This fic began with the image of the French Revolution, Francis in its midst, asking Arthur if he would want him if he were more like...
Extra motivation came from an article my mother told me about French relationships.
It seemed improbable that the young man standing across from him, chest heaving, eyes fiery with resentment, was the same little boy whose tiny hand had barely fit around England's finger but tried to, anyway.
England barely notices the blow that lands and cracks three of his ribs; the same wound that, years later, causes him to slow in retaliation to other similar, inspired rebellions. A wound that would aid in his empire crumbling into dirt. This wound would inevitably destroy everything he'd worked to create, and all because he didn't treat it properly, thought it silly, even.
It is France, not America, who stabs him, but America is right there with him and is the entire reason France is there to begin with.
England falls, thinking nothing of the pain blooming from his chest like a wildflower. Not the physical one, anyway.
He thinks of tiny hands, grasping his, and blue eyes, and a small, tentative smile.
…
France supposes England takes it personally, as though America was choosing France over him. If only it was so simple; America isn't such an easy sprite to capture. France doesn't correct England, though; he thinks his rival deserves to feel this way once in a while.
He doesn't, however, feel England has a right to be looking at him this way, as though France is pathetic.
His smile quivers. "I thought if I were more like him, you'd-"
"I'd what?" England snaps. "I'd have reason to hate you more? We've been fighting for centuries, you berk. I think you know how I feel about you."
France feels very still for a moment, stricken with that sort of shock as though the other nation has just slapped him. Which he has, before.
The emotion in England's eyes turns into something akin to pity - not to be mistaken with the similar but fundamentally different 'concern'.
"You've made quite an awful mess, you know." England sighs. "Honestly, it wasn't nearly this bad with..."
His voice trails off, despite France urging him desperately in silence. He needs him to say it. It doesn't matter if he won't himself, because France will make him.
He clears his throat. "Aren't you... aren't you going to ask where my new friend is?"
It's only when England looks at him funny and crinkles his nose (in that way he always does) that France realizes this blow he was waiting for England to deliver all along has expired. He wanted to be able to turn the tables, make fun of Great Britain's tragic weakness, except that it is too late for this, and France had nearly forgotten that.
There is an air of caution, of testing the waters, before England speaks. "The last I heard, your friend... America wasn't to be bothered with Europe." A pause. "And your alliance is hardly new."
Here it is, everything France has been dying to properly smear in England's face, only to miss his opportunity while planning his victory speech. England's calm conduct confuses him, and because he is confused, he is infuriated. The other nation hasn't gotten over the hurt entirely, but then, it isn't exactly a fresh wound.
Being infuriated leads to exhaustion, and France sags in defeat.
"You've never wanted me as I am," he says bitterly. God damn you English and your precious tact. A true friend, he thinks, is someone who can take it all in the jugular and still stand beside you without a moment's hesitation. He wants to say this so England will realize what he means to France. It's been years, but the other Nation still doesn't understand. France wonders why he even bothers when they're obviously under different impressions of each other.
England hates it when France or anyone snivels like he is now, so he cringes down at where France is kneeling in the ashes of his personal Revolution.
And then, because there is nothing to say, England turns and goes, like he always does, leaving France behind. France thinks of calling after him but instead his dignity, his stubborness, perhaps just fear of rejection clamps down on his tongue and forces him mute.
…
Outside the World Conference room. Sometime in modern day.
America looks tired. He barely seems to register England's hands on his face, nor the fact that the other Nation is the sole thing supporting him at the moment. There are bags below his blue eyes, which are nearly invisible underneath his drooping eyelids. England thinks suddenly of a time fourty years earlier, when America had strut with confidence about the conference room, only to be found passed out in his car afterwards. The cynic in England can't help but think that things aren't nearly as hard for America right now; his economy is prosperous, there is only a single war for him to worry about, and he isn't watching over any other Nations. He is free.
"I don't want to screw up," America groans. "Those people need me."
That's all it takes to ensnare England completely. He brings the younger Nation's head to lay on his chest and puts his arms around him, hushing him.
"It's alright," he whispers. "I won't make you do this alone."
America's hands take their places, one at England's waist, another at the nape of his neck. England sees the broad expanse of America's shoulders and wonders when that happened; again, he is growing without England's notice.
Behind them, England hears the conference room door open. The door's creaking stills, and whoever it is who has come out takes pause. England doesn't blame them; they must be pitiful sight, crouched on the floor like this.
France stays like that a few moments, watching them without expression or comment. Then, when England refuses to look at him, to turn away from his precious America, he slips back inside the room, giving the two Nations their privacy.
…
It is centuries earlier. There is no America; only an as of yet undiscovered contingent of savage Nations, combatting for resources and devouring each other's flesh as they worship pagan-esque spirits of the forest. Just England's type, France thinks ironically, if only those Nations had had the sense to wear fine suits instead of running around naked.
Except he isn't France, he's Gaul, and it isn't England but Albion, or perhaps by then Brittania; he can't quite remember, and that worries him, that his memory may be only as good as his peoples' textbooks.
He remembers little about the events leading to the instance. However, the instance itself is burned into his mind.
There is Rome, and his hand is on England's shoulder. France remembers not knowing what to make of it at the time, other than that it bothered him. He still isn't sure; all he knows is that England appears in nearly all his vital memories like this, nearly abstract, at a distance, and unattainable only by him.
This was me attempting "less is more", subtlety, etc. It didn't start that way. It also somehow became about the two of them... less equally. I don't know how to describe how this has divulged from my expectations. Writing just does that.