This is really really history-centric (but still very much FrUK) (and probably with many historical inaccuracies), so read at your discretion. Feel free to correct me on any factual errors you spot~
Warnings: Please check my profile for a full list of warnings!
I. Ptolemy
"It was a piece of shit."
Francis looked a right mess. There were dark smudges under his eyes — like he'd rubbed them with ink-dusted fingers — and his hair had a depressed hanging look to it. He probably hadn't showered for days; he'd probably spent the past few nights alone poring over the notes he'd made in his small, scrawling script detailing the particulars in his navigational charts.
It was like Francis' once-kept image of prudence had been washed away with business. It was strange, particularly because Arthur hated grime, but he'd never wanted to kiss Francis so badly before this moment.
His eyes followed the point of Francis' finger to Geography. He knew, at once, what Francis meant.
"You can't possibly expect me to believe your dead-set fallacies of a heliocentric universe by shoving Ptolemy's proof in my face."
"France's astrologer predicts the coming of a man who will prove the world wrong," Francis sniffed.
"Take your eyes off the stars for a second and think about these implications. Perhaps with these maps and translations — coupled with the rising humanistic ideals of our people — we can finally, finally convince the monarchs to fund an expedition to find the East Indies."
Francis let out a barking laugh, a stark contrast to his normally-reserved and infuriatingly polite snuffle. "Like we haven't been suffering enough with our trade routes cut off. France and England have enough to worry about internally."
Francis was an old man, and he knew nothing. With each passing day, Arthur's desire to set out for open seas grew stronger, and his contempt for those holding him back grew more cruel. Prince Henry had developed caravels decades past whilst England had been occupied with fighting the war with France, a memory that still left the both of them bitter and the both of their economies delicate.
So he stood up, because this was not the conversation he wanted to be having with Francis. Francis' pale lips had been begging for a kiss since the Frenchman arrived, and Arthur just wanted to lick at them until their colour returned. He hoped that didn't show in his face. They hadn't kissed in years.
"Don't get me wrong, Arthur," Francis said, giving him a short glance before his eyes dropped to the book again. "I want to do nothing more than explore the ocean, looking for the New World. With Ptolemy's words, and our suffering economies and need for goods, and — hell — with the new technological advancements we've made over the past couple of decades — it'll only be a matter of time before we step foot on a boat. Europe has been in shambles for a long time, and there is a somber part of me that wishes to see Turkey burn. The promised land is definitely an idea that appeals to me."
Arthur was listening, but his attention had been diverted away by the strand of hair that fell loosely past Francis' ear and over his cheekbones. His insides burned for Francis, because they'd been apart for so, so long, and there was not a moment's hesitation in his voice when he blurted out accidentally, "So if I asked you to come with me — to find the New World, together — would you?"
Francis blinked at him like Arthur was a creature he couldn't ever understand. "You know I adore you, my dear, and I'm flattered by your offer — but our people would not have us seen together so soon after our war."
It'd been decades, but the mention of the old wound still stung like a fresh slap in the face. And Francis' rejection, well…
"That's not what I was asking you, you lech," Arthur snapped. He could feel a heat crawling up his neck that wouldn't go away. "You know as well as I do our need to search for allies to offset the Ottoman Empire. God knows who else I'd ask to accompany me in the search."
For a moment, Francis understood. "You adorable thing," he said. He reached over — and oh God, he was right there — to give Arthur a peck on his forehead. It was their first physical contact since Francis had tried smothering Arthur into the earth with the butt of his rifle. Arthur still remembered what that had felt like — the squeeze of his lungs and the press of cool wood crushing his skull.
This was so much better.
II. The Iberian Peninsula
The Muslims had conquered parts of Spain in the 700s. They would not let up control for another seven hundred years. By then, most of them and the Jews would be expelled from the country.
More importantly, Spain and Portugal had been introduced to Muslim technology earlier than the rest of Europe. And with the two political power's positions at the south western edge of Europe, which allowed for easy access across the Atlantic, the Iberian Peninsula began to dominate.
Personally, Arthur thought it was a cause for concern. Antonio had a brooding obscurity in his eyes that Arthur couldn't bring himself to trust, especially since it was hidden behind a countenance of easy smiles and laugh lines. Portugal, meanwhile, never said anything at all.
"The neighbouring maritime republics around the Ottoman Empire — particularly the Republic of Venice — is holding the monopoly of European trade with the Middle East. The Venetian merchants are acting as the middle men, distributing the goods — spices, incense, herbs — through to Europe. If we are going to break their hold on spice trade — or, rather, if we are going to not be dependent on an expansionist, non-Christian power for commerce with the east — we must find another route around Africa."
Arthur felt an indescribable sort of chill that passed through him when he watched Antonio, whose eyes glittered with his words. Antonio was a dark-skinned, toned man with a conventional physical attractiveness that Arthur had always felt drawn towards, but the Spanish power had always been something along the lines of unobtainable.
"Your explorer, Diaz, has already spotted the Cape of Good Hope," Francis interjected solemnly from his relaxed pose on the other side of the meeting table. It was not a question, but rather a soft-spoken remark that was veering over the line of challenging.
"Portugal's explorer has no relation to me," Antonio responded without blinking. "We may be politically united, but his feats should go to him and him only."
"Politically united and able to concentrate your resources on expansion."
"What are you insinuating?" Antonio murmured. Despite so, the entire hall heard him.
"That perhaps you have plans to follow Turkey down the road of total conquest."
"Are you intimidated by our achievements? We have been exploring the African coast, securing ourselves from pirates and locating gold for almost a century now. If you want to match our advancing efforts, perhaps it is time that you join us instead of sulk in the shadow of the fallen Roman Empire forever."
"France hadn't meant it in that way," Arthur interrupted, terrified of one of the strongest rising global powers but terrified more for his friend.
"Be quiet, England," Francis said. He didn't even give Arthur a cursory acknowledgment that he was grateful for Arthur standing up to Spain in his place. "You are barely your own man. Do not presume you can speak for my country."
And past being publicly humiliated and put down as a non-member in front of an entire council of countries, past the burning shame that rose up like old bile in his throat at the memory of seeing France on the other side of No Man's Land with his soldiers behind him calling out to him how dare you, boy, take her from me? From France?, past all of that — was the horrible jolt Arthur received with those words that felt only like misery and heartbreak. He could not stop thinking back to when France had kissed him a decade ago and how good the weight of those chapped lips had felt on his skin. He could not stop thinking back to when he had first decided, back when he'd been three feet shorter than the French power, that he was in love with him, and how it was possible that even now he was still in love.
III. Columbus
It had always been, of course, a Portuguese feat.
All of it — Henry the Navigator's search for the African king of legend with abundant resources (Prester, his name was, John Prester, and wasn't that such a Euro-centric name?) and exploration of Africa's coasts, and Diaz's finding of the Cape of Good Hope. It wasn't until after Good Hope that the Spaniards had their own real victory — a victory that came in the form of a man named Columbus. Columbus, who had to wait for the fall of Granada to ask Ferdinand and Isabella to finance him — Columbus, who marked the beginning of the end of Spain's Reconquista and the rise of their Empire.
In 1492, he sailed the ocean blue…
Columbus had found the Indies, and a new trade route could finally be settled — that is, until Da Gama claimed the entire African route for Portugal and Spain had to find an alternate way around it. Perhaps they weren't as politically unified as they'd originally thought. Nevertheless, it was Spain who rose and became a global superpower, and Spain who owned much of the world for a long, long time after that.
IV. Tordesillas
"Did you know your eyes glaze over when you're thinking?"
"Huh? No," Arthur responded, embarrassed, before quickly shifting over to make room on the bench for Francis. He was surprised to see the French power here, especially because the two hadn't talked for some years now. But more than that, he was flustered at the proximity of their bodies — Francis' presence was heat against his, one inch away.
"So?" Francis asked.
"So, what?"
"So, what's on your mind?"
Arthur hesitated, before responding, "I feel like we are all dangling on the precipice of a great cliff that overlooks the universe."
Francis only smiled, as if to say, that's so pretentious, but apparently decided to humour Arthur by asking what he meant by that.
"The New World," Arthur whispers. "It's within our reach. Within another century or so, perhaps the globe will be charted in its entirety. Spain is quickly becoming one of the greatest powers we've ever known — a global power — and has claimed our promised land for himself." Perhaps another day Arthur will be embarrassed at his use of 'our promised land' as though the land was something that could only ever belong to him and Francis, but today he was too determined to captivate Francis' precious time while he was here. "I feel a storm rolling in," he continued, turning to look at Francis like the French power held the answers to his world. "I feel young," he confessed.
"You've fought wars before, Arthur."
"The Norman Conquest," Arthur says, ticking off his fingers as he goes. "You were there. The Crusades. The Barons' War — against you," he laughed, shakily. "My brother's independence, also against you. The Hundred's Year War — against you. And just recently, the War of the Roses. These are the ones that I remember the best. I have scars. But never once have I regretted them — at least not the ones you gave me."
It was almost a confession, a proclamation of true love. Arthur never knew of two nation representatives who had fallen in love before — he knew Spain and Portugal were close, but that was before all of this, and especially before the Pope literally drew a line in the sand between them and gave it an official title, The Treaty of Tordesillas. To be honest, Arthur was scared, and he had waited for centuries for the comfort of the older nation. He thought that he might be alone in the world in his feelings. There was a time he remembered that Francis may have reciprocated his love, but that was before the English and French people clashed one too many times.
Arthur gathered up all the courage he had left and turned to look at Francis directly. When he saw the other's face, with his pale blue eyes gazing off into the distance contemplatively, he ached. He had always wanted the other so badly. He had always missed the other so much.
"What do you think of me, Francis?" Arthur whispered.
It was some time before Francis could return his stare, and then another few moments before he could speak. "France may not always have your back," he said thickly, "but I will."
And that sentence was a complete contradiction, but there was nothing else Francis could have said to lighten Arthur's entire universe. Arthur leaned in first. Francis responded to his touches.
V. Six-Legged Gods
I'm married to my work, Francis used to say, wearing the rings around his eyes like wedding bands. He wouldn't say such things now, because the 'work' of a nation was hardly something to be proud of in times of war.
They were lying in bed together, tangled in the sheets and each other. Arthur rubbed Francis' knuckles absentmindedly, reading over the reports his commanding officer had given him earlier. The Spanish had established their first colony a decade ago and by now had conquered several others, as well as a whole other abundance of the Americas called South America.
"The Aztecs constantly worried of the end of our world," Arthur whispered into Francis' neck. The back of his mind was thrumming with joy, because two decades ago he could have never imagined being together constantly with Francis and enjoying the aftereffects of a good fuck. "They sacrificed men to appease their gods."
"Thank the Lord that He doesn't ask that of us," Francis murmured quietly, half-asleep.
"I wouldn't be too sure. The death toll we've undergone these centuries — are they enough to be considered sacrifices? Those men had fought in the name of God and their country, but God first." When Francis didn't respond, Arthur thought about what the Aztecs had called the Spaniards — pale Gods on six legs wielding mammoth flames of incomprehensible power. Gods, they'd been called; gods who brought only ill omen to their lands, raining down diseases and pests like the biblical plague.
"Francis," Arthur said. "The Aztecs and the Inca have fallen to Spanish rule. The Tordesillas treaty and the Ottoman rule is preventing us from reaching Asia. I was thinking —"
"Us," Francis said.
"Yes," Arthur said hesitantly. "I was thinking about us. The famed Strait of Anian that marks the end of Asia, a passage that we could claim for our own."
"Our people are still fighting."
"But not us." With that, Arthur leaned over and gently kissed the tip of Francis' nose. The rings under the Frenchman's eyes have been slowly melting away these years, shrinking back under to where they'd originally come from. That gave Arthur an innumerable amount of joy. "Not us."
VI. Cape of Good Hope
It took Arthur a surprisingly long time to realize that he was in a committed, secret relationship with the nation representative of his own country's worst enemy. A nation who so happened to have a history of sexual exploits with just about every other nation in the world; a nation who could be both ridiculously pretentious and ridiculously cruel-hearted. He would go from questioning the obviously ubiquitous importance of the pygmy squirrel in the universe to pondering the unknown metaphysical existence of a North America representative in a world where masses of discovered land — and only discovered land — was embodied by human-shaped, human-feeling, Godlike sovereigns of unfeeling and politics. And then he would go from all that, to complete uncaring at all; he would just become terrifying, apathetic, a thousand-year old soldier.
Despite all that, Arthur loved him; he loved the way they would sometimes press the pads of their fingers together, so alike in more ways than one, or the way Francis exhaled a millisecond faster than he inhaled and how the telling rise and fall of his rib cage would indicate this. He loved the way Francis' long lashes fluttered when he dreamed, and the sixteen barely-perceptible freckles that splattered his perfect skin.
He loved the recalling of old memories with Francis in them, when Francis used to take care of him when he was a young boy, and when they'd do nothing but soak their feet in a stream all day while commenting on the passing clouds.
He even loved the way Francis looked at him every time they stood on opposite sides of a battlefield. As long as Francis was touching him in some way — be it violently (the way they struggled together on the muddied ground) or gently (the way he'd press their foreheads together after a hard day) — the memory was nostalgic.
Despite the way Arthur loved, however, he could not help remembering what Francis was to the rest of the world. Especially what Francis was to Antonio. The two had been lovers a long time past; they may still be lovers now.
Francis had never promised Arthur monogamy. Arthur had never asked.
Francis was attracted to power. Arthur was, too — there was probably not a single nation in existence who'd not once been taken aback by the intensity of Antonio's eyes and the strength of his hand — but Francis was attracted to power in a more sexual, self-loathing way. Arthur could never give him what Antonio could, but at least Arthur could be there for Francis, even though the other may still see him as a young nation still.
Arthur had tried establishing a colony at the Cape of Good Hope to prove that he could, to some degree, be anything Antonio was.
He was driven out by the native tribes — the Khoikhoi, San, and Bantu. Then the Dutch had arrived and established a colony there because the natives had already been weakened by Arthur's hostilities, and the Dutch now used it as a trading post of the Dutch East Indies.
There was not much to Arthur, it seemed, besides loving Francis.
AN: ...Yeah, this isn't actually complete.
What's supposed to happen is that Arthur's supposed to sink Antonio's armada and become a world power and make Francis kneel at his feet and then everyone's happy (except poor Spain) and everyone gets over their angst. But I'm never going to finish this anyway, so I figured I might as well post it.