You Can't Stop Feeling


based on the Quasi-War, 1798-1800, that soured relations between a new United States of America and its former ally, France


Out of all of the rejections he had suffered, it was America's that had stung the most, the one that had made the least sense, to his mind at any rate. Because America had little reason to spurn his request - he should have at least considered it for a while longer, at least pretended that he still remembered the brilliance and warmth of their alliance, his first alliance, not more than ten years earlier.

Things had quickly escalated after the truth came out, America doggedly defending his leader's decisions to stay neutral, even if it meant going back to speaking terms with England in order to preserve his fragile new government. Words were said that should not have been said, ugly, hurtful accusations, but left unspoken was the pain of betrayal. Betrayal of what they once thought up together in the company of clever men and beautiful women, those bright dreams that would change the world more than anyone could have ever dreamed.

Really, it was ironic that America could find peace after his revolution, yet France found only further suffering after his.

Which explained why they stayed with him this night, in this apartment, watching as he tried to drink himself into oblivion. How unfortunate that they were nations, creatures with long secret memories that four bottles of cheap champagne can not entirely erase, not even for a few hours. And yet he still tried, as they all did, when the memories of centuries became too much for one mind to bear.

Sitting beside him on the chaise, Spain reached out to steady his brother nation, murmuring worriedly under his breath upon feeling the feverish heat emanating from his skin, the uncontrollable occasional shivers. Prussia had returned from seeing the two young prostitutes out the door, where he had paid them extra despite their futile efforts to comfort their friend. France, of all people, had refused their charms and instead poured them flute after tiny flute of bubbling champagne until they were all giggling madly over his morbid jests, like three desperate, drifting kindred souls. But even those girls could have families and lovers; France, on the other hand, had alienated the ones closest to him.

Most of them, anyway.

Prying the empty glass out of the other nation's trembling fingers, Spain whispered, "France, please, no more for tonight. I can not bear to see you like this."

"Don't you patronize me as well," France hissed, drawing breath to start another tirade and then getting interrupted by a violent hiccup. Prussia managed to push over a chamber pot with his boot right before France leaned forward and threw up everything he had consumed in the past several hours - the sole piece of bread they had managed to shove down his throat that afternoon, and whatever alcohol he had been drinking in place of food.

Sighing in exasperation, Prussia rubbed his back while France miserably tried to wipe his mouth with the last clean handkerchief Spain possessed.

"God, you are such a fucking mess."

Weeks of incessant moping and constant drinking, interspersed with what can be most accurately described as temper tantrums, of the sort that could start a war, and very nearly did. They had to assume that France must have felt some true affection for America, at least for a little while, to have been so utterly devastated by the former colony's repudiation, to snipe at the boy like a jealous ex-lover, to take each of his words as a dagger to his already bleeding heart.

"Look at you, pining away like a lovesick calf, and for whom?" Prussia growled, and in his irritation, the rubbing motions became less comforting and more heavy-handed, causing Spain to discreetly squeeze his fingers in warning. "Nothing more than an uncultured, arrogant little shit of a nation. Trust me, France, you are better off without him."

France glared at Prussia, eyes shining too brightly, cheeks flushed from hurt pride. "If moving on was that simple, I would have done so already…"

"What is it that's holding you back, then?" No answer but sullen silence. "See? You don't even know! It's over between the two of you. Forget about him, he's not worth your time, not anymore."

"Please think of yourself, France, if nothing else," Spain said soothingly, as he tucked a strand of France's hair behind his ear. "And remember that Prussia and I are still here for you."

"Not for long," France mumbled dejectedly, voice cracking from stress and self-inflicted despair. "You will not be my friends for much longer."

Then he passed out from severe alcohol poisoning, and it was not until several years later that they finally realized what he meant. By then, Napoleon had conquered most of Europe, leaving everyone stunned and humiliated by this incredible turnaround in France's fortune.

But there was one happy ending to the story, Spain would always add in that maddeningly cheerful way of his, because France and America were able to reconcile due to Napoleon's influence.

And then Prussia would punch him in the shoulder.