Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

AN: Okay, so here's more FrUK for you lovelies.

Rating up to M. O.o…

Oh, and by the way, please excuse the time line in this. Hetalia being Hetalia, England and France are shown to be small for the majority of history, and I have no idea when they grew up. In this, please assume France is part of Gaul (had to make an OC there, guys), and England is Britannia the first time they meet – which is before the Roman Empire reaches Western Europe.

Memoirs of a Frenchman II

Just a Boy

Angleterre's reputation as the 'whore of Europe' – sometimes replaced with 'the world' by the more imaginative and vindictive among us – is one that he openly admits to, and even at some points, I think feels quite proud of. Therefore, it is a most celebrated thing, chers lecteurs, at world meetings or parties that require our presence. Many a backhanded comment and snide remark are exchanged between ignorant nations not so subtly.

But they are just that, mes amis, ignorant. One such as your gorgeous narrator is not so low as to remind the fiery little Englishman of his endeavours at every possible opportunity.

I have been known on occasion to joke with mon cher rosbif about his past, piratical self, after all, we have all been around the block a few times, non? And even, at times, I have taken advantage of his slack standards – making and losing many a bet. But I am not so heartless that I take the joke too far. I am well aware of what is considered taboo; of which occasions he would rather not be reminded of. Of course, I may end up treading on his toes more often than I would like, but that is just his fragile emotional state being its usual… what was the word Japon used, again? Ah, I remember: 'tsundere'.

Oui, I believe it fits him quite well.

And indeed, this topic onto which I have strayed also has relevance to the original purpose of this tale.

Angleterre's delicate emotional condition – and his lust for power, sex and shiny things.

He was just a boy.

A poor, lonely, frightened little boy when I first found him wandering the dale at sunset. I don't recall the exact year, but it was shortly before the Roman Empire conquered what is now known as Western Europe, when I was in the care of my dear old grandfather, Gaul.

What I do recall – in painful detail – was the lost expression on his rosy face, yet to lose its immature chubbiness. His eyes, as green the rolling hills that surrounding him, stared off into a distance I could not see, glazed over in thought, imagination – and what I learned to be sorrow.

Being still a relatively young nation myself, I held all of the childish curiosity of one that does not yet know that the world is round or that grass is not for eating – a phase I can assure you that I quickly grew out of. I had not yet experienced the company of others apart from my grandfather, Luxembourg, Belgique, Suisse and little nord de l'Italie, whom I considered family. And so, when I approached the strange blonde being, clothed in a cape and sporting a rather impressive pair of eyebrows, I saw nothing wrong with how I leaned up into his face and spat out the first words that came into my wandering little mind.

"Who are you?"

What I received has probably been re-enacted thousands of times over the years of our 'friendship'. A sharp backhanded slap to the face and some angry spluttering.

"Don't be so rude, boy! Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

Well, even I, in my newly born and carefully sheltered state could see that he could hardly treat me in such a way in his position. "Do not call me boy! For you look just as young as I am!"

The other boy huffed. "I'll have you know that I've been here for quite a considerable amount of time, thank you very much."

"Oui?"

"Yes."

"So you are an old man then, non?"

And so began centuries of arguments and tactical French retreats.

It was on the sixth time I returned to suffer the torture my dear Britannia had in store for me that we actually had a mildly polite conversation.

"Why do keep coming over here? You just end up annoying me and getting thrown back over the channel."

Even at that early stage in life, I noticed the slightest hint of desperation in his tone. At the time, I had no idea what it was, but over the years, mes amis, I have learned to read Angleterre like a book, and the pitch of his unbroken voice was a tiny glimmer of hope. A hope that maybe someone wanted to be with him, because I could see back then – young as I was – that he was terribly lonely.

"Because I am tired of hearing Italie crying, Suisse shouting at him, Belgique fussing over him and Luxembourg trying and failing to get attention for himself, all the while Grandpa Gaul is trying to fight a war," I stated. "And I like it here."

If I said his expression softened, I would be lying, for Angleterre doesn't 'soften' – he sort of wilts. It sounds horribly insulting, non? But that is the best way of describing what he did.

"Oh."

I learned later on, mes chers, that this was because no one had ever wanted to be with him before.

It was the tenth time I visited him that I learned about his 'brothers'.

We were sitting side by side at the edge of one of his many forests, leaning against a giant oak tree.

"Does anyone live with you?"

My question seemed to anger him – as my questions often did – but instead of lashing out at me, he clenched his fists in the dark fabric of his robe and cursed under his breath.

"Well there's countries all around me, but when I go to talk to them, they push me away," He said, bitterness lacing his words, "I especially don't like the one up to the North. He's rude."

Of course, I instantly wanted to meet them.

But when I did, chers lecteurs, I was greeted by violence, taunts and hateful things that should not have been heard by such young ears.

Britannia stood with gritted teeth through it all, introducing us while insults and rocks were being thrown at him. But that wasn't all, oh non. On the occasion that I strayed too close to the border, Britannia had come to drag me back, only to be grabbed harshly by his 'brother' of the north and played with like some kind of toy. He caressed him, and kissed him, and bit him, and slapped him, and kicked him back to me when the fun was over. If I had known that this was their reaction, I would have stayed South with Britannia alone.

It was truly disgusting.

The higher the pedestal, the harder the fall. And the Roman Empire fell hard indeed, mes chers.

And what was left was remnants of nations scattered around Europe, looking for purpose. Looking for themselves.

I was free, at least. Gaul had long since been defeated by the might of Rome and I no longer lived with my brothers and sisters. Nord de l'Italie moved in with Autriche, sud de l'Italie moved in with Espagne – much to my displeasure – and the Holy Roman Empire was trying to get a name for himself. The others dispersed from the clutches of Rome and settled independently.

As soon as I knew I was free, I went across the channel to Britannia.

It was the thirty-second time I had done so, and I have to say that the sight that met my eyes was one of the most horrendous, heart-wrenching things I had ever seen – although I had yet to witness the worst.

My dear little Britannia, with all his pride, was kneeling, shivers more like sharp convulsions, in a pool of muddy rainwater with nothing but his trusty cloak wrapped around his shoulders for shelter from the wind that seems to constantly blow through Britain.

I noticed the water flowing red before I saw where the source was.

When he looked up at me through dripping eyelashes, his eyes were dull. The stubborn spark had disappeared, replaced with a misty veil of nothingness. The light that had shined in his days of glory had dimmed. His face and body were as white as the corners of his eye should have been, had they not been blood-shot with a fierce red.

A raucous laugh could be heard fading into the distance.

He had been so strong when the Roman Empire had looked after him. He had developed as a nation quickly, exploiting all the new inventions that the Italian brought and making his country great. But he had lost his protection. He had lost the tall, grinning Empire that treated him kindly. He had lost the guards on the wall that spanned from coast to coast, keeping the unwanted out.

I knew before he told me what had happened.

That, mes amis, was the time that Angleterre lost his virginity to the 'brother' that now sits obediently at his side, plotting a way to independence from the boy he once abused.

Angleterre was never the same again.

He kept his stubbornness, he kept his pride – shattered though it was – and he kept his eyebrows, but there were always moments where he would stare off into the distance, unresponsive to anything I did.

And he always kept me by his side.

He stayed in the south of his country for decades, never quite trusting what lay up in the lands beyond Wessex. There were many times that he would just break down into tears on my shoulder. He would never admit anything of the sort ever happened afterwards, but I remember, chers lecteurs.

Years past, and he grew stronger again. Never quite reaching what he was in the time of Rome, but he regained some of his sanity.

I could tell when he was in a good mood, because his insults would increase.

There was a point when I thought he had actually recovered completely, forgetting what had happened with Scotland, but then the Vikings came.

It was 874 AD. I remember the year exactly.

My journeys to Britain had decreased in frequency, due to Angleterre seeming more and more like his old self as the days went by. I knew he had some trouble within himself what with his country being divided into kingdoms due to his reluctance to move around the land outside Wessex, but he could cope with that.

I had only been away a week. I was only going to visit him for a short while; there were things at my home that needed to be attended to. It was meant to be a quick visit to check on how he was doing.

I mentioned earlier that I had yet to see the most horrendous thing in my life when I found Angleterre after the fall of Rome. That is because, mes chers, that was nothing compared to what Danemark did to him.

Blood.

I just remember there was blood everywhere. Thick, crimson clots among translucent veils. Angleterre was lying on his back in great pools of it mixed with water, mud and ale, limbs spread wide and unable to summon the strength to cover his modesty. Pieces of his cloak had been strewn across the road, shredded beyond recognition, and the location of the rest of his clothes remains a mystery to me to this day. There were bruises all over his body, most prominently on his arms, where definite purple fingerprints could be seen against the ghostly pale skin. His breathing was laboured and I could see from the disfigurement of his chest that quite a few ribs were broken. I'm sure there was more browning patches on his legs, but I could not see for all the blood from his behind. It ran in scarlet rivers down his thighs, dripping off at the knees onto the stained road.

People passed by and did nothing.

As I picked the mass of broken bones and ripped flesh up off the dirt, he groaned my name.

I had lost count of the number of times I had visited Angleterre by the time I returned on that fateful night.

I had not seen him since I cleaned up his wounds and laid him down to rest in his bed, for the Vikings had sought land further afield, and I was next on their hit list.

Many people have accused me of cowardice when it came to giving up Normandy to them. But I knew that if I did not give them their way, they would have pillaged and burned and treated me like they did dear Angleterre, and if that had happened, who would have been there to help him? I was the only one he could turn to, and if I became a broken wreck, he would be all alone and more vulnerable than ever.

I had prepared for every eventuality. I had come with armed guards, and open heart and anything Angleterre could possibly need to fight the Nordic bastards.

But I had not prepared for what he had become.

I was met by a scowl darker and more furious than I had ever seen – made more terrifyingly impressive by his eyebrows.

He had always regarded me with annoyance. But this aggression was nothing like the endearing irritation I had experienced throughout our acquaintance.

He was clothed in deep reds and gold, a magnificent velvet cloak draped across his shoulders, cascading down the armrests of the throne he was seated in. He was surrounded by priests and guards and lords and women, dozens of his followers swarmed around him, casting frightened glances at one another but keeping their eye line low.

"Angleterre." I greeted, bowing my head. "Long time no see, mon ami."

His eyes seemed to pierce through me, and being the cowardly Frenchman that I was, I immediately scanned for escape roots when his scowl darkened.

"I am not your friend, you vile piece of frog-sucking shit."

Of all the insults he has ever used on me, chers lecteurs, I consider that one to be the worst. The tone and language were completely unexpected.

"Non?"

"No."

An eerie silence fell on the hall and the crowds of English fidgeted while I looked up in confusion into those hard, unwavering emeralds.

I had brought help, I had brought support, I had brought friendship, and Angleterre threw it all back in my face. I felt betrayed.

"Is there any particular reason you are here?"

I disguised my hurt as best I could with my poor little broken heart pounding in my chest. "I have brought help for your fight against the Vikings."

A single eyebrow quirked in reaction. "Well then, 'friend'," He spat, "It appears you are too late."

And I was, mes chers, I was.

It is safe to say that after the events that followed our meeting, I never once caught a single glimpse of my dear, dear little Britannia. The adorable chubbiness in his cheeks had well and truly been replaced with cheekbones as defined as any Greek god you could care to imagine. He had kept his lithe figure, but gained muscle tone on his torso and shoulders to improve his stance.

'Improve' being a matter of perspective. For men cowered before his looming frame, quivered at the feet of his confident form. He was truly terrifying, chers lecteurs. He basked in fear.

And I can tell you now, mes amis, he basked in my fear that night.

Angleterre has always held a lust for domination; a need to fell powerful – especially during sex – but I have never witnessed such ferocity as I did the first time I visited him after the Vikings left.

The fire in his eyes as he pounded into me; each thrust punctuated by a slap or a punch. It drove me wild with desire, yet I knew that this was the young nation I had grown up with, hand in hand. I knew that underneath he was the same, lonely, frightened little boy that had wandered day in, day out among the grasses of his countryside. This was the boy that I had shared most of my life with.

And although I had first thought I craved them, his actions that night broke my heart.

And so it continued.

The raids, the pillaging, the thievery, the invasions, the rape, the expansion of an empire.

There was no land left untouched by the might of the British Empire. Every corner of the map was filled in. Every island recorded, every civilisation tamed and subdued. The world feared him.

The blazing colours of the Union Jack haunted every sailor's nightmares. A single mast on the horizon foretold impending doom. He was the ruler of the seven seas, travelling to the ends of the Earth, and leaving nothing standing in his wake. He held the globe in his hand.

Until the day he went too far west.

I have always thought myself a good companion for Angleterre, keeping him sane and providing a shoulder to cry on when needed, but I was never enough. I could never keep him from staring off into the distance with his eyes glazed over. I could never keep him from drinking himself into oblivion when he felt depressed. I had always known this, ever since I had first laid eyes on him. He could never keep his attention on me. There was always something else going on; a fairy flitting about on a flower petal or his beloved flying green rabbit. Every so often his gaze would flicker away and I would be reminded that I was his friend, sometimes lover and enemy. Nothing more.

I could never call myself his best friend. After all, I had abandoned him to the Vikings; I had allowed his brothers to take advantage of him. I had not stayed by his side through thick and thin. I had been a coward, and no one should rely on a coward as their best friend.

Non, there was always a void that needed to be filled within him. There was always something more he wanted. He tried to keep himself occupied with conquering the world, but he got bored too easily. He had no responsibility; nothing to firmly set his concentration on.

He needed something to look after. Someone to look after.

I could never be what he needed, but Amérique could.

That annoying little brat who will never know just how much I envy him for what he has done for Angleterre. Everything he has done that I could not.

The rest of the story does not need to be told, oui? I am sure you are already well aware of how it ends. Or doesn't, as the case seems to be. For my dear Angleterre still craves his power, his control, his old domination, and that is why he still turned to myself, Antoine and Gilbert to satisfy that part of him. And alas, he will never admit to Amérique how he truly feels, and so they remain as two ignorant fools dancing around each other, neither of them willing to take the first step into the unknown void between them.

And so, chers lecteurs, I leave you to ponder my tales. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a happy ending yet, non?

Vôtre, Francis Bonnefoy x

AN: OH SCHIESSE, this one was major angsty, too. I NEARLY CRIED AND I WROTE IT.

WRY IS FRANCE-ANGST SO EASY TO WRITE? I'm sorry, guys, this little baby popped into my head so fast I just had to get it down, so the promised humorous fluff will be in the next chapter: Prison Diaries.

Yours, iFluffRaver x