Yay chapter three! I really like this one. Like, really.

I hope you do too!

FILE #2: The Time England Almost Said Yes

Many, many years ago, before America was even a thought in any of the countries' minds, France and England co-existed just as uncomfortably as ever. Having grown out of their awkward adolescent phases, the two spent their time adjusting to the pressures of being fully-developed countries with all the surprises that came with it. France would like to imagine that he had made the transition as smoothly as the flow of his own fair hair, which was carefully cared for and styled, like his life. He filled his house with beautiful furniture and artwork and focused much of his energy on the small delights of life like music and food. Nearby (but eons away philosophically) England went about his practical daily business, often casting a critical eye at his southern neighbor. France largely ignored his snubs, chalking it up to mere (and very understandable) jealousy.

An almost constant stream of visitors, be they other countries or attractive young men and ladies, came and went through France's front door. He prided himself on being the apex of style and his house on being a tres fashionable location to spend a day (or, preferably, a night.) Despite the large selection of desirable young adults all about, France often grew bored and turned his gaze to the northern island country, England. He would sit on his favorite window seat with a powerful telescope and watch England come and go through his front door. The other country rarely spent any time outside in the yard because of the almost constant rain over his house and, consequently, was rather pale and skinny.

This did not matter to France. He had extended invitation after invitation to England, trying to get him to visit his house, but it never did any good. England was adamantly disapproving of everything connected to France and scorned all forms of communication with him, unless it included sending letters filled with expletives across the ocean. What a ridiculous nation, France thought contemptuously, shredding yet another round of offensive correspondence from England that went something like this:

Dearest Angleterre,

I am writing to inform you that I am hosting a rather charming champagne social a fortnight from now and am inviting only the most premier countries. There will be plenty of hor d'oeuvres (including those salmon biscuits I know you favor) and fine wine for all. I respectfully ask that you honor me and all of my guests with your delightful presence. Do not worry about your unfashionable hair. If you arrive a few hours early, I would be available to restyle it for you.

Yours truly,

France.

P.S. I can not, however, do anything about your dreadful sense of style. I suggest going to a tailor sometime between now and then and NOT wearing that dreadful maroon waistcoat you are accustomed to. Also, pants are optional.

England's reply:

Frog,

Stop inviting me to your bloody nasty parties. You ought to know by now that I shan't go no matter what kind of crumpets you serve. You think your food is better but mine is just cracking the way it is, thank you very much! And sod off about my hair, it's very practical and attractive. Yours is ridiculous and if I were a bird, I'd make a nest and raise a bleeding family in it. And how did you know that I had a maroon waistcoat made? Are you watching me? You're a creepy wanker and you really ought not exist.

Go away.

UK

And then there was the time that France sent him a whole crate of some of his finest wines. He had expected no reply and was surprised when he received a single, small bottle of brandy in return. Elated, he enjoyed it with a fine fish dinner, but his relish was jaded when he found a tiny note affixed to the bottom of the bottle, reading: Haha Frog I cursed this brandy! He was initially disturbed, but grew merely annoyed after a few days passed and nothing happened. What an utter ingrate.

No matter what, England just would not turn his eyes to France for even a passing moment. France did not feel particularly slighted, however, because England gave his attention to no one. Spain also spent time vying for his affections but eventually gave up as England showed him the same level of disinterest as he showed France, albeit without the venom. Prussia tried once, also, and was equally rebuffed. England did not care for company and kept to himself and his own business.

Such an unsociable fellow England was that France was shocked to find him sitting at a bar in Germany one clear night, clutching a mug of beer. It was pricey German beer, but it was still unusual to see England drinking anything other than tea or hard liquor. His head was resting on the bar beside the mug. France signaled to the bartender and lowered himself onto the bar stool beside the other country. England didn't raise his head as France sat silently, waiting for the bartender to bring him a Rue Cler. Once it was placed on the semi-polished wood, France picked it up and swirled it elegantly in his palm. He studied the back of England's head for a few moments, then spoke. "Bonsoir, Angleterre."

England slowly lifted his head, focused on France, and grunted. His hair was even more unruly than usual and his eyes were ringed with pink. "What do you want, Frog?" He asked, sounding more tired than France had heard him in a long time.

"I was merely wondering what a fine gentleman such as yourself was doing in a place like this?"

England grunted again. "Well, you're here too, so you can't think it's that bad. Unless you've been stalking me again. I thought I told you to stop that."

"It is not stalking, Angleterre, I am merely observing your behavior for ze purpose of learning more about you," France sniffed, sipping his cocktail.

"Right," England replied disapprovingly.

France sat back and really focused on England. "Now. Why are you really here?"

"Because I want to be."

"I hardly think you expect me to believe that."

England sat up straighter. "I wanted a bloody drink; what's so hard to believe about that? And why is it any of your business anyway?"

"I've known you for years, Angleterre. Zis isn't like you. Somezing is wrong." He frowned. "You're worrying me."

England's deep green eyes widened and his hand shook on his mug. His cheeks were already pink from the alcohol so any change of color was undetectable. He opened his mouth, shut it, took a big gulp from his mug, and mumbled "No, I'm fine."

"You know, you could always accompany me back home. I could make a fabulous dessert and we could chat in front of a warm, crackling fire," France crooned, leaning in to England. Even at a distance, he could smell the alcohol England had consumed. The closer he got, the more obvious it was that England was quite intoxicated. "I could make you feel better." His hand closed around England's wrist. The smaller country dropped his head and muttered something intelligible. "What, love?" France asked.

"Fine. I said fine," England mumbled more audibly.

France, still holding his wrist, sat back, shocked. "What? Did you just say yes?"

"Yes!" England yelled, "Fine! I'll go with you, you horrible, bloody frog!" He held the wrist that France still grasped up in front of his face. "Take me wherever you want! What does it matter? Do what you will with me…" His eyes bored into France's. "I shouldn't expect any better. I may as well get used to my lot in life."

This reaction was the furthest from what France had ever expected. He sat back and stared at England, dropping his smooth façade. When he really took time to inspect England, he was taken back in history to years before. England had matured, but he hadn't shown signs of true aging. He sat before France, still a milky-white specimen on the cusp between confused adolescent and defined adult. His eyes were big and tired, the skin on his face still soft and without wrinkles. The only thing that differentiated him from his teenage self was the way he knit his brows together more and the slight tightening of his lips. "Angleterre…are you lonely?" England France dropped his wrist and stood up, throwing some money on the table. "Come along. I'm going to take you back to your home."

England still sat, suspicion written on his face. "What are you on about? I thought you were going to make me fancy desserts in front of a crackling fire," he said sarcastically, refusing to rise.

"Non. Not tonight. Come," he said. "I'm taking you home." He held his hand out to England and waited until the latter rose stiffly and walked past him, ignoring the outstretched hand. France followed quietly. Dirt crunched under their feet as they walked on in the dark. England pulled his coat closer against the early spring cold. France stared straight ahead until they reached England's house. England walked up to the door and then turned around. "Do you want to come inside?" He asked thickly, his hand on the doorknob.

A moment of silence passed.

"Non," France said softly. "Non. You go on inside."

England lingered. "Well this must be a first for you, Frog." He shuffled his feet. "Why?"

France tugged at his beard gently. "One day, Angleterre, you are going to fall in love. I don't know who he or she will be but once it hits you it's never going to let go."

"Nonsense. I know all the countries and I don't fancy a one of them."

"Perhaps zey are not a country yet!"

"That's hogwash and you know it. There aren't any more countries to find! We know the whole bloody world!"

France just shrugged and walked backwards, away from England. "Maybe, Angleterre. Or maybe we don't know as much as we zink we know and zere are more countries out zere. Eizzer way, I just know zat…you are not going to be lonely forever." He had backed up almost all the way out of the drive and was shouting his words now. England watched him go, then went inside. He intended to think heavily upon what France had said, but fell asleep and forgot what had happened that night.

France watched him go back into his house and then leaned on his gatepost with a sigh. "Until zat day comes, I will not give up hope zat I will be zat person."

oOoOo

Interestingly enough, it was four years later to the day that England first set foot on North America and caught sight of a tiny mussed blonde head darting through the fields.

oOoOo

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