Warnings: Murder (Multiple)

I do not own any characters.

Arthur honestly couldn't tell you how his rivalry started. Maybe some distant argument, over Francis' hair style, or Arthur's eyebrows, but that's how it was. Fighter against fighter. Neither backing down though they knew they would cause their own damnation.

So when he had gotten the wand from Death, he was ecstatic at finally being able to defeat Francis.

Nevermind that it would end in murder, Francis' cold body falling to the stone floor, coats ruffled.

Nevermind that secretly, Arthur loved Francis, and he hated what they had become.

As he strode down that small, dingy alley to a tavern, his mind flitted to a memory he barely wanted to remember anymore.

"Go away, Bonnefoy," the fifteen-year-old Arthur said, green eyes tired. "I don't give a damn."

"Fuck you, Kirkland, you can barely even curse." Francis jeered.

"That all you got, frog?" Arthur was way too close, even he knew it but he ignored it for the sake of his anger. Emerald eyes searched sapphire, but there was nothing he could find. No expression.

Francis slammed Arthur against a nearby brick wall. The folds in his blue jacket, once so carefully arranged, every stitch of the cloth perfectly formed, hung as if they were suspended puppets.

The townsfolk were nowhere nearby, all having left at the prospect of another of the infamous duels so often made between the Englishman and the Frenchman. The two even had a nickname, "Enchie".

Without consiously knowing it, Arthur had grasped the front of Francis' coat, and he had pulled the other closer, placing the Frenchman within a couple inches of him.

Then, with a sudden feeling of wild exhilaration, he kissed him.

For a moment, there was nothing, Arthur's lips pressed silently against the other's, Francis' eyes wide. Then he closed them with a satisfied hum, pressing the shorter back into the wall. It soon became a battle for dominance, tongues waging a war on each other, but all too soon, Arthur yanked himself away, Francis letting out a mix of a groan and a sigh.

And the former practically ran away, sleeve frantically wiping against his mouth.

That remained the only time they kissed.

Pausing to lean on a wall, not unlike the way Francis had shoved him so many years before, Arthur glared at any passerby foolish enough to stop and wonder why he was frowning so intensely. "Gits, the lot of you."

The tavern was loud, as usual, Lovino making his usual drunk claims and insults while Antonio snuck glances, his Spanish navy uniform gleaming in the light of the dim lanterns. Matthias, his hair spiked and his formerly white dress shirt almost brown from a mix of dirt, sweat, and grease, eyed Arthur suspiciously. Only Feliciano was enough of an idiot to try and clean the counter, giving up as the wet rag he was using blackened with grime after one swipe.

"A brandy, please," Arthur said, ignoring the squeak Feliciano gave when a tall, blonde man walked in the door. (There was an enormous amount of blonds in the town, himself included.)

He doubted it was anyone special, and he was correct, seeing as Feliciano blushed at the man's presence and tried desperately to not look like he was trying desperately to stop blushing.

When his slightly over-poured drink arrived, Arthur relished the bite of the liquor as it slid warmly down to his stomach. Ordering another, he enjoyed the somewhat ridiculous haze that started to develop in his mind.

Dimly, he was aware that that second drink had turned into a fifth, and that a blond, blue-eyed man had entered the tavern, his blue coat swishing as he imperiously looked around.

"So, Arthur, I see you haven't changed a bit. Order too much? Or did your drinking habits just get better?" Francis chuckled, a low musical sound that both sent Arthur's nerves aflame and made him want to test out this new wand.

"Go fuck yourself, digusting pig that you are. How's the whorehouse, I hear you're on the tenth. Also, did you know your cousin's a dirty-" Just like in the memory, he didn't know what he was doing, he just knew, and it was on this that Arthur drew his new wand.

Francis' face twisted into a mask or rage, and the patrons of the tavern started to draw towards the walls, even Lovino was looking unnerved. Arthur felt his face crack in a demented grin.

The duel was short, Francis having missed him by a fraction, but Arthur's aim was true, the Killing Curse hitting the other in a flash of green light. Francis toppled like a house of cards. Arthur missed the greedy look on Antonio's face, too busy drinking wine and gloating about his success and his wand.

In a dingy inn room, Antonio crept in on Arthur, who had fallen asleep the moment his head had touched the pillow. His tanned hand snatching away the wand, he raised a silver knife.

Five minutes later, Antonio long gone, Arthur choked to death on his own blood, staining the sheets on the bed crimson and unable to cry out, his vocal cords slit.

Death, his red eyes watching this, snatched Arthur's soul, seeing the bright green die down to a mellow lime. Spreading skeletal black wings, he padded away to tell Matthew.

I do not really think England is as darkly characterized as I portray him here. He is merely like this because the story needs the three brothers to have specific characteristics, like arrogance and humility.