Chapter 1: The XYZ Affair (1798)

Alfred ran down the long, ornately decorated hall of Francis's house in Paris, clutching notes and papers to his chest. "I cannot be late, I cannot be late," he muttered. The whole reason he was there was to prevent a war between himself and France, not make things worse. It was times like these that he hated, because his inexperience started to show, and other countries started thinking they were justified in looking down on him. But he had finally, finally made a treaty with Arthur! The Jay Treaty, he called it. Things had been finally looking up, but then Francis had to take offense. "These stupid countries have hissy fits over everything," he mumbled, perhaps too loudly. He careened around a corner and ran straight into Francis Bonnefoy. The papers flew over his head and he landed with a sharp noise on his backside on the smooth, polished floors.

When the papers settled, Alfred sat up, mumbling apologies. When he saw who it was, he tried not to blanch. "Haha, Francis! Hey!" he said, diving for the nearest papers. "I was just on my way to the meeting! Look at all these notes, haha."

Francis did not look amused, though he bent down and picked up a few papers at his feet, glancing at them as he did so. "I should hope so, though I am curious as to where you think you're going. You're going in entirely the wrong direction."

"What? Really?" Alfred asked distractedly. Where was the letter?

Francis handed him the papers he had collected and stood up, smoothing out a wrinkle in his breeches. "It's two doors back on your left."

"Ah, thank you very much," Alfred said. Hadn't Francis picked up more papers than the three he had handed back? He didn't have an opportunity to ask, because Francis brushed past him and clicked down the hall in his exquisitely buttoned shoes. Alfred sighed. He had no choice but to follow him, and after a final glance around the hall, he hurried after him.

The meeting did not go well. While their respective diplomats were getting the formalities out of the way, Alfred tried to subtly organize and shift through his papers. He had gone through them three times before he concluded that the letter was definitely not there. He felt panic rising in his throat, threatening to smother him, and he looked around the room with wide eyes. Where could he possibly have put it? Had he lost it when he dropped the papers? He couldn't have. Had Francis seen it? The thought made his hands tremble slightly. He put them firmly in his lap. An exclamation of dismay from one of his diplomats brought his attention back to the meeting.

"Are you, Sir, suggesting we give you a bribe?"

"I am doing nothing of the sort," came the smooth French accent. "I am merely suggesting that some currency might make this agreement come to a more satisfactory conclusion."

Alfred's eyes snapped to Francis. He was relaxed in his chair and observing the proceedings with a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Alfred was so angry he almost completely forgot about the letter.

"Millions for defense, sir, but not one cent for tribute!" cried one of Alfred's delegates. He could not have said it better himself.

The meeting was swiftly declared over and there was much angry shuffling of papers. "Oh, and Alfred," Francis called as Alfred prepared to stomp out angrily with his delegates, "If you find you're missing any paperwork, just let me know." He smiled blandly and Alfred scowled. Inside, he was shaking from anger and fear. He knows, Alfred thought, as he stormed out of the building. He read it. How had he begun it, again?

My dear Arthur (Oh God, he had started it with "My dear Arthur),

I have been thinking of you often as of late. (Something about the sky or such nonsense; then:) I fear that with our latest agreement, we have entered upon a relationship utterly unlike the one we had before it, and so utterly unlike the one I had once hoped to have. If you could know how often my thoughts fly to you, you –

He couldn't remember the rest of it, but even that was enough. He bit his lip, fighting the angry tears stinging his eyes. And God, he had signed it! Signed it, "Yours always, Alfred." Francis would know immediately what he had meant. He had never planned to send it, of course. It was not the first unsent letter he had written to Arthur, though it was close to it. You are an idiot, he told himself. Francis is going to use it against you. You know he is. It's only a matter of time.

When Alfred returned home, he was bitter. He told his people all about the insult Francis had given him, trying to bribe him (ignorant as Alfred was, of course, of the European custom), thinking that Alfred would stoop so low! And all the while Alfred waited in agony for Francis to make an announcement to the world: "Alfred Jones, our newest country, is in love with the man who raised him!" Or perhaps it would come in the form of a letter, blackmail. What if Francis told Arthur? That was the option that made Alfred lie awake at night. What would Arthur do? Probably never speak to him again. And maybe that would be best, thought Alfred, curling into a ball beneath the covers. Because then I would never have to make up things to say to him again. A single tear ran down Alfred's cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut. I would never again have to see his face.

Meanwhile, Francis brooded in his office. When he had seen the "My dear Arthur" he had tucked the letter in his pocket without thinking. He had read it all the way through twice now, though, and it was altogether not what he had expected. It was clearly a love letter. Had Alfred intended to send it? Francis eventually decided that he had not. It was too soon after, and Alfred had to know that he was still too young for Arthur to take him seriously. But that was the question, wasn't it? What did Arthur think of young Alfred? Francis put the letter away in a drawer. It seemed likely that it would come in handy later, though he didn't know how. Until then, he would keep it, and say nothing of it.

Then the First World War came around. The look on Arthur's face when he heard that Alfred had finally joined the war all but confirmed Francis's suspicions about what Arthur thought about Alfred, though he didn't have a chance to research it further because the Second World War followed close after. Arthur and Alfred seemed to be working together more closely than before, but Francis was distracted and had his own country to worry about. Then the war ended and Ivan started acting strangely.

In 1959, Francis got a new boss. This new boss was very concerned about what Ivan might do, as they all were, and he was also very concerned about the apparent dependence of many European countries (Francis himself included) on the nuclear strength of Alfred. Francis could not agree more when his boss began to expand and strengthen Francis's own plans for a complete nuclear arsenal. Arthur was being awfully supportive of Alfred, Francis noted, and pushy about what they should do to protect themselves from Ivan. When Francis's boss asked him to find a way to keep Arthur and Alfred apart, and thus keep them from convincing the other countries of anything stupid, Francis thought of the letter.

He contacted a man of his who was posing as a servant in Alfred's house. It wasn't long before he found exactly what Francis was looking for: A locked desk drawer that held letters addressed to one "Arthur" dating back to the 1790s. Interestingly, not a single one after 1798 was signed, but there was no mistaking who had written them. There were more of them than Francis would have dreamed of, and not all of them were love letters. Oh no. A few of them were rancorous and spoke of hate.

Francis was sly, Francis was patient, and when he held one in his hands, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Spring of – what year was it now? 1962? Arthur sighed. He was having a hard time. He had applied to the European Communities – a very important series of bodies at the moment – but Francis's new boss was fighting hard to make sure that his application was suspended, and remained that way. He didn't understand why Francis had to be so stubborn sometimes. Cutting him out of a group like that was hardly helpful to anyone involved. He and Alfred had been growing closer in recent years, but how could Francis find that threatening? And Alfred – he seen Alfred again only a few weeks earlier for a meeting. But it had been strange, seeing him so tense. Ivan was putting all of them on edge, he supposed. He flipped open the mailbox and took out the post. He began to walk back up the walkway to his house, flipping through the mail as he did so. Bill . . . bill . . . junk . . . bill. . . . His fingers paused on the last letter, and he slowed. It was a while envelope that was perfectly blank, without even his address or a stamp on it. He turned it over. It was sealed. Anthrax? he wondered idly. He doubted it. He stopped on the walkway and ripped it open. Dear Arthur, it said;

I saw you at the meeting this morning, as I'm sure you know. I was surprised at what memories it brought back. After all, it hasn't been so long since I saw you last. They were mostly bad memories, which was strange. I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that they were mostly my fault, though. Maybe a little bit yours, since you're so thick-headed.

Anyway, because of that, it was hard to tell whether I was happy to see you or not. It's always so confusing, especially when you glare at me like you do. I'm always happy at first, but then you start talking. You seem determined to hurt me. I don't understand why. That should all be behind us.

But I guess I must have been happy to see you, because now that you're not here, I miss you really terribly. I guess that's why it's always so confusing to see you; it always hurts afterwards.

I hope you're enjoying the sun. Oh wait – it's probably pouring at your place.

Arthur frowned. "It's perfectly sunny," he muttered. He flipped the paper over, but the back was as blank as the envelope. He skimmed the letter again. It was undated and unsigned. "Strange," he said, and continued on into his house, deep in thought. Who could it have possibly have been from? It didn't even read like a real letter. It rambled and was far too casual. "Dear Arthur," it said. Maybe it was supposed to be to another Arthur? He dumped the junk mail in the recycling bin and spread out the other letters on his desk. He put the bills in a neat stack, thinking. Of course he always suspected Francis when something strange arrived on his doorstep, but this didn't seem like him at all. In fact, he couldn't see how he could possibly be related to this incident. He carefully folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope. After a moment of hesitation, he stuck it in the bottom desk drawer. He would think about it more later.

Exactly a week later, an identical envelop showed up in Arthur's mailbox. This one was addressed merely to "Arthur" and read like a note that had been scribbled out in a matter of seconds.

A week after that, the third letter came. This one was undeniably a love letter, and Arthur began to have the sneaking suspicion that either he had a secret admirer, or someone was terribly mistaken.

Author's note: The meeting between Francis and Alfred is a rough summary of the XYZ Affair (see Wikipedia for more info), which took place in Paris in 1798. The "Millions for defense, sir, but not one cent for tribute!" quote was lifted wholesale from the Wikipedia article on the subject, though it is cited as being what they actually said. The Jay Treaty (or the Treaty of London of 1974) was a treaty between the US and Britain.

Francis's new boss is Charles de Gaulle, President from 1959-1969, and he was a very strong advocate for France's independence from other countries. See Wikipedia for details.