September 3, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, Cour Royale

Prussia stepped out of the carriage first. France could see the shock of silver hair even from the other side of the courtyard. And he could hear Prussia from there, too. Raspy, dirty tones, unmistakably Prussia. "Oh, thank God! SOLID LAND!" he cried as he stretched.

"I almost didn't see you there! The sun was glaring off your pale skin, you stupid albino!"

He followed the voice, and as soon as his eyes locked on France's his face broke into a grin. He jerked his forearm, mouthing, "Up yours!" Then he broke into a sprint across the courtyard. He leapt onto France, wrapping his arms around his waist like a leech, pressing France's face to his chest. "Heeeeeeeeeey, loser!" he yelled. They staggered back; France wrapped his arms around Prussia and spun him around like a happily married couple. Prussia peeled himself off and hopped lithely to the ground, then wrapped his arms around France's shoulders again in a genuine hug.

"I missed you, mon ami," he said.

"Missed you too."

"Don't forget about me!" Spain said. He lightly shoved Prussia away and opened his arms for Spain.

The ferocity of his tight hug surprised France. "Geez," he said, chuckling awkwardly. "More of that and you'll kill me!"

"Just happy to see you," he said, holding him at arm's length. "We were so worried."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Prussia gathered the two of them under his arm. "It doesn't matter now! The trio's back together! YES!"

"Come on. I'll show you to your rooms."

September 4, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, Hall of Mirrors

"Okay, I swear, if you do anything to purposefully embarrass me, you'll go right back to Prussia."

"Oh, would you relax? You don't need me to embarrass you. You do a pretty good job of it on your own."

"Ha-ha-ha! Very funny. I'm serious. Pleasantries are different on this side of Europe. And if I'm being honest, your etiquette is a little bit . . . unrefined. Just . . . don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"As if that gives me any parameters. Look, it's not my fault if your aristocrats are more emotionally sensitive than Prussian aristocrats. Say one little thing, or do one little thing that may be taken as slightly rude or offensive, and suddenly you're the scourge of society here. They should learn to take a hit every once in a while."

"Prussia, do as he says," Spain commented, ever the parent of the group. "You seem nervous."

"I am really nervous," admitted France, quickening his pace in sync with his heartbeat. "I've been maintaining good, albeit awkward terms with Louis lately. I seriously do not want you two ruining it."

"I'm gonna ignore how rude that actually was for a moment to ask a question: Why?" prompted Spain. "Were you two not on good terms before?"

"Not exactly." They reached the doors to one of the many antechambers where some of the party's life was. He fluffed his ponytail and straightened his peach-colored jacket.

"What do you mean?" Prussia asked.

"I'll explain later, I promise. Let's just have a good time right now."

"I can't if you're determined to ruin it," Prussia muttered.

The porters opened the doors for them, and Prussia and Spain got their first look in over 50 years at the grandeur of Louis XVI and Marie's Versailles.

Colors everywhere, people in every shade of reds, blues, greens, purples. All the candle light bathed the entire room in a sort of surreal, ethereal gold light, giving the entire place an overall look of a pleasant dream. Music, dancing, mirrors everywhere to reflect the opulence. The chandeliers sent gold fractals across every surface available, and shone off the jewels around peoples' necks and wrists and clothes. Gambling, of course, laughing, good spirits, and lots of wine to go around. Beautiful, if France did say so himself. Absolutely beautiful.

"Wooooooow," Spain breathed, eyes roving across the scene. France smiled with pride at their slack-jawed expressions. When he could forget all the rest of his more important problems, Versailles really was a wonder at her peak.

The scene must have knocked Prussia's memory clean of their previous conversation. He shoved past France and Spain and waltzed right into the ballroom like he owned the place. His scratchy, piercing voice carried well, even over the string quartet. "Move over, losers! The Great Prussia has finally arrived! Now the party can start!"

"Are you kidding me?" France grumbled.

Spain ran over and clamped a hand over Prussia's mouth, hauling him away from the spot-light. "Be glad they can't understand a word you're saying, idiota!" he joked, dragging Prussia away. "'Who's the weird German guy that Monsieur Bonnefoy brought to the party, eh?'" He smiled against the glares and waved an awkward apology on Prussia's behalf.

"German?! Excuse them, I'm Prussian!" he huffed as soon as he pried Spain's hand away from his mouth.

"Stop it, you two! People are staring! Come on, I need to introduce you to Louis and Marie. Please don't try to talk to anyone!" he begged, grabbing Prussia's hand like a child. He searched and searched near the edges of the room where they would be seated to greet, exchanging hasty 'Bonjour's whenever he had to. Finally, he saw them, and Prussia snorted behind him.

"What is that on her head? Is that a boat?"

"Shhhhhh!" France hissed, forgetting they couldn't understand each other. He led Prussia and Spain before the two of them, smiling amiably. "Votre Majestées, les personnifications nationales des royaumes de la Prusse et l'Espagne," France offered, bowing deeply. He stepped off to the side for them, and as Prussia practically rushed the two of them, France grabbed his arm, halting him. "Please don't embarrass me," he whispered. Of course in the next instant, he subconsciously made it his goal to completely mortify France. Spain edged past the two of them right when France let him go, and he and Prussia roughly bumped shoulders both trying to get to the king and queen. They both backed off quickly, expecting the other to go, and when they saw the other waiting, they both tried to go again at the same moment. They jostled again, bouncing off each other, and waited again for each other. Spain caved first, throwing his arms up and shaking his head furiously. He stepped back for Prussia and gestured elegantly for him to go, bowing slightly in his wake.

France sighed and rubbed his face exasperatedly, checking to see how many people were staring. Oh, good! It was only 20 or so. 40 less people than he thought.

As soon as Prussia had a clear path he continued his charge on France's monarchs. He removed his plumed military hat and set it down on the floor next to him as he knelt, then confidently grabbed Marie's hand. Breaching every rule of propriety and court conduct, he looked up at her and winked before offering his respects. "Eure Majestät," Prussia said loudly, loud enough to make her flinch. Either he didn't notice or he didn't care. He kissed her hand roughly and France could tell by the look in his eyes what he was thinking when he raised his head again.

"Oh God, please don't try to speak French."

"C'est . . . trrress bonn-"

"Save me," he told Spain, grabbing him and throwing him towards Prussia. He quickly ran up behind him and grabbed Marie's hand from him.

"My turn," he said, staring at Prussia a second longer than he had to. He cocked his head towards Louis. "Su Majestad," he offered smoothly, kneeling and kissing her hand with much more poise. She smiled slightly, already being pulled into Spain's naturally magnetic personality.

France kept a close eye on Prussia while he moved to Louis, but he seemed to take Spain's hint. He toned down his bravado, kissing the Bourbon ring on Louis' finger with less fire. "Eure Majestät."

"Merci," Louis thanked, sending France a mildly agitated look over Prussia's head. France shrugged.

"Sorry," he mouthed to him. "Prussia and the court of Frédéric Guillaume II offer their well wishes, as do Spain and the court of Charles III."

"My Lord, thank you so much for entertaining the two of us at your glorious palace while we spend time with France," Spain said when he knelt in front of Louis. "As thanks, the Spanish court brings you a gift of two Andalusian horses, Pura Raza Española. Would you translate, please?" he asked France.

As France repeated Spain's message in French, Louis smiled and nodded regally in Spain's direction. He looked to Prussia next, obviously expecting another gift. Prussia's eyes widened and he took a step back. "What?" he asked France. "What does he want? I didn't get him anything."

"You didn't bring a gift?" Spain gasped.

"No, was I supposed to?"

"Oh, Dios mío, didn't anyone explain court etiquette to you, mano?"

"Prussia does things differently, okay? We went over this! There's none of this ass-kissing stuff in my country! If you wanna show someone respect you just show them respect. Now that I think about it, Fritz rarely let anyone bow to him unless he wanted to embarrass them."

"Tu es un militaire, la Prusse?" Louis suddenly prompted.

France guessed he suspected the conversation taking a turn away from him. But he was relieved by Louis' engagement of Prussia. Talk to him about the military and he would talk all day. Civilly. France hoped. He translated Louis' question for him, "You're a military man, Prussia?", and his smile grew tremendously.

"Ja, Majestät. A General of the Prussian Royal Guard," he boasted.

Louis stared at France while he converted Prussia's answer, then nodded approvingly. "Vous portez le blanc habituellement, non?"

"He said, 'Don't you normally wear white?'"

"Ja, Majestät, but I prefer to be on the front lines of battle when I can be. The Infantry General's uniform saves me the trouble."

"Comment se porte sa Majesté Frédéric Guillaume II?"

"He asked how Frederick William II is."

"He's very well, thank you! He just received the funds and approval for a beautiful stone triumphal gate to replace the one from Brandenburg an der Havel to Berlin. Neoclassical architecture."

France translated, stumbling over the German names, but with Marie's help, Louis understood. "C'est très bien, Monsieur. Merci, et amuse toi."

"He says thank you and have fun. Say thank you, and bow before we leave."

"I know, I know. I'm not a complete savage! Danke schön," Prussia spat as he bowed again to Louis. "Now was that so bad?" he smirked.

"Yes! Yes it was!" France yelled despairingly. He tried to joke with Prussia, but he couldn't maintain the straight face. Prussia lightly shoved his shoulder.

"You liar! You'll have to do better than that if you want to take the Sass Master title from me."

He grabbed a wine glass off the passing servant and took a loooong gulp, already expecting a fun night. His heart suddenly swelled with happy excitement.

"Ooooh, I'm so glad you two are here. I missed youuuu . . . " he trailed off, juggling his wine glass to wrap his arms around his two friends again. He released Prussia to wrap Spain in a choke hold.

"Agh! We missed you too, France!" He wormed out of France's grip and playfully smacked his shoulder. "We were really worried about you for a long time, and we're glad to see you so well," Spain said, smiling genuinely at him. Then he grew serious again. "Are you gonna tell us what's going on, now?"

"Mmmmm, no. Not yet."

"Oh, come on!" Prussia whined, throwing his arm roughly around France. "Why can't you tell us now?"

"Non, non, non!" he assured them. He ducked out from underneath him. "We're going to have a good time first. I'll tell you later, since it'll only kill the mood. Come on. Grab a drink."

"Yeah, Prussia! Grab a drink! You know what he said on the way here, France? He bet me that he couldn't get drunk on French wines because they're ' too dainty and frilly compared to rugged German hops beer'."

"Ex-CUSE you?"

"It's true!" he protested.

"50 livres. By the end of the night you'll be drunk off your ass! And damn the exchange rate. If you lose, you lose."

"Deal. 50 marks. Let's go to the card tables!"

"Noooo! I want to dance!" Spain whined. "I brought my castanets and everything!" He had the clam-like instruments out and around his thumbs in an instant, clacking them loudly.

"Mon Dieu, put those away!" France reached for them. "You're determined to embarrass me!"

Spain jammed them behind his back, out of reach. Then he said something that completely shocked France. "You're no fun anymore, amigo!"

". . . What?"

"You're no fun anymore! I don't like this super serious France! Since when are you afraid of my dancing? Or Prussia's antics? Did you forget that's just how he is?" Crap. They knew. They saw through his façade of normalcy. It was fragile to begin with, but he was hoping they wouldn't pick up on how much he changed. He was hoping that with them being there, he could remember and regain some semblance of who he was before everything went to hell.

" . . . I'm not . . . Parties are political situations-"

"Maybe that's why you're so high-strung!" Prussia offered. "Parties should be parties!"

"You're being WORK you. This is a fiesta! Be YOU you!" He shot France a knowing look, smiling invitingly, then winked and clacked his castanets one last time before wading through the crowd like a shark in a wave. "Show me how the French dance!" he yelled over his shoulder. France smiled, and dutifully followed.

"I juz want you two to know . . . That you two'rr my bes friens. Okayyyy? Yu'rr my beeeees friens, and I luv both a' you motherfuckers . . . " Prussia slurred. He wrapped his arm around France's torso and nuzzled his face into his chest. His accent mixed with unformed words made him really hard to understand, and his slow comprehension took a minute to process the message Prussia was trying to get across.

As soon as he understood it, the gesture touched France's drunk heart so deeply, his eyes almost teared up. "Awwww! That is sooooooo nice, Prussia!" France said, hugging him back. "Yurr my best friend, too! But - wait wait wait - what about Gilbird?"

"He'd smoke you guys."

"Rude! Where is he?" He bumped his glass against Prussia's shoulder and it tumbled out of his hands onto the floor. "Whoops." For some reason, he knew that was bad, but he couldn't place why right then. He made horrified eye contact with Spain, but his face was all scrunched up and he was trying not to giggle and all it did was make France giggle and then the two of them were in hysterics.

"Din't come. He gets carriage sick, remember?"

"No," he answered honestly, shaking his head. France let go of Prussia and tried to bend over to pick it up, but then the floor shifted under his hand. He tipped from the couch and landed on the ground next to it.

September 6, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Drawing Room

France couldn't move. France couldn't breathe. Tears streamed like waterfalls from his eyes, salty, undisciplined deluges down his cheeks. He convulsed uncontrollably, face curling up, chest heaving. Wanting desperately to take a breath; wishing desperately for his stomach to stop hurting. He couldn't. It wouldn't.

Prussia was just TOO FUNNY.

"By this point she's PISSED, yeah? - I mean, steam's coming out of her ears, she's as red as a tomato. And there I am, just proud of myself for even holding on as long as I did! Cuz, you know, if these were normal circumstances I'd have already been spitting out a few of my teeth. Anyway, since I am the great Prussia, of course all that pride goes RIGHT to my head!" His hand shot up and pointed to his temples. "The awesome Prussia decides to seal the deal with an epic one-liner! A REAL kicker that's gonna shut her up, let her know I frickin' WON for once!" He paused for a sip of wine. "I had this one-liner stocked for a while, just praying for a chance to use it sometime, and, as I'm sure you both know, fights with Hungary are the perfect times to test these things out, right? So I puff out my chest and say to her, 'Wow, Hungary! Are you always this stupid or are you making a special effort today?' She lets out this demon growl, like, 'RRRRAAAAUUUUGHHHH!', and I'm pretty sure that knocked me out, not the actual punch!"

France howled, doubled over, legs curled up under him on his chair. Spain fared no better next to him. On the floor in stitches.

"Next thing I know - BAM! - I'm on my ass seeing stars and she's STRADDLING me, her finger's in my face, she's SCREAMING at me!" He took a breath and imitated Hungary's angry growl voice perfectly. "'Don't you EVER say anything like that to me AGAIN, te kis szaros-' She's so upset she can't even speak in the Common Language and I just about pissed myself right there! And that is the last time I ever say anything like that to Hungary again!" Prussia bellowed over the two of them, swirling his wine inside his glass. He arrogantly cocked a silver eyebrow for dramatic effect, attempting to be stoic in the wake of their fits, but eventually he lost a battle with a wide grin that forced its way through his façade. "Pfffffft-kesesesese!" He dropped his gaze to his lap and let his own raspy chortles join with their laughs.

Over and over and over, France watched the mental image until it could play out behind his eyelids on its own like it was recorded. He wanted to savor every detail like a dessert; he never wanted to stop laughing. It only seemed to get funnier each time - the reconstruction of Hungary's expression as Prussia described it, the exact tone of his voice as he told her off. Each repeat deepened his laughs more and more until they rolled from his stomach to his chest. They fell silent, forcing him to ride out the storm until the spell of laughter was over. The second he could, he sucked in a huge, calming, much needed breath. . . only to dissolve into another trembling puddle of cackles.

How good it felt to laugh, actually laugh again, he thought. His heart instantly filled up with contentment at the thought of it. This was the sort of euphoria, the sort of unparalleled glee he coveted wistfully since 1774. The sort of positive emotion he lacked since . . . he couldn't even remember. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard.

God, it just felt so liberating. Fulfilling.

"I am among friends," he thought dumbly, giddily. "Laughing with my friends." People cared about him. For the first time in a while he saw it. They cared. Spain, in all his pleasantries and slap-happiness, cared. France looked closely, hyper-aware of the round, smiley, sun-tanned face and the smile lines that made him look friendly, optimistic, and playful. Contradicted subtly by the dense burden of wisdom. He exuded appreciation and happiness and enthusiasm, made everyone around him delighted and excited about life. Carefree, peaceful, light-hearted Spain. Eyes relaxed and closed softly despite the ferocity of his laughter. Hyper-aware of Prussia's pale face, sharp features. Eyes chock-full of youthful wonder, but occasionally, France could see something more. Something fierce. A glint, or a grin could instantly turn him into a primal being, a bloodthirsty animal. When he laughed his face seemed to scrunch up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth completely open to let his howls escape.

His heart swelled with pride. Gratitude. They came when he needed them, whether he knew he needed them or not. He thanked God for it.

As France gradually calmed down to the occasional hiccup, he wiped at his eyes and took a large sip of wine. If Prussia's story was this funny as a story. . . he only wished he could've been there too, laughing with them. Laughing at them, in this case. A burst of regret spattered his chest like paint, crushing his good mood like a bug. Thinking about all these moments, all this damned fun he missed out on - by personal choice - made his heart and stomach sick with guilt and remorse. Sure, Nations had millennia to spare, and he could make up for it, but he couldn't take back what had already happened in his absence. He couldn't go back, steal the vibrant color from their world, hastily color his own grey world, and pretend he was colorful the whole time.

He had more than enough opportunities to color his grey, dreary world with them. He could've wrung out every last drop of solace and relief from all his friends. But he didn't. No, no, he shut himself away for a decade. He wanted to be miserable, whether he realized it or not. He brought it on himself so completely; he played the part of the victim so well, moping around until he fooled himself.

His smile was all-but gone. Damn it! He quickly made a conscious mental effort to banish all the analytical thoughts away from his mind and simply enjoy his time with them. He would start rebuilding right now.

Spain and Prussia's residual snorts and snickers eventually quieted down as well, and when Spain peeled himself from the floor to crawl back to his seat France decided to tease him. He made a show of looking Spain up and down, pursing his lips. Spain wore a light green jacket that matched his vibrant green eyes well, but the jacket was speckled with a light blue latticed design that barely went together at all. His beige trousers were even more of a bland and modest juxtaposition against the boastful jacket. White socks, white cravat, black shoes.

"What?"

"You're a mess, l'Espagne! What's with that gaudy outfit? Who told you a mint green jacket and beige trousers was a good idea?" He leaned over and tugged at the thick, bright green sleeves. "Well, I guess it's silk, so it is nice. But the colors are all wrong! And look at the 's' cut of his jacket, Prussia. Completely unflattering to his manly figure! He needs more of a flared, well-rounded 'c'."

Prussia cackled. "Yeah, you should've worn your military uniform, not that ugly thing! Women go nuts for men in uniform," he said, gesturing elegantly to his own. Pressed, pristine, deep blue jacket lined with red on the inside, white pants, a white German Lampasse like a sash across his chest to show his rank. He had the white shoulder plates and little tassels trailing off of them - France couldn't think of the word for them - and a single line of silver buttons. A proper Infantry General's uniform, complete with the Iron Cross amidst other symbols on the left side of his chest. The only thing he lacked was his tall, plumed shako, which he left by the door on his way in. "Look at mine. Sexy, right? Much sexier than a Spanish one, but yours would do. They'd probably fall all over you if you wore those thigh high boots you guys wear."

"They're only knee high-"

"And those tight Spanish pants over your firm Spanish butt," France injected. He added cooly, "Considering you're the booty, I'm the beauty, and Prussia's the brute-y."

"What?!" Prussia roared.

"I told you never to say that again!" Spain whined, lightly shoving France. He huffed and defended himself. "My butt is beautiful by itself, thank you very much! I don't need tight pants."

"You have to admit, the tight pants help. It's looking rather firm today."

"You're darn right, it is!"

"No, wait, what?" Prussia prompted. Spain and France's leveled their gazes in direct eye contact and they made a unanimous decision.

"We'll tell you later," Spain promised, changing the subject. "By the way, your Prussian uniform's material is imported from Spain, idiota! Spanish Merino sheep wool. Who designed that thing, anyway?"

"Watch it," warned France. "It's based on French style."

"It's stupid! I don't even know what to look at on him! Blue jacket and red collar? Whose idea was it to get white pants? They'll look filthy after one battle! And the long-tassel-needle-thing's only on one side!"

"It's an aiguillette-" France muttered.

"It's to leave room on the other side for all. my. medals," he enunciated slowly. "I look damn good in this uniform. Just you wait. I guarantee if we go to a tavern tonight and we both hit on the same girl, I'd still go home with her, even if I'm Prussian!"

France barked out a laugh. "French women would never settle on a Prussian when there's a Spaniard and a Frenchman of respectively equal and higher attractiveness in the room. So for the record I'd go home with her, because I'm the most handsome." He paused, and as an afterthought added, "And French," pinching Spain's cheeks.

He swatted France's hand away and turned it into a dismissive wave. "Ok back to the clothes, jerks! I needed some new clothes for this fiesta, okay? And it's Spanish style! Our jackets- don't laugh at me!" he interrupted when a grin split France's cheeks. "Romano liked it!"

"Romano liked something?" France teased.

Spain paused and his face fell, like he wanted to defend Romano for a second. Instead an amused grin snuck back up his face, and he turned away to hide it. "That wasn't very nice, Francia." Gloating, France stared straight at him as he sipped his wine again.

"You took Romano along with you? Clothes shopping? How did that work?" Prussia blurted out. "Knowing Romano he probably just insulted you the whole time!"

Spain held up a finger to stop him. "Actually, I got a compliment!"

France gasped into his glass of wine mid-sip, nearly spitting it all out. He felt flecks of it fly down his windpipe, and managed to choke the rest of it down before the coughing fit overtook him. "W-what?" he sputtered.

"Sí, sí, he complimented me! Here's how that went: I was only looking for a jacket. When I picked out this fabric it looked really expensive and soft and nice, and Romano liked it too. He said it would bring out my eyes. Side-note: it does! So a few days later I got the letter from the tailor saying my jacket was ready. I invited him to go with me for my second opinion since he helped me pick it out, and I tried it on. It fit me really well, and the colors looked really good, and I knew I looked really good and so I just asked Romano, 'How do I look?'"

"And?" Prussia prompted eagerly, nearly on the edge of his seat.

"His face got all red, and he got all embarrassed - you know how he is. All he said was, 'You look really good,' but for Romano, that's enough. My heart got all excited, and my chest swelled all up with pride, and I just wanted to scoop him up and hug him for finally being nice to me. But before I could even thank him he spits out, 'Too bad-a it takes a shit ton of make up and-a fancy clothes, bastardo.'"

All three of them lost it at Spain's off-kilter impersonation of Romano's dark, thick accent.

France doubled over again as another round of hysterics aggravated his aching stomach pains. The mental image of Romano's embarrassed face spouting verbal abuses was the pièce de résistance. Incapacitated mid-levity, he watched helplessly as Prussia tossed his head back and completely disregarded the glass in his hand. Incapable of reaction or care when wine sloshed over the side and onto the carpet.

"Scheiße! S-sorry!" he stammered between gulps of air.

France shook his head and waved dismissively.

"S-so then - Hahahahaha! - So then d-do you know what I t-told him?" Spain sputtered, wiping his tears away.

"Hon, honhonhon . . . What?" France asked as soon as he mildly recovered.

"I told him - He. HehehehehahahaHAHAHAHA!" He couldn't even finish his story he was laughing so hard. His giggles echoed loudly in France's drawing room, filling the space and infecting Prussia and France until they both bent over clutching their stomachs again. Spain recovered first. "I told him, 'I like your clothes, Romano! That's a nice shade of mega jerk-face on you!' HAHAHAHA! He- h- he p-pun- Fusososo! He punch-ch-ch- Dios mío! He punched me in the face!"

France leaned forward so far he nose-dived from his chair and face-planted on the floor. "HAHAHAHAHAHA-I can't! I c- . . . I can't!" he pleaded. "HonhonhonheheheHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

He wasn't sure how long it took all three of them to calm down. He lost track of the time, rolling around on the carpet. At some point he rolled near Prussia's chair and felt a burst of something wet on his back. Startled into alertness, he quickly rolled to a sitting position and craned his neck backwards over his shoulder, but he couldn't see what was wrong. His immediate thought was that he broke the scab open under his bandages, or bled through them, but as he shrugged his coat off and inspected the stain he realized that he rolled in Prussia's spilled wine and wound up with a huge, red stain all over his jacket.

He chanced a glance at Spain and Prussia, but they both seemed too absorbed in their elation to have noticed his momentary panic. He ran a relieved hand through his hair and naturally relapsed into his own fit of giggles as he listened to the hilarity of theirs. He sloppily peeled himself from the floor and staggered, still giggling, into his bedroom and to his armoire to get a change of clothes.

"Wh- where'd you go, amigo?" Spain yelled.

"I rolled in the wine that clumsy idiot Prussia spilled!" he joked.

"Fick dich!" reached him from the other room. France didn't know a lot of German, but he knew enough to get Prussia's message.

France sprinted over to the doorway and poked his head in, smiling and winking coyly at Prussia. "Maybe later, mon amour. The night is still young. We'll have time for that when we're done spending time with Spain, don't worry. Here." He tossed his soiled jacket to Prussia, and he caught it in his fist.

"What?"

"Use that to mop up the rest of the wine."

Prussia's smirk dropped like he was slapped, and he shot France an odd look, narrowing his eyes and even cocking his head to the side almost skeptically. "Are you serious?"

France hesitated, unsure of where it came from or how to interpret it. " . . . Yes?" He looked again, closer the next time, but by the time he scrutinized his face, Prussia recovered well. He smirked again, gently touching two fingers to his forehead in a weak salute before bending over in his chair to tend to the stain. France decided to take it as a frown of disdain at cleaning up his own mess. "You're a big boy, la Prusse, you can clean it up." He turned back to his room to rummage through his drawers and closet to find another jacket.

He couldn't focus on anything but that weird glance. Prussia's completely . . . France didn't know . . . horrified? His utterly confused look? Whatever it was that he sent France's way took him completely off-guard. It wormed its way into his mind, and he tried to picture it again, to maybe try to reinterpret and find the emotion and meaning behind it. But it was just so odd. It actually vaguely frustrated him. He sighed exasperatedly and thought about what he could've said that Prussia deemed so out of character? What did he say that so offended Prussia?

As he rolled his shoulders pulling off his shirt, he felt the bandages shift. They pulled at the dried blood and tore a layer away from his half-scabbed skin, an audible pop in his skin. He froze, but it was too late. His cut burned like someone slapped it as hard as they could. He bit back a scream, using every ounce of his willpower not to utter a single syllable. He wouldn't, he would not ruin this good time by making them fret and fuss over him. (No, he realized later, he would ruin it every other way possible.) Once he was able to slip his new shirt over his shoulder he tuned back in to Spain and Prussia.

He heard them talking, he heard the murmur of their voices. The sharp 's' sounds. The 't's. He swore he heard 'France', too. He padded over to the door frame and leaned just out of their view, listening in as well as he could. They were talking about him. They had to be. He couldn't pick up their conversation but his hackles rose. Shudders went up and down his spine, to the chagrin of his freshly-irritated back. He grew instantly jittery, instantly defensive, and he just knew.

A sudden surge of outrage, a twisted cocktail of embarrassment and rage, bubbled up in his heart like a spark on tinder, tumbling straight down his spine and into his nerves. He felt like the butt of a joke that everyone was in on but him. The subject of their ridicule. They wanted to talk about him? In his own Palace? In his own room? Nooooo way! Did they think he was stupid? Did they think he was just some idiot they could make fun of?

His heart burst into flames inside his chest. His fists balled by themselves, and a snarl he had to bite back curled up his lip. He had no idea where this indignation came from, but he didn't care. It rose in his cheeks, rose in his skin, like feverish bugs crawling. Crawling, itching, scratching, biting. In his fingers, in his neck, in his temples, in his stomach, in his chest. Shadows of their laughter, ghosts and manifestations of his mortification moved with labyrinthine finesse, writhing at the edges of his awareness, but constantly skirting his peripheral when he tried to capture them. To validate himself and his paranoia.

Like flipping a switch, he remembered the source. Those who were plunging the knife into his back as he stood there wondering.

His legs rocketed him back into the room. He stormed back in, and his temper took control of his tongue. He spat the violent words straight from his heart before he could filter them. "If you have something to say," he hissed, "it can be said here." Unsure of where they came from, but unwilling to stop them for the sake of his dignity.

Spain and Prussia acted like they didn't know what he was talking about. Their eyebrows furrowed simultaneously in confusion and they glanced at each other. Now they wanted to lie to him? He gave them three seconds to answer, standing in front of Prussia like a mother about to discipline their kid. "Don't act like you weren't just talking about me!"

"What do you mean?" Prussia muttered.

France could feel his aura begin to surge with fury. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He swatted the glass out of Prussia's hand and held eye contact, even as it shattered against the wall and rained wine and shards of glass across the floor. "Don't lie to me!"

"France!" Spain gasped.

"What the heck was that?" Prussia yelled back, hurdling to his feet. He glared at France with almost as much malice. With that dangerous, primal glint in his eyes. Threatened, defensive, and not backing away. But France wanted to win. Had to win. He glared right back, artificially creating a powerful, nearly tangible glint in his own eyes that he grew all-too familiar with lately. The daunting, antiquated essence of dominance and pure, unadulterated personal intimidation. Electricity charged in his eyes, sparked in them, jumped from his eyes to Prussia's. Both fighting without a single utterance to alarm the other into submission. Even though Prussia was slightly taller than him, France narrowed his eyes and inclined his head when Prussia bore down on him, nearly touching chests. "What's the matter with you? Huh? Frankreich?" His eyes flared. Another edge over him.

France almost backed down. He almost bowed out, feeling like he was drawing even with Prussia, not drawing ahead. He realized there was no way a Nation would intimidate another Nation like they would a human (let alone a powerhouse like Prussia). They were far too familiar with each other, their nuances. They all burned with the same fire. They'd seen these looks thousands of times over, they all knew how to replicate them. They weren't anything special to Nations. Only humans.

Suddenly, Spain's hand was on his chest, saving him the shame. He chuckled awkwardly. "Guys, let's calm down . . . please . . ." He applied steady pressure until they both were a few feet apart on either side of him.

"You've changed," Prussia finally admitted, never removing his crimson eyes from France's cerulean. "You know that? You're . . . Your air's different. You're more arrogant. You carry yourself like you're being attacked all the time. Like you're trying to protect yourself with your ego, or bad confidence, or something. You're pretending it doesn't bother you and you think you have the two of us fooled, don't you?"

Whether or not it was rhetorical France declined to answer.

"I couldn't quite put my finger on it earlier when we were just talking, but now I think I know." He paused, clearly waiting for France to ask him to elaborate. He refused to oblige.

"I don't know what you mean." He truly didn't. Prussia's statement was so broad . . . Of course he changed. Constant, perpetual states of stress do that to people. He changed in many ways.

He was under attack. On all sides, on all fronts, by all people - even his public. He was trying to defend himself.

Louis was a long-term, chronic illness that wore away at his willpower until, for just a moment, he was ready to give up. Just curl up and welcome Fate and Death.

The people were a physical abuse. Each looting or riot or "caucus" was like a knife stabbing deeper into his cut, carving into his flesh. Punching him in the stomach until he grew sick. Squeezing his chest and heart until he gasped for air, choking him tighter and tighter.

The other Nations provided the emotional attacks. Writing nasty (and even nice) letters. Showing up at his door (though he appreciated it, if you could get him to admit it). Forcing him to realize how silly he was being, and how stupid he was for being unwilling to change.

He was his own psychological abuser. For giving in, for allowing them to believe that all of them were right. That he was in the wrong and everything was his fault and he deserved all of it.

He used to be a push-over. He used to let Louis, Marie, and Parliament walk all over him. Not anymore. He learned how to assert himself. How to use his aura liberally. He learned how to intimidate. Maybe he was a little wild with it, using it when he didn't necessarily have to, but if it got him what he wanted, who cared? He was too desperate anymore.

He used to mope and be miserable. He used to wallow in his misery before the people raided his home. He used to blindly accept every misfortune that came his way. Not anymore. He took control now. He worked around problems, he worked to change his situation for the better, through any means necessary. Even if those means were violent or unorthodox.

He used to be France. He didn't know what he was anymore. And he couldn't even project what he could be. The people were starting to wrest control from him, and he knew it. He was just scared to admit it, if he was being honest. He told himself that he was doing well, that doing his best on the monarch's end of things was enough. But deep down he knew. In the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart that he dare not call upon, he knew. He knew he was delaying the inevitable. Whether he denied it or not he was still forced to sit on edge, and wait for someone's next move.

He didn't even get to this new, random sort of fury that began to spring up recently, but did he need to talk about it? To Prussia? No.

Of course he changed.

"Okay, and also," he continued, assuming France was simply skirting him. Oh wait, he was. "The old France would never be okay with ruining clothes." He held up the offending article, pinched between two fingers like it carried a new, brutal pestilence. France laughed at the very hilarity of Prussia's explanation. God, it was so much deeper than that! And if that was all they saw . . . It was as if they came for nothing.

"Excuse me for having my priorities straightened out. The hard way," he reminded him, gesturing to his back. "You honestly think clothes are my first thought when I've got this reminder of everything bigger that's on the verge of collapse?"

"Oh, do you think about that? That's very mature of you, considering the little baby tantrum you just threw. All you told me is you've become an insecure, whiny little bitch since we last saw you. That Louis' doing? Austria told us he's a little bitch, too. Is he turning you into a pansy?"

"Prussia, you know his circumstance could be making him volatile-"

"Shut up, Spain! I don't need you analyzing me! As if you actually know what's going on!" Prussia was trying to goad France into a fight. A fight, or a confession of what Louis was really like. Well played, Prussia. France could tell the battlefield prowess carried with him to verbal sparring. He knew how to strategize, implement, change and reimplement at a moment's notice. "But I won't give in," his - indeed childlike - defiance declared. Despite their purpose for being there being his indulgence, he refused to tell them on Prussia's terms. He visibly clamped his mouth shut.

"Then tell us, amigo. This isn't like you, honestly. Are the people's emotions bleeding into you? That's not good. They must be really really unhappy." France didn't change the emotion in his eyes, and neither did Prussia. "Please, we're only trying to help, mano."

"..."

"Tch!" Prussia suddenly smirked, backing away from their face off. "Okay. Okay, fine. Still don't want to tell us what's going on? Still don't trust us or something? Fine. But don't expect help from me when you're in the middle of a crisis."

"Prussia!" Spain shouted.

"Because contrary to what you believe, you are not the center of my universe. I was willing to drop everything for you this time, and you don't want to take the help I'm offering. Fine. Just don't expect any more when your country tears itself apart from the inside out. From what Austria says, you'll be there soon."

"Prussia, stop it-"

"No, no, it's okay!" France snapped. "I didn't need you during the Seven Years' War when you were on Britain's side, and I don't need you now! I wouldn't expect anything from the Prussian military anyway now that Frederick II's been dead for a year now."

He struck a chord at the mention of Prussia's former ruler. The man who over the course of 46 years literally gave Prussia everything. Established borders, more territory, military power, music, art, philosophy, sciences, culture. The Prussian Louis XIV. Frederick the Great. France imagined himself plunging his own painful knife into Prussia's back. Prussia was extremely close to him. Much closer than Nations normally grew to their leaders. "You better not say a word against Old Fritz. . . " he growled. His eyes flared, he challenged France, dared him, and he rose to the challenge without a second thought.

France waved dismissively. Despite how much he wanted to hurt Prussia, Fritz wasn't the target. He could still insult him, though. Twist the knife. "I don't have anything bad to say about a GERMAN man who didn't even like the GERMAN language! What is it he wrote in? Spoke in? French? Maybe a little Italian? Did he speak Spanish?" France slightly raised the pitch of each question as if they were some of life's greatest.

"Shut up."

"Well Fritz is dead now. How's Frederick Wilhelm II treating you, hm? I hear Prussian finances are almost as bad as France's right now! Is it true your military's dwindling?" There. Talk about how un-awesome Prussia was at the moment and it'd take him a long time to cool off. "Even my pansy ruler Louis' talking about him. What is it Old Fritz wrote about him? 'He's of an easy-going and pleasure-loving disposition, averse to sustained effort of any kind, and sensual by nature?' So, lazy? Self-indulgent? I can't wait to see what he does to the once-great Preußen."

Prussia opened his mouth to fight back but Spain yelled before he could. "Okay, stop it! Both of you!"

France wasn't done. He withdrew his metaphorical knife and stabbed it down again into his other shoulder blade. "Give it two years. All the territories Fritz conquered and assimilated into Prussia will break off, or be re-taken. Your finances will completely fail - and I mean COMPLETELY. Your grand army will fall, your people will lose faith. In two years you'll be ruined. That's how long it took me to start crumbling. Can you feel yourself weakening already? Your military? Internal affairs? Can you feel yourself slipping through his fingers? As I've had to? Just wait. You'll get a front row seat to your own demise. Fritz and all his policies are dead. It's only a matter of time until you are, too-"

Prussia lunged at him so quickly France couldn't react. He grabbed two fistfuls of France's jacket and twisted, hauling him forward, already spewing German at him. "Was zum Teufel hast du gerade gesagt, du kleiner Scheißer?! Huh?!"

He shocked all the bravado right out of France. Panic replaced it instead. Sheer, fearing-for-his-life, panic. He grabbed Prussia's wrists and desperately tried to dislodge them from his coat, but they were locked in. Prussia shook him once, rattling his brain in his head. A blue blur raised behind Prussia's head, and France flinched, knowing it was his fist.

"Du solltest besser halt deinen gottverdammten Mund!" The last word cracked. France looked into his face and realized he growled it.

He saw it again. He saw that dangerous glint in Prussia's red eyes. Narrowed and creased in a curled snarl, but wide with unbridled rage. Like a feral animal. Poised to attack. It froze France completely. Froze his chest, froze his eyes, froze his mind, froze everything but his pounding heart. Caught in a fog of horror, not daring to move, not daring to breathe in the wake of this feral monster. Every pretense of his fire and challenge gone, he locked eyes with Spain over Prussia's shoulder, and whatever desperation was there, whatever terror was there seemed to break him of his shock and galvanize him into action. He snatched Prussia's arm and locked elbows, wrapping his other arm around his torso.

"¡Calma, Prusia!" Spain yelled. He heaved Prussia back and France twisted away, backpedaling to safety against the wall.

He spun around, instantly on guard in case Spain couldn't hold him. Which was a possibility. He thrashed wildly, legs bucking and kicking at the air. He threw elbows and sloppy punches left and right. Spain suddenly ducked, dodging a near shot to his temple, and Prussia slipped from his grip, charging France for a second attempt at him. Luckily, Spain recovered and dove on his back. He wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his side. Prussia jerked and Spain grunted with the effort, then finally managed to clasp his hands in a tight hold.

As soon as he had Prussia under control, France saw the shock in Spain's eyes turn to sharp, cold determination. His lips pursed tightly; he lowered Prussia and forced his legs to the ground, then in one smooth, calculated motion he kicked his leg up and wrapped it around Prussia's thigh. With his other he kicked the back of Prussia's knees, pulling on his shoulder with all of his weight. He spun Prussia around on his collapse and the two landed with a THUMP! Spain clamored on top, forcing all of his weight onto Prussia's back to hold him there.

A perfect, practiced take-down.

"¡Prusia, calma!" he hissed again. Prussia didn't hear, too blinded by the cloud of anger. He dug his knee into Prussia's back until he froze, squeaking in pain. "Prusia, calma," he threatened, almost whispering it. "Prusia . . . " Prussia blinked as though he was confused. Somehow, Spain's quiet tone was almost more threatening than his yelling. "Calma."

He fought again weakly, "Aber er-"

Spain pushed him harder into the floor. "¡Cierra la boca!" he screamed. Prussia jumped, staring open-mouthed at Spain. France wasn't sure either of them understood a word the other said, but they could understand each others' eyes. Prussia seemed to calm down instantly, slumping against the floor.

France dusted himself off, embarrassed by his obvious display of fear when confronted. The second he met opposition, his so-called power collapsed in on him. He made a fool of himself, and he knew it. He hated it. And seeing Prussia there on the floor, vulnerable, defeated, in a more embarrassing position than he was in, something abhorring and unnatural sprung up inside of him. He had to rub it in. He had to make Prussia feel worse than he did.

He smirked down at him. "Je ne parle pas Allemande, connard-"

"FRANCE, SHUT UP! Whatever you said, just SHUT UP! Are you calm?" he prompted, looking down at Prussia.

"Only if he shuts his mouth-"

"ARE YOU CALM, PRUSSIA?"

" . . . Ja," he eventually conceded. Spain relinquished him, first standing by himself and helping Prussia up. As soon as he was upright he gingerly rubbed his neck where Spain knelt on him, glaring at France. "You know, I think it's time we go, Spain."

"Why?" France spat before he could bite his tongue. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

"Are you SERIOUS-" Prussia yelled. He squared his shoulders to France and Spain took a cautionary step in front of them, just in case tensions snapped again. "MOVE!" he yelled, throwing Spain aside. He pointed violently at France. "You better learn to control the discontent you've got going on in France right now, man. Cuz whatever you do, you're doing it on your own. I just decided: I don't CARE anymore. Let's go, Spain.

"Prussia-"

"He's not gonna talk to us. He cries and cries for attention, he begs for help-"

France scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I never even asked-"

"You don't have to! We've been around long enough to know the signs when we see them! And whether you knew it or not you begged. Everything about your behavior towards us, your best friends, begged to be investigated. So yeah, you did beg. And I'm not gonna let you treat us like garbage when we're the ones who answered your call. He doesn't care, Spain. So I won't care. He's not France anymore, why should I? I refuse to walk around this stupid ass palace without my friend. I'd rather go home."

He turned away and strode purposefully towards the door, and France's pride defiantly watched him go. As if he was watching all of this transpire from someone else's point of view, and his negativity had taken over. Spain gave him a sorry look that burrowed deep in his heart like a worm. "Adiòs, Francia. I hope things get better." He followed Prussia, and France's pride stood his ground until they disappeared around the door frame.

"No! I am France, I promise," he thought to himself. Although he wasn't sure if he believed it, either. His violence towards them was too telling that something wasn't right with him anymore.

Every time he told himself he reached the end of his rope, or his last chance, or his last opportunity, or his last something, there always seemed to be more. For some lucky reason, a door would open up. A new approach, a new idea, new motivation from Louis. He always managed to create something out of nothing, more often than not by sheer luck.

But watching Spain and Prussia walk out, watching all the relief he felt, all the emotional comfort, all the help he could've received literally walk out on him, something snapped. He expelled the rest of his anger. He regained control. He ran after them. Sprinted to the corridor, locked eyes on all the doors that they could've left through. But for the life of him, he couldn't even remember where their rooms were in relation to his. He let out a growl of despair.

"Wait! Wait, please!" he called to the air, unsure of where they were. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, guys! Please don't leave me! Don't leave me here all alone again! La Prusse, l'Espagne, come back. I didn't mean it, I promise! I didn't mean it, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't!" His wailing sobs echoed off the high, open ceilings, and he heard how desperate he sounded. He should've been embarrassed, but he wasn't. He needed them there, needed them, or he was sure he would descend into madness.

September 8, 1787
Le Château de Versailles
Grounds, Unknown Location

The chilling wind blew gently through the trees, and they whispered their petty gossip on every side of them. The crickets screamed at each other. Wet and dry leaves rustled around them, crunching and padding their horses' treads on the barely-beaten path. France hastily gathered his jacket around him but he was too late. The wind reached him, cutting right through all his layers. Spain felt it too.

"France, I'm cold! Where are we going?"

"To one of my favorite places in the Versailles countryside. You won't regret it. I promise." They lapsed into silence again as they walked, all three huddling their horses just a little closer to ward off the creeping chill. Good thing he knew where he was going, his intrusive thoughts interrupted suddenly. He could get them lost in the cold woods and nobody could find them. And then if they got that desperate they'd have to eat someone. Probably Spain. His butt alone could feed four people. His horse snorted loudly underneath him, and he returned from his thoughts to gently pat its neck.

They reached a small clearing, the night sky unfolding suddenly above them through the boughs of the trees. Stars peppered every visible inch of sky, hues of blues, blacks, purples, greys, all slathered together on God's canvas. The moon's pale light outlined a small ring of clouds around it, like they had cleared perfectly just for that night. Just for them to see it. Near the center of the clearing was a small, nondescript wooden gazebo, complete with a fire pit and swings to sit.

"Wow, this is beautiful, France!" Spain said. "Did you build this all the way out here?"

"I didn't build it, no. Versailles was supposed to be a hunting lodge for Louis XIV, I don't know if you knew." France dismounted and when the other two followed, he led his horse over to one of the posts, tethering him there. "Well, he spent so much time here, and in so much less seclusion than he wanted, that it became the de facto capital of France. He still wanted his peace, though, so he had this built when the Palace started to get over crowded." The flint and tinder was still next to the stone fire pit, and he grabbed wood from the stack and had a fire burning strongly within minutes. "The two of us used to sit out here when we wanted to be alone. I've been coming here ever since. I used to come here all the time, but for a while I was too . . . I stopped."

Prussia and Spain found seats one of the many swings, but France sat across from them on the floor, close to the fire for warmth.

"Okay," he sighed, patting his thighs. "Okay! So . . . 1778 was right when things started to go wrong. I got a letter from America asking me for assistance in closing out the Revolution - which, if I may add, was a DELIGHT to watch from the sidelines. Britain was losing his grip on my former colonies town by town and the biggest army in the world was running around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to reorganize and redeploy. Anyway," he said, smiling at the memory of it. Though he never saw Britain in person during that time while he fought in the colonies, the mental picture of his perpetually furrowed eyebrows was just as good. "I had already been sending supplies to America in secret since 1775, but when that letter came asking for a more concrete commitment, it immediately appealed to Louis. For some reason.

"I said no right away. I was already on edge. Because as soon as Louis assumed the throne in 1774, him and Marie started spending like crazy. I tried to talk him out of aiding America, but Parliament bolstered his confidence. 'Oh it'll gain us an ally! If we get a foothold in America, we could potentially retake the land! It'll be a tally against Britain on the scoreboard, blah blah blah!' Absolutely ridiculous! He practically threw the money at America." He poked the fire, glad for the distraction of his eyes so he didn't have to hold eye contact with them. With their faces full of pity. He didn't want pity anymore. Already wasted too much of it on himself.

"Our debt was substantial - a billion livres. But rather than divert some of the crown's income towards the debt, Louis and Marie took out loan after loan after loan. Didn't bother curbing any spending of their own. They grew up rich. How would they know, I guess?" he said, putting himself in their shoes for a moment. Would he have changed his lifestyle? France the Nation inside of him was saying absolutely. But that France was also supernaturally tied to every single aspect of everything French. He had to pretend he wasn't a Nation for a moment. He questioned himself again and still said absolutely, he would have changed, but a twinge at his heart suggested he wasn't as sure as he thought. Saying absolutely at that point was tainted. He was too biased to make that guess, and he knew it.

"Them being noble doesn't excuse everything they've done," Spain offered. "They were pretty stupid for not thinking ahead."

"They didn't think at all!" Prussia snorted. "You think a perceptive ruler with good foresight would've kept doing what they were doing? Especially after their Nation told them to cut it down? That's plain selfishness right there. Monarchs should make sacrifices for their country. And sorry for bringing it up, but Fritz-"

"Please don't," France said. "I met Fritz, okay? I wished jealously for almost 50 years that I could have a ruler like him. But I couldn't even entertain thoughts of that under the last two Louis'. I would've lost it a lot sooner than I did, and I wasn't mentally ready yet. At that point I still had some sort of fighting spirit left in me."

Prussia was silent, and France knew he burst his bubble. He kept his eyes on the licking flames and continued. "Sorry. Just . . . Anyway, all that debt, no one at Versailles helping. I pushed for a larger taxing of the Second Estate with him. But of course, that met it's end at Parliament. I pushed and pushed and pushed other things, too. I didn't even know why some of them would help, I just knew they would help. I sort of started . . . I don't know . . . I got angrier and angrier with each rejection until I got . . . sad and stopped trying altogether. I just gave up, decided to let Fate have its way with me. Until I snapped at a party once. Although, I wouldn't call it snapping, so much as doing whatever the hell I wanted for once. Louis kicked me out of the palace in 1781."

"That's about when I started noticing that our consistent letters went down to none. None at all."

France nodded. "I went home to Paris, but being much closer to the turmoil didn't do anything for me. I really don't wanna talk about it, but-"

"No, tell us. It's important," Spain assured him.

"It just felt like a four year long flu. That's all. Those years are all a blur, and I don't remember many fine details. Louis wrote me constantly, but I refused to answer. At first because of defiance. I wanted an apology. I didn't get one right away and swore I wouldn't answer until I did. I burned every letter from him that came my way. But then after a while I was too sick to even attempt to answer, even if I wanted to. By that time I guess word had spread around National Europe that I wasn't answering anyone. More letters started coming. From you two, America, Canada, and one particularly funny one from Austria, but I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I was too sick, and had no motivation to do anything about it. I hated it.

"I decided, after a letter from America, to do something about it in 1785. I wasn't sure what to do, so I took a wild stab in the dark and started passing out food to the people who were starving, and doing other things around Paris. And for a while I felt better! But then in 1786, I had a regression that was really, really bad. I told Austria, so he probably told you."

"Is that the thing with the people coming into your house? He didn't mention a lot of details."

"You want me to elaborate?"

"Uuuuh, ja!"

"Okay, so because of the failed harvests, the price of bread and flour sky-rocketed. Bread is everything to French people, next to wine. I mean everything. It's an every meal thing. The cost was felt immediately. The normal person couldn't afford either anymore, and they started looting homes, bakeries, taverns, anywhere and everywhere there could be an ounce of bread. People thought to be hoarding it were lynched on the spot. It was complete chaos. When word spread that a nobleman was passing out bread to the poor, it attracted some unwanted attention. A group of 4 or 5 looters followed me home one night and broke in. I woke up to the sounds of them scratching at the door, but I wasn't anywhere close to my gun. I grabbed the fire poker instead and tried to creep past the door to get to the cellar where I left it, but they saw me. They broke a window and climbed in and chased me through the dining room. I almost got to the cellar. I had my legs on the ladder. But they caught me. Pulled me back up. We struggled briefly, but one of them shot me in the leg. They shot me in the back of the head while I was on the ground. Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor where they left me and my house was trashed. They stole all my flour, stole everything. I mean everything. Maps, busts, old guns, everything historical in my house."

"Dios mío, Francia. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay now, I mean, I'm done crying about it," he chuckled dryly. "Luckily that chest in my room survived. It basically has all the really important stuff. Jeanne's things and treaties and stuff. After that, in my desperation, I started asking questions. The kind of existential questions Nations just shouldn't ask. I started entertaining the notion that I wasn't going to recover from whatever was happening to me because of the people."

"Are you serious?" Prussia asked. France looked up into his face and saw his stern glare fixated on his face.

He swallowed. Nodded. "I seriously thought I was going to die. I actually went to . . . " He started chuckling. Chuckling at the hilarity of his thought processes then. How he thought then that things couldn't get any worse. How wrong he was. "I actually went to Notre Dame. I went to mass. To . . . absolve myself, I guess. Just in case. I honest to God thought I was going to die."

Spain slid from the swing and skirted the fire to sit next to France, putting his hand on his shoulder. "That's horrible. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Anyway, I did feel a lot better after my little soul purge, and I decided that if anything was gonna change, I had to change it myself. I took an initiative. I tuned in to the whispers on the street, I spent time in parlors and listened to the chatter, added to the banter, networked, read the underground newspaper. Because by then people started talking about moving against the crown rather than against each other. They were only rumors, but I could feel that they were gaining strength. I heard a name rising to prominence: Maximilien Robespierre. I tried to go to one of his political caucuses, but I involuntarily ended up going on a bread riot instead."

"What do you mean, 'involuntarily'?" Spain questioned. France shook his head.

"You know exactly what I mean. National impulse." Spain nodded.

"So what happened?"

" . . . I don't know. All I remember is the exhilaration, and the power, and . . . and . . . I killed people. Parisian soldiers. I think that was the moment when my thought processes turned negative. Towards Louis, towards my situation, towards the rest of the Nations. I felt like I didn't need any of you, I didn't need your help, and I would fix it on my own, however I had to. Which was violence at that point. I answered your letters just to get you guys off my back, but I was really terse. Luckily I didn't have a chance to act on anything, since Louis called me back to Versailles.

"The whole time I was there, I worked to get him to disband Parliament. In the mean time Louis brought in a new finance minister. Calonne. He actually had a good head on his shoulders, and together we convinced Louis to call the Assembly of Notables to enact some new taxation changes. I think he realized by that point that the debt was too substantial to ignore anymore, so he was willing to do what we wanted. The two of them handled representation which- ha! - was a huge mistake. We had less than ten percent representing the Third Estate, and the rest representing the Second and First Estates. We got laughed out of there. Nothing passed. Even when Louis showed his support.

"For days we tried to sell our plan to them, but they weren't buying. To break the stalemate I pressured Louis into firing Calonne and hiring Jacques Necker back since he was in good favor with the people, but instead he brought in Brienne, who's there now. Although not who I wanted, he ended up being alright. So far. We finally got around to convincing Louis to implement the taxation reforms with a Parliamentary veto, and our next step was disbanding them completely. So now here we are."

"So are the reforms working?" Prussia asked.

"Oh! I don't know yet!" he said. "There are some nobles who simply refuse to enact them. I'm trying to get Louis to issue penal lettres de cachet, but he refuses to imprison some of them. His relationship with them is more important to him than his relationship with Third Estate France. So that's what happened. Probably less . . . I don't know . . . scary than you thought. I hope my actions don't annoy you more, now that you know. "

Nobody said anything for a long time. Spain's hand tightened around his shoulder once but otherwise, they sat in silence. And that was alright for France. There was nothing left to say. There were no more excuses to be made.

"Look," he began. He spared a glance at each of them to make sure he had their attention. "I know I said some really mean things, but I'm glad you didn't leave."

"I'm glad too, mano."

"Me too, Frankreich."

"Thanks for not abandoning me."

September 11, 1787
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments
France's Chambers

France walked into his drawing room, slipping his ponytail out from under his collar.

"It's about time, France." Spain said, reclined comfortably on his stomach on a couch. Bad position to be in.

He skirted the armrest by Spain's ankles. "What are we going to do on your last day here?" France said. As revenge on the last word he drew his hand back and slapped Spain's ample backside in passing so hard his own hand stung. Spain yelped, rubbing out the assaulted cheek.

"Nothing, if you keep taking so long to get ready!" Prussia said casually.

The comment made him smile. "You can't rush perfection."

"I rushed you!"

"Ugh, I'm done anyway, jerk! Remember that one time under Louis XIV when we went sheep stealing in Paris and were trying to outrun the guards? Who was the one falling behind then?"

Spain's gasped excitedly. "Let's go sheep stealing!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't really feel like running until I can't feel my legs," he said, plopping down on a couch.

"Oh, come on! We used to go sheep stealing all the time when you lived in Paris! Let's go again!"

"You want to go to the town of Versailles . . . One of the wealthiest towns in France . . . Where nobody owns sheep . . . In the middle of the day . . . and go sheep stealing?"

He watched Spain's face fall as his comment sunk in. "Oh. We could . . . "

"Let's go pick up women!" Prussia offered. "Two distinct things come to mind when I think of France and they are: wine, and women! I already got a good taste of the first one. When's the second one coming?"

"Literally, or figuratively? Because there are several distinct answers there, and-"

"Shut up! You know what I mean."

"My friends, I love you both dearly, but the art of courting French women is an exclusive art - known to and reserved only for French men."

"Tell us your secrets, please, we're dying to know," Spain muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It's a game, gentlemen. An intricate game."

"I always thought French women were easy!" Prussia said, picking a piece of lint off his uniform. There he went again. Another well-placed jab to get a rise out of him. To goad him into telling again. Prussia was good at that. Fine. He could indulge them this time.

"You really wanna know?"

Prussia's "YES!" clashed harshly with Spain's lazy "No!" France decided that was a yes. He leaned in like he was about to share a dark, deep secret, and instantly the two of them were interested, whether they wanted to be or not. "The key is body language. Nine times out of ten we pay more attention to body language than we do to what people actually say, and we don't even realize it. Here's what you do: when you walk into the room and you spot the woman, approach her. Lead with your shoulder, so she's already thinking you're a confident, collected man, and not overbearing. If you charge at her, shoulders squared to her she'll become intimidated by your forceful body language. So, Prussia, work on that," he jabbed.

Prussia sneered, but France could tell he had his attention. "Shoulder first. When your head follows, raise your eyebrow slightly. Your eyes shouldn't go anywhere but her face, or she'll feel like a piece of meat. Your eyebrow will obviously check her out, and she'll make the assumption that you're sly. Witty. Wily. Smooth. And your hands swinging at your sides - now you're capable, too. Only, the words out of your mouth better match. You call her beautiful. You compliment her figure. You drop that pick-up line, that one phrase you've been reserving for someone special, and if she likes it, you're golden. In those few seconds you've presented yourself as as an enigma - one she's dying to solve, to know more about. You have to be enticing to her. You have to make her want you. Especially in the short term. Otherwise, you'll make her uncomfortable if you come on to her and persist when she's not interested. Make her interested. Make yourself a game."

"Does all this actually work?" Spain asked, green eyes wide with amazement. "I'm having a hard time believing you think about all this at once while staring at a beautiful lady."

"It's all about intent, Spain. What are your intentions? This only works for one-night flings. You don't need a deep, spiritual connection. You don't need to think about the beautiful lady yet. That part comes when you're taking off her clothes. If you have long-term intentions with the girl you better not be playing this game!"

"It sounds so hard. How the heck do you remember all that?"

"It is hard!" France said. "Which is why it's an art, and not for the faint of heart. But it's fun! Sixty percent of the time the chase is more fun than the reward. You take the chance that the pay off will be worth it!"

"Yeah, but why do you make it so complicated?"

"I don't make it complicated. That's how you talk to women! Women are complicated! They're beautiful, multi-faceted creatures, like kaleidoscopes. Pretty colors and patterns and designs everywhere. But you have to look to have them let you see it. They're like castles. You have to approach but then let her close the gap, and let you across the bridge. You can't just seize it without permission.

"Anyway, once you start talking to her, pay attention to your hands and face next. Respond casually. An eyebrow raise. A playful smirk. A lazy tilt of your head. You'll be steeped in sex appeal. Talk with your hands, but in consciously controlled moderation. Only use them to emphasize specific words or thoughts. Keep the rest of your body still. Calculate it. Actually calculate it. It implies that you've got secrets, and if she's patient, she might find them out. It's all a draw to you. Share stories of all kinds: adventures, embarrassments. Do not talk about triumphs or victories. You'll look like you're bragging. And keep them all under three minutes. If you start giving her your life story the mystery and secrets will be revealed. She'll have no reason to keep talking to you."

They were mesmerized, staring at him with mixes of confused disbelief (though whether it was at his extensive thought processes, or the fact that they were realizing he was right, France didn't know), and awe. "And all that works?" Spain asked.

"That's only half the fun, but if you want to get her to bed, yes."

"Dios mío . . . "

"I've been using it for . . . well since the end of Louis XIV's reign, and it's never failed me. Ever."

"That's so . . . exhausting," he decided.

"Oh, please!" France scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The real game takes weeks!"

"So who's the bigger jerk?" Prussia prompted. "The guy who only wants one night in the first place? Or the guy who toys like this with a girl for one night?"

"Oh, well you shouldn't treat her like a game. She's not a prize, or a tool to be manipulated. Everything she does with you should be of her own volition. You are presenting yourself for her to either chase, or let go. But you have to read her. Does she look flirtatious, succinct, decisive? Your body language, and your actual language, will let her know what you want. If she's not interested, believe me, she'll leave. And that's another thing. If she shows a single sign that she's uninterested, walk away. You shouldn't ever try to force yourself on a woman. Or anyone."

"How did you even begin to come up with this?" Spain asked, rubbing his face. "That is on a whole sub-level of social interaction that I never want to reach ever. It's too crazy. Too over-analytical! Do you realize how complicated that is?"

"Oh, I don't use it all the time. It takes some of the genuine emotion out of it. Sure, it makes things interesting for a little, but sometimes I want genuine connection." He thought of Gwen and sighed like a teenage girl. "Women are worth it. They're beautiful, majestic creatures."

"That's kind of like, umm, uuuuh . . . " Spain trailed off, snapping his fingers to get the words to come to him. "I don't know, it was something Romano told me . . . AH! 'Purposed misinterpretation', he calls it!"

"What is that?"

"It's like, when you deliberately take the wrong meaning of someone's words when they could have two meanings."

" . . . What do you mean?" Prussia asked. "Like pretend you don't understand someone?"

"No, no, pretend you do! Only use a wrong understanding! Lemme think of an example. Ummmm . . . ok! So, you're walking down the road, and Gilbird's flying around you, si?"

"Ja . . . " he answered hesitantly, eyebrows furrowing.

"And someone says to you, 'Why is there a bird flying around you?' Clearly they mean, 'That's so strange, and there must be an explanation for how that bird got there in the first place and why it's following you,' right?"

"Well yes," France chafed. "Normal people don't just walk around with wild birds. Or even pet birds for that matter! No offense, Prussia."

"None taken."

"Right!" Spain assured them, nodding enthusiastically. "You know that's what they mean, but as an answer you say, 'Because he can't walk that fast.' You knew what they meant, but you used purposed misinterpretation!"

"Ooooh!" Prussia said, picturing it in action in some scenario in his head. "That actually makes a lot of sense!"

"I know! Romano uses it all the time I'm pretty sure! Usually what they asked was so simple that when they try to explain themselves they can't even do it because it's SO SIMPLE! Get it?"

"Ja! That's really smart!"

"Si, si!"

"So someone in Prussia could say, 'Why are you drinking French wine?', and I could say, 'Because I want to get drunk!'"

"Riiiight!" Spain said.

"That wasn't an implication that you want me to send you home with wine, is it?" France asked tiredly.

"Maybe a little bit."

"What were we talking about?"

"Purposed-"

"No, before that."

" . . . Oh! Doing something fun!" Prussia said. "I want to see the women thing in action!"

"No . . . " He really didn't feel like debauching. "I wanna spend time with you losers! And, no offense, but if I'm with a woman my mouth is going somewhere on her, not talking to you." The three of them fell silent again, brainstorming ideas. "Something fun . . . something fun . . . "

Suddenly Prussia perked up. "Wait. I've got something." He vaulted to his feet and sprinted towards the door.

"Where are you-"

"JUST STAY THERE DON'T ANYBODY MOVE!" he yelled over his shoulder in one breath. He disappeared, and they could hear his heavy footfalls pound down the hallway to his room before the door slammed.

France sent a questioning glance to Spain, but he only shrugged. "Don't look at me. I don't know what he's doing."

Suddenly the door slammed again, and the boots pounded back. He ran towards the back of Spain's couch and gave Spain a "Move!" and three second's warning to slide over before he vaulted the back and landed on the couch, cradling three unmarked bottles of clear liquid in his arms like babies.

"VODKA!" he screamed. "I've been saving it for the three of us!" France was about to ask where the hell he got vodka in France, but Prussia beat him to the story. "Russia and Catherine II met with me and Old Fritz to sign the Partition of Poland in 1772. When I first got there Russia hugged me? And then slid these out from under his coat and into my hands like it was the most secretive secret to ever secret, and he leaned in, really uncomfortably close and said really quietly, 'You know what's fun about being sober? Nothing! Ha-ha-ha!'"

He captured Russia's smooth, child-like accent perfectly. While they laughed he motioned for the wine glasses and poured them what was far more than normal, even for a Nation. "Then he smiled, patted my chest, and we went in for the meeting. Normally they drink a little at a time, but we wanna have a good time. Anyway, after I didn't get King Louis a gift, I thought about giving this to him. I almost did. But then I figured we'd need it more than him anyway!"

Spain took his glass back and gently sniffed the vodka, recoiling. He shook his head. "Whoo!" he yelled.

"Yeah, don't smell it," Prussia told him, "It'll burn the hair right out of your nostrils." He lifted his glass up. "Here's to the trio, back together!"

They clinked their glasses together.

So odd, so rough, so unrefined, so inelegant compared to the smooth, fruity wines that normally slid across his palate. The alcohol touched France's tongue and tingled all the way down his throat, even into his stomach. His face scrunched up from the bitterness, and he locked eyes with Prussia.

"Lightweight," he muttered.

Oooooh no he didn't.

The moonlight glinted off the water in just the perfect way. "Guys, look look look! The fountain, look how beautiful! Less' go in the fountain! Is' like . . . is' like . . . CHRISSMAS!" France yelled, already shrugging off his coat. He tried to work the vest buttons, but his brain was buzzing around inside his head and he was curiously light-headed and he couldn't get his fingers to work right. "Prussia help meeee," he whined, frustrated that he couldn't get them off. He decided he needed the ground for support to help him in his momentous undertaking. He leaned over, assuming his arms would catch him but then his face was on the ground, gravel digging painfully into his cheek. "Ow."

"I betchai can do a backflip into it!" he yelled, completely ignoring France.

"No, you gotta help me!" Prussia was already standing on the edge.

"Do. the. FLIP! Do. the. FLIP!" came Spain's cry behind him.

Prussia spun around to face them for the backflip, arms pinwheeling to desperately maintain balance. "WATCH AS THE AWESOME PRUSSIA-" He slipped and fell in. He erupted from the fountain with a huge splash, thrashing around wildly. "Ah! Fit! Shuck! Help me, I'm drowwwwwwning - Hehehehe," he giggled, putting his feet on the bottom. "This's like 'at one thing withe - ummm, ummm, ummm - Scheiße!"

Spain burst into laughter behind France, and tittered forward awkwardly until he tripped. He still tried to crawl towards the fountain like it held every answer to life's questions, though, and collided with France, who managed to sit up by then. He knocked them both over again. "He said SCHNEISER! HAHAHAHA-I can't even see straight."

"C'mon, guys, I'mmot messin' aroun!" France blinked away the smears in his vision and concentrated as hard as he could on the first button. He had to get them off. He just wanted to go in the fountain with Prussia. Prussia was having all that fun without him.

"Lemme help, 'migo." Spain clutched at his vest and hauled him up towards him, and France sat and watched him in amazement as he gently undid all the buttons. Like they were melting off underneath his skilled hands. Wow.

" . . . How did you do that? You're like a WIZARD! THANK YOU!" he screamed. Spain just saved his life. He threw his arms around him and hugged him close. "Now I ken go in you saved me!" He let go of Spain and started pulling his shoes off, tossing them away.

"Yurr welcome, 'migo. Woooooooooah! Guys, you're spinninnnnnnnng . . . " he trailed off.

"HEY!" Prussia yelled. "Wha'ssat thing with the monster that lives inna water and - NO WAIT! I'mma MERMAID!" He dove into the water, swimming with his legs clamped together like he had a tail, dolphin kicking. "I'm gonna sing you to your doom! Err leißlaaaaaaaagen . . . "

While he continued with his off-key, off-kilter arrangement of whatever he was singing, France finally managed to get his pants and socks off. He didn't feel cold, he noted proudly, standing completely naked in the Versailles gardens. He checked the clearance of the stone basin. Figured if he got a running start he'd be fine. He charged it, but veered wildly off-course. Luckily he stopped himself before he flipped head-over-heels over the cement. "I'll get it!" he shouted, assuming they were both watching him. He knew Prussia wasn't, but he checked to see if Spain was.

He was lying face down on the ground where France left him. "Ooooooh no! Spaaaaaaaain! Prussia, we lost Spain! Man down! Man down!" He thought of Prussia being a mermaid and yelled, "MAN OVERBOARD!" Funniest thing in the whole world.

"Happy birthday, have fun, drink whiskey and rum! Get plastered, you baaaaastaaaaaard," Prussia sang. "Dat-da da da da dum!"

The singing never stopped, but at least he knew, France thought. He had to hurdle the stone one leg at a time, but as soon as he was in he dunked his whole body in, even his hair. "Now I'm a mermaid!" So majestic. He tilted his head back and marveled at the silkiness of his blond hair in the water. Like . . . silk or something. "I feel like I have eight arms!" he declared, flicking them out to the side. "Like an octopus. Like they're extending out . . . " He inspected the hair on his arms, his new suction cups. Splashed them in the water.

Looking up, the moon was absolutely stunning. But what was even more stunning was the face in front of the moon. At the very top of the fountain was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. Her skin was so smooth, her features so chiseled and defined, even with the light behind her face. Hair in a bun with curly strands framing her face like a little pixie. Hips so full and round and her butt was so nice it rivaled Spain's. And she had abs - abs! She had her hand outstretched to him, reaching out to him. She wanted him. He wanted her. She was so beautiful.

He crawled up each layered ring, pretending he was a lion on the prowl, hunting his prey. "Well, helloooooooo!" he said. "You're soooo beautiful! C'mere!" He reached her at the very top. Oh geez, she already had her top off! He reached out and cupped her cold breasts. "You need someone to warm you up, eh? You like what you see?" he said, presenting himself to her. He planted a quick kiss to her nose, then each of her eyes, then her lips, holding himself there. He swore he felt her tongue, so he added tongue, jamming it sloppily against her lips. He rubbed up against her, water hitting his face, hitting his body. Suddenly, Prussia and Spain entered his mind. "Hey, d'you have any friends?" he asked.

She didn't answer him, but someone else did.

"HEY! GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT NOW!"

He looked, but couldn't see who yelled. There was too much water everywhere. "Prussia? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"GET DOWN FROM THERE!"

"Nooooo!"

He pressed his lips to the statue again. But it was spitty, even more spitty than the others. He was really salivating.

"France, he's serious!"

"Uuuuuuugh, fine! Only because you asked so nicely. But you're disappointing the lady! Sorry darling, can we do this another time? I loooove you." He gave her one last parting kiss before crawling down from the fountain, inch by painstaking inch, but as he got closer and closer to the ground, all his limbs started to feel heavy. At one point he forgot to pick his foot back up and slipped down the last level before splashing back into the basin. His stomach hurt. He waded his way to the edge before the figure grabbed his arm and drug him out over the side.

"Ow ow ow!"

He started sweating. Oh god, that roll over the cement didn't help. Stomach hurt bad. Really bad. The ground was spinning, faster and faster and faster, and his stomach lurched. Once. Twice.

He threw up all over the guard's boots.

A/N: So it's a head canon of mine that the Nations' signature laughs are more like giggles, and genuine laughter is normal? Idk, I just like that better than thinking the KESESESESE is the only setting Prussia has in the laughter department. I'm so glad I got to write the trio together! Of course their relationship dynamic is sort of like, "I pick on you, but you know I love you." So that's how I wrote it. A nice, little reprieve for France.

I started using Google Chrome, which has been a GODSEND for my chapter length issues, but a NIGHTMARE for my formatting. Things that should be bolded aren't bolded, and IDK how to make them bolded. Oh well. I'd rather have a cohesive chapter than an aesthetically pleasing one.

Please please leave a review if you have time! Thanks so much to everyone who followed/favorited so far. When I've hit a block I read all the nice reviews and find the motivation to work through it! This story is so much fun to write, and I'm glad so many of you like it!

-Keyblader41996