasted that his intelligence service was the best in the world. But England was preoccupied, and so he didn't notice.

France was talking to Belgium. He was taking a box of chocolates from her. Russia narrowed his eyes. It had only been three months. Alfred would be upset should France and England's newfound relationship end so quickly. He wondered if he should take his pipe out.

France smiled at Belgium, kissed her hand. And then he went to where Alfred was sitting with England. He presented the box of chocolates to him. England's expression didn't change. But Russia thought that he could see a certain light in his eyes, more refined than America's, but still alike in a way. It was soft and it was happy. Russia patted his pipe. It could stay where it was for now.

XOXO

One year later went something like this:

"Bloody perverted frog!"

"Mon petit lapin! It is Mathieu's wedding, surely it is a special occasion?"

"There is never a special occasion for this kind of atrocity."

"But mon cher, you are so beautiful, is it not understandable that I wish to touch – "

"Shut the hell up!"

Somewhere else:

"Ivan, Mattie's marrying the fucking Prussian!"

"Da, solnyshko."

"It's a disaster of the likes of England's cooking."

"England is coming."

"Shit."

And so it ended – America's great quest to find out why in hell England and France weren't together yet. Look at this way, even if almost everyone else knew the answer already, at least America did something about it.

"I am so the hero!"