Oh man I used to be pretty good at these opening/closing remarks. Read it? Or not, do what you want man. Though I assume if you've made it this far you're gonna read it. Reviews are nice, that should be a thing you do. But if you don't, that's alright too. Just read, because that's all I'm here for, presenting you with such works that I write. I've been on a writing hiatus for awhile now, but I'm hoping to start writing semi-regularly again. Expect to hear from me sometime again in the future.

I still don't own Hetalia. Oops.

Arthur had loved him in the beginning. And it wasn't that he didn't love him now, no…he just…well, Francis had accepted that Arthur was a bit eccentric in the way he showed it.

Though he hadn't been that way in the beginning. No, Francis thought looking back on it, the Brit had been as open and easy with him as he was with him now. In the beginning of their marriage, that is. Everyone knew that before that their relationship had been toxic at best.

Perhaps it is best to start there, at the very beginning.

Francis and Arthur had first met when they were both very young. Young for what they were that is, though to most they must have truly been much older. It was the time of William the Conqueror, and Francis had come over to the small island nation just across the channel to meet with his new charge, the country of England. Francis had fanciful ideas that taking care of the boy would be fun, like having a little brother who would look up to him and seek him for protection.

He had been so, so wrong.

Arthur hated him. Though small and pale, with a thin bird chest, the British boy was very strong-willed. Whenever he and Francis sat at meals together, the only time Francis could ever get the little Brit to stay for long in the same room as him, Arthur would speak of overthrowing the French rule and becoming a strong, powerful nation that Francis himself would one day fear. The Frenchman would always chuckle at this, a soft laugh that spoke volumes. Arthur would glare with determined green eyes, an expression surprisingly vicious for one who appeared so young.

And then the day came when Arthur's talk became reality. One day out of the blue, at least that's how it seemed to Francis, Arthur was his own nation. A very powerful nation. And he still hated Francis.

And Francis loved him.

Francis had loved him since he was small, held an affection for the boy who was so vindictive and quick to anger. Yet when he was alone, when he thought no one was looking, Arthur was such a quietly introspective boy who loved finding the small beauty in life, a boy who always read with a small contented smile on his face. Francis loved his Secret Arthur. As the years passed and with the passing of William the Conqueror also came the passing of France's 'winning streak' for a long time. With this passage of time, both he and England grew.

Arthur grew into a wiry young man who had a sort of restless quality about him, like a tiger pacing in a cage. He sailed often, was even the captain of his own ship for a time. Green eyes were as bright and inquisitive as when he had been a boy. He still hated Francis.

Francis had grown into a handsome man with an artful charm and a carefree attitude that showed with his easy laugh. He was loved at parties, beloved by all. Being le Pays d'Amour, after all, it was difficult to hate him. Arthur seemed to manage just fine.

There came a time, however, when something seemed to shift in their endlessly antagonistic dynamic. The Frenchman did antagonize the Brit, just as the Brit antagonized him. Because though Francis loved Arthur, he never saw his feelings to be reciprocated. And why should they be? Though he freely gave his love to many, there had never been a single person who had ever truly loved Francis back. Why should that change for him now, with Arthur? No, he had never expected his feelings to be reciprocated by Arthur. Arthur, who was so intent on hating him. Hatred is but the other side on the coin of love, as they are both intensely passionate feelings, and so Francis had decided that if he couldn't have one then he would have the other. But then there had been that shift. Looking back on it, Francis thought it had been Joan.

It was after she had been burned. Francis could still smell the smoke, cloaking his esophagus and choking him. It brought tears to his eyes, but then he thought no, you're just crying. Arthur was there.

He stood there watching Francis cry curiously, as though the emotion of anguish were foreign to him. Francis had screamed at him then, suddenly infuriated at the observer.

"Are you happy?!" he yelled through his tears, voice absolutely wrecked. It was the voice of a broken man. This is why you shouldn't love humans, he thought. Don't love them. But how can the Country of Love dictate his own heart? "You've won! You've beaten me time and again, are you finally fucking satisfied?!"

Arthur flinched. "I never meant for this to happen."

Francis had laughed, though there was no mirth behind the sound. It was not his usual easygoing chuckle. "Of course you did, Arthur. You wanted all of this to happen. You," he lifted an accusing finger, pointing at the Brit as though he was brandishing a sword, his hand shaking, "made all of this happen. What are you trying to prove with all of this fighting, Arthur? That you're better than William?" Arthur knew who Francis was talking about. He flinched slightly at the name. "William is dead, Arthur. He doesn't care." This last bit was said with a trace of bitterness, as though Francis was envious of William the Conqueror's escape into death, the one thing the French nation couldn't have.

At last, Arthur cast his eyes to the ground. "What do any of us try to prove with war?" he muttered. He sighed, running a hand through already ruffled blonde hair. "Look, I'm…" he paused, chewed at his lower lip for a second. It was a bad habit he'd developed, Francis noticed. Tearing those beautiful lips up. "I didn't know what they would do." And after a moment of hesitation, a second of spontaneous thought, he hugged him. For a second Francis couldn't even register it, the action being so strange. The thought that Arthur would surely plunge a knife into his back flitted into his head for a second, and then the Frenchman discarded it, hugging the Brit back fiercely. "I'm sorry." Francis was crying again.

After that, their relationship had been strange. They had gone to war, yes. They fought with words as often as they did with swords and guns, even occasionally between the sheets with only gasps, pants and growls traded between them. After awhile, physical blows came less, fights were fought more often with words but these altercations nearly always came to an end in someone's bed.

One night left Arthur crying.

"Mon cher, what is it?" Francis had been alarmed, as usually Arthur would just leave without a word or kick Francis out, depending on whose bed they were in, but on this night the Brit had curled in on himself and started quietly sobbing. "What is wrong?"

"N-Nothing. I'm absolutely perfect," Arthur said between trembling lips. "Don't touch me." He pulled away violently; the Frenchman had reached for him.

Francis frowned. "Arthur…"

"Don't say my name! Don't say it like that!" Arthur snapped, dissolving into tears again. He always tried so hard not to. Watching Arthur cry was like watching a crystal glass shatter in slow-motion: tragically beautiful. "D-Don't say it…like…you care…" His voice had lowered to a broken whisper.

Francis' heart dropped into his stomach. "How could you think that I don't care?" His entire life had been spent caring about Arthur, every second since he had seen the small boy in his dark green cloak in their first meeting all those years ago.

Arthur looked at him then, eyes looking like a green lake with how they were brimming with tears. "How could you possibly? Look at me." Francis didn't understand. He saw a beautiful pale angel in his bed, an angel who held his books like they were precious, fragile things, who always had a soft smile as he read, an angel of fog and softly drizzling rain and warm tea on cold mornings, or any mornings as a matter of fact. "I'm pasty, I have ridiculous hair that never does what I want it to, and my eyebrows…" Arthur groaned at that, curling into himself more and putting his hands over his face to cover his thicker-than-average eyebrows. A shudder ran through him from the effort of trying not to cry. "And you're just so beautiful. It's not fair. It doesn't make sense."

It was said so softly, barely a whisper, that Francis thought he had imagined it at first. "…Quoi?"

Arthur sniffled, lifted his face for a minute to glare at the Frenchman. "Don't mock me, wanker, you heard me." The effect of the insult was lost on Francis as comprehension dawned on him. He pulled the Brit to him swiftly then, despite Arthur's protests against it. He had pressed their lips together, silencing any protest Arthur might have, kissing him fervently, kissing across his face and the bridge of his nose, whispering 'je t'aime' over and over. Even the slightest hint that Arthur might love him, or at least not hate him as much as he always said, brought so much joy to Francis' heart that he couldn't contain himself. "Shut up, stupid, I don't know what you're saying." Arthur's protests had stopped. Tears were still falling, and Francis kissed those away too.

Eventually they both fell asleep, Arthur before Francis, in each other's arms. When Francis had woken up, he was surprised to find Arthur still in his arms, even more surprised to find the other awake before him. Arthur had that soft smile he wore when he read. He had kissed Francis' scruffy cheek, had whispered that he loved him, too. He had known what Francis was saying all along.

For awhile, they were happy. Arthur was this bright, shining joy in Francis' life and every morning he couldn't believe it when he saw the Brit's ruffled blonde head on the pillow beside his. Centuries, Francis had worked. For centuries Francis had harbored his love and it had finally been reciprocated. Arthur loved him, truly loved him. It was an unbelievable thought every time it crossed the Frenchman's mind; he often found a sense of irony in the fact that the Country of Love couldn't believe that someone loved with him. But they were so happy. Days could be spent simply lounging quietly in each other's company, each observing the other when they thought they weren't looking. Nights were spent laughing in the kitchen or cuddling in bed, innocent kisses often resulting in wandering hands and more heated activities. They were in love, and Francis couldn't imagine a more blissful feeling in the entire world.

They were so happy when they were gifted with two little colonies, nearly identical in looks but one could not be more different from the other. One was loud, an exuberant, curious, happy child who laughed loudly and easily. They named him Alfred. The other was quiet, shy, and preferred his own company and imagination. His name was Matthew.

They both loved Alfred and Matthew immensely, but Francis could tell that Arthur favored Alfred. He saw it whenever Arthur would smile and, laughing, sweep the boy up into his arms and spin him. He saw it when Arthur would sing the boys to sleep or tell them stories of when he had sailed with the most fearsome pirates on the seven seas. Alfred, too, seemed to be drawn to Arthur more so than his Papa Francis.

Francis told himself that jealousy was irrational. Arthur loved Alfred and Matthew as much as Francis himself did, yes, but that didn't mean he didn't love Francis anymore. He was his husband.

Then came the day when Arthur had snapped at him when Francis had slid his arms around his waist.

He had jolted from Francis' touch, glaring at the other. "What do you think you're doing?" he'd said, making Francis feel particularly foolish.

"I just wanted to give you a hug, mon lapin." Francis had frowned. His action had been one that he had done many times before, one that had always been accepted with a small smile and sometimes even a peck on the cheek. "Is something wrong?"

Arthur blinked. "No. Why does something have to be wrong? Honestly, Francis."

Alfred had rushed into the room then, Matthew following behind with his stuffed polar bear in tow. "Arthuuur! Let's play cops 'n robbers! You an' me can be the cops, okay? Mattie's the robber!" he laughed. The two had given up trying to get Alfred to call Arthur anything besides his name; they'd tried every variation of 'father' there was: dad, pops, pop. For a time Francis had even tried to get the children to refer to Arthur as their mama, but only Matthew called him this. Alfred was insistent on calling Arthur by his name.

"I don't want to be the robber!" Matthew protested in that uniquely quiet way he had, brows furrowed.

Arthur had smiled as soon as Alfred had rushed through the kitchen doorway. "How about you and Matthew are the robbers and I'll be the cop?" He thought it a fine compromise.

Alfred shook his head vigorously. "No way! I wanna be a cop so I can be a hero!"

Arthur had laughed at that, an easy laugh that was still so new for Francis to hear. He had never laughed like that before Alfred and Matthew. "Is that so? Well you and Matthew can be the cops then, and I'll be the robber. Does that sound good to you?" Alfred had grinned widely, and both boys had chorused their 'yes', Matthew's much more demure than Alfred's. They'd raced off outside then, and Arthur had followed soon after. The children's delighted shrieks and Arthur's New Laughter drifted inside from the window. Francis was left alone in the kitchen, as though he were a ghost, merely an invisible spectator to a life that was not his.

Arthur snapping at Francis over the hug seemed to have been an isolated incident, and the Frenchman chalked it up to nerves or a lack of sleep because of the boys. Most days he was his normal self with his small smile and his quiet laughter. Most days were nice.

"Hm?" Arthur said dazedly, glancing at Francis for a second. "What was that?"

"I said," Francis repeated slowly, "that I think you should reconsider. The tax, I mean."

Arthur made a soft scoffing noise, turning his gaze back to the window where Alfred was outside, doing chores. He was older now, at that lanky awkward stage between child and adult. "I can't. The war is costing me too much, I have to get my money back somewhere. And anyway, I was much too lax on him as a child. Too many freedoms." He waved a careless hand. "I get the feeling he thinks he's entitled."

"Arthur, his people are—"

"My people," Arthur corrected, sending a sharp glare at Francis, one that the Frenchman was becoming ever more familiar with these days. War always put a strain on their marriage, especially when it was a war between their countries. "They might live there, but they are under my rule and they serve the British royal crown."

Francis bit his tongue then, as his husband went back to staring out the window as Alfred raked the leaves in the yard, fanning himself with the hem of his shirt occasionally. Francis didn't tell Arthur that murmurs of revolution were sweeping across colonial America, nor did he say that he'd heard from Matthew that Alfred was on the fence about it. He knew he was leaning towards the sway of his people, as most countries are wont to do. But he was merely a colony, not a country. Not yet.

As Alfred grew older, as he grew to be a handsome young man, Francis became more jealous than he had been before. He knew it was stupid, told himself it was completely irrational, but at times like this when Arthur was obviously barely sparing him any attention in favor of staring at Alfred outside, he knew it wasn't so ridiculous as he tried to convince himself.

And he was angry. He grew to resent his son to some extent, though he knew it wasn't his fault that Arthur loved him so much. He couldn't reason with his heart even with that knowledge though, still resenting Alfred. It wasn't fair, he thought. He had waited for patient centuries for Arthur to love him, to smile at him, to spare him a laugh, and Alfred had achieved all of that effortlessly. Francis had had to fight tooth and nail to earn a place in Arthur's heart and Alfred had just been awarded a place there with a bat of his eye. It just wasn't fair.

So when Alfred decided he was going to become an independent nation, Francis helped him. He fought against Arthur for American independence because he wanted the Brit to himself again. He wanted things to be like they had been before. So Alfred became independent, and he named his country the United States of America. Arthur was brokenhearted, he was angry. He was hurt, and he took it out on Francis. Francis, who had helped. Francis, who had loved him and then betrayed him. He left, and he took Matthew. French Canadian territories didn't belong to France anymore and things weren't like they used to be at all.

Things were different. But not really, Francis supposed. Not if he thought about them as being just the same as they had always been before. Arthur went back to hating him, though his hatred had taken a new form. Whenever he snapped at him in meetings, whenever they got into arguments, there was always a hateful jab that was meant to wound the Frenchman deeply, like a slow knife. He tried not to rise to the Brit's antagonism; he knew the eyes of a broken heart.

History was not kind to them. When the second Great War came about, France fell to Nazi Germany. Arthur had tried so hard to protect him, Francis thought with a sad smile. He shouldn't have to protect him; it should have been him protecting Arthur. And he wondered why Arthur always tried so hard to protect him, though somehow maintained his hatred of the French and all things French, especially Francis himself. He wondered why Arthur would bother, and oftentimes came to the conclusion that it was only logical to do because of their geographical proximity; it was all merely strategy. But despite living many years and having seen terrible things in his long life, Francis was still a romantic at heart and he thought maybe, maybe Arthur did still love him, in his own strange way.

Francis hated the Vichy government that was put in place after the Nazis occupied his beautiful country, hated everything about its puppetry; when sitting in with Vichy members he could practically see the strings attached to their limbs. He could do nothing as German planes flew over London every night, relentlessly bombing the beautiful city in an effort to bully Great Britain into giving up. He knew Arthur had to be in pain, and yet the Brit wouldn't surrender. He was the last line of defense, the last hope of Europe, and he knew this. He wouldn't give up even if it killed him, and that pained Francis that he could do that to himself. That he could do what Francis himself had failed to do.

Arthur pleaded with Alfred to help him, to join the war and save Europe. "You'll be the hero you always wanted to be," he'd said once with a hollow laugh. Months of London under siege had taken away much of Arthur's good humour. Alfred didn't join the war for a long time. Francis didn't think he ever would have if Tojo hadn't had a successful mission at Pearl Harbor. Francis almost wanted to thank Japan for that attack, because it had ultimately saved his Arthur. Arthur wouldn't have to taste the leather of Germany's boots.

When France was liberated from Nazi control, he wanted to cry from happiness. The entire country was singing. "What can I do, Arthur? Anything. Anything at all," he had said. He had wanted to help, wanted to get back at those who had held him captive for so long.

Arthur hadn't even looked at him. For a minute, Francis didn't know if he would even answer. "Stay out of the way," he muttered. "You'll just get caught in the middle again." And then he had walked away, off to talk to Alfred about a collaboration on some air strike on Berlin.

It was a few weeks later when Arthur had seen the bruises. Francis had been in the middle of putting a shirt on when the Brit had walked in, saying something about diplomatic blah blah blah. He had stopped short when he saw the Frenchman. "What happened to you?" He sounded like he'd just been punched in the stomach. Painfully breathless.

Francis' chest was covered in fading bruises, some more vivid than others. Most of them were speckled in big blotches around his ribs. He winced; he hadn't meant for anyone to see.

Arthur walked right over, looking him over, carefully running his fingers over the bruises and pausing every time Francis sucked in a quiet breath. Arthur's eyes were dark, mouth a grim line; he wasn't going to ask again, because he knew what had happened. He knew. And he left then, without another word. He settled the matter he had come in to discuss with Francis by himself.

Nothing had changed after that; Arthur barely talked to Francis unless he needed something. And when the war ended, when the Allies won, the only thing he spared was a small fleeting smile. Francis caught that smile and kept it like a firefly in a jar because he knew it was all he would ever have.

The incident at the Nuremburg Trials had surprised him. Most involved parties were there: Alfred, Arthur, Ludwig, and Francis had gone as well. It had gone well enough for awhile, or as well as war trials could go. Alfred seemed weary, but Arthur seemed very tense. Francis was pretty tense himself; he didn't like being in the same room as Germany. He kept his eyes to the ground for the majority of the trial, but he could feel cold blues staring at him. He could feel the smirk in that stare, though he kept his own eyes pointed to the ground.

And suddenly Arthur stood. He pushed his chair back, its wooden legs scraping against the ground noisily and disrupting the bored but even flow of Alfred's voice. Everyone stared as the Brit strode purposefully across the floor to where Germany sat in his chair and grabbed the German by the lapel of his uniform, punching him square in the jaw. No one said anything as Arthur just kept punching. It seemed like everyone was too stunned to even move, including Germany himself.

Arthur shoved him to the ground, kicking him hard in the side. Ludwig coughed, and Arthur kicked again. He seemed just about done, surveying the damages. Germany was fairly bloodied up, and the Brit appeared to be satisfied with that. He spit at his feet. "Any bruise you leave on him I will return ten times worse, remember that. Keep your bloody hands to yourself," he had muttered with disgust. Francis had caught it, suddenly remembering that afternoon when Arthur had seen the marks that covered his body. Hot tears blurred the Frenchman's vision. From shame, from a feeling that bubbled up that he couldn't name at first. Happiness. Arthur cared. Arthur definitely loved him.

At that point, Alfred had come up and set a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Come on Arthur," he had murmured. "He's not worth it. C'mon, we can resume tomorrow. Let's get you a drink." And Francis' happiness sank because he saw. He saw how Arthur had relaxed almost as soon as Alfred had set his hand on his shoulder. How he had almost leaned into the small gesture.

"Right," Arthur sighed, nodding as he allowed himself to be turned away from the crumpled form of a beaten Germany on the ground. "Right, that sounds nice." And Francis felt despair for them both as he watched Alfred lead Arthur from the room. Arthur had always loved Alfred, he had loved him from the moment he had seen him. Did he still care for Francis? Of course he did, in that strange way he had. Alfred had always loved Arthur as well, but even Francis could tell that it was not the same as how the Brit felt. And it was in that moment that Francis silently empathized with Arthur, because he knew what it was like to love someone for so many patient centuries just to have that love unrequited.

C'est Finis