October 29, 1986.

It was a nice day for once in Aspen, Colorado, a brisk fall one, neither completely winter cold nor summer hot as the region tended to swing between like an ill-tempered Italian. A few brave remaining birds who had not yet fled for greener pastures, (or perhaps bluer skies would be more appropriate), sung their songs with a certain melancholy and yet beauty the state was known for, and a snow that was not so much snow as frozen frost glittered on half shuttered windows and aspen trees alike. Sunlight filtered through one of these half open windows and fell on two lovers held close under white stained covers, French and American, the shorter of which was held in the other’s arms. Their story was a long and complicated one, but now is as god a time to tell it as any. We’ll focus our attentions on the American first.

Alfred F. Jones, personification of the United States of America, was hardly a graceful morning person, but since fate was nice today, he’d managed to wake up without falling off the bed or being yelled at by someone. Instead he blinked open his eyes to the sound of soft snoring and the slight breeze outside. After a few moments of shaking off the sleep he fumbled for his glasses, shoving them on his face in a half-awake action that left them lopsided and only cleared about half of his vision from the usual blurriness, but a quick tweaking fixed that. He looked down to find a still slumbering, and unfortunately for him, drooling man clinging to him and smiling peacefully, the kind that seems to become a person in that perfectly unaware way, even more so on him for some reason.

It only took a second for his sleep worn mind to put a name and a label to him, Francis Bonnefoy, nation of France and more importantly, lover. A smile of his own appeared on his face, a face splitting grin he was so very known for around the world, his sky blue eyes crinkling around the edges. Though France was always beautiful to him, there was something inherently more so when he wasn’t trying, when his body was content to rest and be oblivious of other’s eyes looking on. Not to mention the reddening marks from last night all over his skin, he sure nailed the hell out of him. He had a feeling he’d be walking a little funny today.

However since America was an impatient nation who couldn’t stand just enjoying what he had, he decided to wake up the European in his usual, somewhat tactless style, via poking. “Hey France, babydoll. It’s morning.” he said in a singsong voice, which was not exactly an improvement as he was basically tone deaf without music in the background. France groaned in reply and tilted his face so it was buried in his chest, far too lazy and tired to want to wake up. “Arrêter.” he mumbled as he continued to poke him, curling up against his side and shifting his face to rest in the crook of his neck. America found it kind of adorable, which he didn’t get much a chance to see with France, who was more a seduction machine, so he stopped his actions for a moment and chuckled softly, moving his hand to run through his hair.

“Alright, I’ll stop.” he conceded, and he felt a muttered thank you against his skin, but soon enough he tilted his head up again to look at him with sleepy eyes, slowly awakening as he himself had before. “Bonjour Amerique.” he said, yawning a little and moving to take a sleepy kiss from his lips, which were of course some of the best kind. He was quite happy to return the favor as he held him close, skin resting against skin in a way that wasn’t sexual but still intimate, though it could always go there later, knowing him. “Hey.” he said simply in reply. “You feeling ok?” he asked, as he always did whenever the events of last night happened, he knew he was rather strong, to put it lightly. France shrugged a little and brought one arm to rest his head on, tilting it to the side a little. “Painful, as to be expected. But very well worth it.” he said, and he could practically see the shiver running down his spine at the thought of it. It was a little embarrassing how frank he was sometimes, but also incredibly hot when the situation was right.

“Yea, I liked it too.” he said, though that was an understatement if ever there was one. It was like the entire world was made of nothing more than the feeling of him underneath him, crying and begging and digging his nails into his back. But he could never put that feeling into words, and especially not this early in the morning. “Remember the first time?” he asked, as his mind was like a house of memories and experiences jammed together in crooked hallways and doors that if tried by anyone else would leave them slamming into a metaphorical wall, so jumping from one thing to another without a seeming middle was pretty normal. “Ah yes. I was feeling that for days.” he said with a little laugh, though it was pretty dang painful and not at all funny at the time. He laughed as well and held him closer, placing a kiss on his forehead. “Not that first time. The first time I really met you, when England was raising me. You had this funny looking beaver cap.” he said, moving his hands to make one on his head. France’s smile became a little more sentimental and he nodded. “Oui. I remember....”

March 12, 1667.

The day was warm in the territory that would later become the state of Kentucky, the sun shone down on the grassy plains and the wild grasses seemed to go up to meet it,in a forest nearby trees made it glow green against the rich redish-brown dirt, and little creatures were scurrying about to get food for their quickly growing families. One of these was a beaver, running on it’s little paws down the riverbank, sticks in mouth, looking carefully for predators, until there was a metallic clang and it was snapped up by a metal jaw trap, it’s neck snapped in the blink of the eye as the sticks fell back to the muddy ground. A smile worked it’s way on a nearby Frenchman, who walked over to yank the half hidden trap from it’s spot, inspecting the animal. “Hmm, good enough size. Healthy looking enough too, no spots or signs of disease. Male though, that’s not going to be good for the price.” he murmured throwing it over his shoulder, but he was sure it would be worth the effort anyway. The British snatched these things up for their hats and fur collars so much that beaver fur was worth more than gold or Spanish silver in some places.

After checking a few of his other traps, sadly not as successful as this one, France decided it best to head back to his little make-do tent out by the edge of the forest. He whistled a little tune as he walked, enjoying the untouched nature of the New World, sure he didn’t have much anything in the way of settlements, and his sugar plantations in the Caribbean were worth more, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the certain life of this new nation. However when he reached near his destination he saw a peculiar and somewhat fear inspiring sight. A small boy with wheat blonde hair and blue eyes, resting his back on a huge elk, the biggest he’d perhaps ever seen, some blood on his pants and white shirt and looking totally content to lie there and look at the sky as if it were normal.

He knew it was that little Amerique he’d met only eighty years ago, and he had aged a few years, looking to be nine or ten already, but there was still something off-putting about a child looking that way, so powerful already. Not to mention the fact that England had threatened to castrate him on a regular basis if he went near the child, and as he did want that to happen, he slowly started to edge his way along, thinking that if he did not see him England could not hurt him for it. But the odds were not in his favor today it seemed, and he managed to carelessly step on a twig, and the boy’s eyes shot towards him, a giant grin appearing on his face.

“Hi there mister!” he said, standing up and moving so he was standing next to the beast, not yet moving towards him, which he was glad for. He didn’t fancy getting any blood on him at the moment, nor ever really. “You’re France right? Can I have some of your land?” he asked, and he was slightly surprised he knew him and treated him civilly, especially considering Angleterre’s probable brainwashing. “Nnnon.” he said, the word falling out before he could really process everything. “Can I buy it when I’m older?” he questioned, the smile not wavering in the slightest. “...Maybe.” he conceded, as he had just killed the massive elk with what seemed to be his bare hands, and he didn’t fancy being killed himself. It had already happened far too much for his liking.

“Alright!” he said, walking over surprisingly fast and looking up at him, and he couldn’t help but feel his gaze soften at the young nation, it had been so long since he had been like that, or anyone he knew. “You have pretty eyes!” he declared after a moment of silence, and that really threw him off. “Q-Quoi?” he stammered, and he repeated it without hesitation. “Your eyes, they’re really pretty mister. And they’re blue, just like mine. Engwand calls them sky eyes!” he said, still retaining that little lisp for his caretaker’s name. “That’s... um... nice.” he said, not sure what to make of this strange new nation. “Will you be my sky eyes buddy?” he asked, tilting his head to the side a little. “I’ve always wanted to be friends with someone with eyes like mine, since Engwand doesn’t have them. He just has those weird eyebrows!” he said, making some with his fingers, and France couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Oui, indeed he does. Don’t tell him, but I think they look like caterpillars on his face.” he said, winking a little, and the boy laughed, a loud but somehow still nice sounding one. “I won’t. I promise!” he said, putting a hand over his heart, an action he’d never thought of in relation to promise, but a good one. He’d have to use it himself someday. “So... will you be my friend?” he asked, his voice tentative and looking down at his black shoes. It was so adorable that he just had to say yes. “Ok. I’ll be your sky eyes buddy.” he said, his eyes twinkling a little, and the grin that followed was worth most any risks, he thought.

“....Would you like to have something to eat?” he asked after a moment, taking some of the cheese he loved so much from his bag, even though it was all he had to eat for a while. The child’s eyes shone and he took it from his hand, taking a bite and grinning. “This is great mister!” he said enthusiastically, wolfing it down before looking down at his hands with a sad expression. “Aw...” he whined. “That’s why you must learn to savor, devez-vous pas? It’s worth the wait, I can assure you.” he advised him, and he nodded, soaking the information. “Ok! I’ll do it next time! I have to go now France, Engwand’ll be waiting for me.” he said, walking back over to the elk, and amazingly, impossibly, throwing it over his little shoulder, much like he himself had with the beaver. “I’ll see you some other time!” he said, waving as he walked away, so quickly he was over the horizon before it seemed he could even blink. He just stood there, looking at the spot he’d been in, his words echoing in his head.

“I suppose I will.” he said to the air, his hold on the metal chain of the trap tightening as he walked back to his makeshift home, and even though his stomach growled at him for not eating himself, he felt such a sense of happiness he didn’t much care. Something about Amerique was different. Of course, he didn’t truly see him again for a long time, as he was kicked off the continent by that horrible Englishman and some colonials, but he still managed to catch the young nation every once in a while. But regardless, on that fine spring day in what would later be Kentucky, he was content to just.... be, like he hadn’t been allowed to for a very long time, with the sun shining down and a strange new nation to share company with for a few moments, and perhaps, be friends.

October 6, 1778

It was a cold morning when the French navy boat France was on arrived in the United States, fog hiding the coastline until they had approached the little Virginian town that supported the rebels, and in turn them, seagulls squawking and the sound of the waves pushing constantly against the creaking wooden boat in his ears, but they mattered little to him. What mattered was that he finally got to help the child nation he’d grown fond of over the past century, growing up so fast it seemed he might never stop, needed his help in getting away from away from England, to be the great nation like his people promised he’d be, with ideas that hadn’t been proposed since Greece was but a small child. But even that wasn’t quite it.

He had already sent men over months ago to help with the nation, the colonial militia that was shaping itself into an army, generals and battle plans and men with large hats planning in tents with stern voices, that was done. No, he wanted to be there for Alfred, because he’d had revolutions before, and they were bloody and hurtful and it often seemed like the whole world would turn their back on you when you needed them most. He refused to do that to him. He mattered too much for reasons he didn’t quite know, or rather refused to acknowledge. He’d told himself couldn’t tie himself down like that, fall in love again, not after losing his little Mattieu. But he did cross an ocean to see him.

When they arrived at the docks and France and his men disboarded the ship, he wasn’t aware of the true horror this barely known revolution was causing, until he saw the men with bandages on their arms and legs and heads that just stared at the Frenchmen, and their eyes were so drained and cold, like the fight had sucked all the life out of them. Some offered half hearted smiles but most didn’t bother, and the lump had formed in his throat seemed to grow, he had to find Amerique, he couldn’t be like that, not him! Not the wide eyed child that smiled at him so easily and asked to be his sky eyes buddy. He couldn’t be like that!

“Alfred!” he called out, he had to be somewhere around here, he knew it. “Alfred!” he said, and he paid no attention to the odd looks his way as he scanned every face, looking for the sky blue eyes and that strange little curl that popped up from his head. He caught a glimpse near the edge and walked over, black boots clicking against the groaning wood planks of the dock, and when he made it there and saw the state the poor lad was in, it was like a punch to the gut, only worse.

Blonde hair more stringy and unkept, the bangs almost long enough to fall over his eyes, one of which had a large purple bruise forming, a makeshift uniform with white and blue, stained red in places and patched up with the cloth from old cattle feed bags. He was banged up so much that he wasn’t sure if there was more of the bandages or his own skin showing, particularly on his arms, which he could tell were full of bullet holes and bayonet wounds from British rifles. But the worst of all had to be his eyes, a mirror of all the other’s he’d seen, grey and pained and too old for his age. Far too old. He wasn’t even sure it was him, until he smiled, just for a second, but even then the teeth had a red tint, as if blood had recently been spat between them.

“Hey there Francis. Long time no see.” he said, and a part of him was relieved to hear his voice, while a bit deeper, hadn’t been lost yet like the rest of him. “Bonjour. I suppose it has.” he said, trying to keep the quiver from becoming obvious, and he remembered when he’d said much the same to the empty air all those years ago. “But mon dieu Alfred. What happened to you?” he said, cautiously taking a step towards him , placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, not wanting to hurt him more. “I started a war.” he said simply, and there was an ache in that statement that he knew very well. He just couldn’t stand seeing him say it, and so before he even knew what he was doing he’d wrapped his arms around him in a gentle hug, holding him close, and he could feel the other’s body shaking in silent sobs against him, tired it seemed of trying to be strong all on his own.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he asked, his voice choked with all sorts of emotions, fear and loss and hurt and that confusion of what do i do, and some other thing that he could not put a name to but seemed to encompass them all. “Shh. I’m here now. It’ll be alright.” he reassured him, and though they were little more than sugarcoated half truths he had to try something. “My nation will help your people, I promise. If there is anything I can do, I will be there.” he said, running his fingers through the unkept hair to calm him down, and he knew these words were true, a promise he’d keep as long as he was still alive to keep it.

While he didn’t quite register it at the time, that was one of the moments everything changed, and that he later learned the younger fell in love with him too. But that’s a tale that had yet to be written. For now he only knew that he needed him, and he could not leave him to his own, not as a nation and especially not as a person. He knew, as all nations started to know at one point, those were very different things sometimes, and that duality and constant overlap was the source of almost all of their pain, physically or otherwise. And so when the war ended and the rebels won, he felt little remorse when he said he couldn’t see him for a while, he, or rather his people, had a want for isolation. Much as he might want to change the fact, nations came first. That didn’t mean he didn’t get hammered that night and fall asleep on his balcony because he’d once again lost a true friend to history though. After all, they were flawed and imperfect as people too.

October 29, 1986

“France? Frannnnnce. You in there? Hellooo.” said America, who was waving a hand in front of his face, feeling slightly worried about him. He’d been silent for nearly five minutes now, had he fallen back asleep? France snapped out of his theatre like memories, and smiled a little at him upon seeing and processing the worry on his face. “Ah désolé.” he apologized, not wanting to worry him. “I was lost in thought, nothing serious. Don’t worry about me.” he insisted, perhaps a bit more strongly than he should’ve for a lie. “What were you saying again?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. The American gave him a long look but did not dwell on the subject, even though it reminded him a little too much of a certain other time he’d insisted he was fine, but certainly wasn’t.

“I was thinking we should probably get up. There’s plenty to see around here than wine and the bedroom after all.” he said, he really did love this state at this time of year, as there was snow but it wasn’t too cold out, and of course, one of the world’s largest and most opulent wine festivals was held there, which is why he’d suggested it in the first place, even if it meant he couldn’t have any of it himself.

Francis nodded and slowly started to get up, wincing a little as he felt the sharp pain in his lower back, he usually took the day after better but last night was rougher than either had attempted in well a hundred years. But he was French, he would take the pain with dignity. “Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea. But I could use a shower. You will join me, non?” he said, sending a wink and seductive look he was known for, sending shivers down the American’s spine. But he wasn’t putty to them anymore, not after as long as they’d been together. “We don’t have the time for that honey. You back home tomorrow, remember?” America said, though the thought was a bit sad really.

“Oh cruel fate!” he said overdramatically, putting a hand to his forehead. “I shall have to save it for tonight then, one last goodbye.” he said, his tone dripping with the most uninnocent of meanings behind that before disappearing from sight, the sound of water being turned on in his ears as America desperately tried to push away the dirty thoughts his partner had planted in his mind. His mind, being as loosely and randomly connected as it was, decided to focus on his earlier assurance not to worry about him, and how often he said it when he needed someone to worry for him. The one that was the most drastic of course being the Terror, yes he remembered him during that time....

August 17, 1884.

When they sent America over to visit their once ally France, he wasn’t sure what to think. He knew of the wars and chaos that was going on over here, but it was one thing to hear about it and another to go there himself. Much like the other years before, there was a lump in his throat as he landed on the European soil, and though there was a procession worthy of a dignitary there for him, the man he so craved to see himself was not present, and he learned, through the choppy French he knew, that he would meet them at their destination.

This was the first true oddity he came upon, France was never one to speak through individuals, especially not to other nations, he lived and loved and was among his people in a way that seemed almost dangerous at times like these, the very idea of being a nation in paperwork and official duties only appalled the Pyrenean man, and while he did what was necessary you’d find him more often at an art gallery or smoking a cigarette outside a cafe than his grand offices in Versailles and Paris, the latter of which they were going to via carriage, the common vehicle at the time.

He stared out the windows of said carriage as they trudged the few hours ride to Paris, it all seemed fine at first glance. He was honestly half expecting something out of an apocalypse with all that was spouted: crumbling buildings, rampant people with wild eyes, and a chaos that permeated everything; but that was not quite the case.

Instead the shift showed itself in subtler ways, such as the way the cloth of their clothing seemed more drab and patched up than the last time he’d been here, and indeed seemed to hang off them as if they were no more than skeletons, the lack of smiles that were usually on at least some of the people, the way people walked, their bodies hunched, as if they appeared smaller then maybe they would not be noticed by the occasional Committee of Public Safety official, a ruse for a bunch of corrupt and archaic individuals to choose people, seemingly at random, and give them the axe, or rather, the guillotine.

Of course America was not aware of this fact. All he knew was there was something these poor and hungry individuals were scared of, something tied to the very carriage he was riding in, as there was a fear in seeing it that caused them to turn the other way and hunch themselves more, hiding and praying for a miracle. Even more concerned than he had been, not only for his friend and ally, but himself, he did not look out the window for the rest of the trip.

When they finally did arrive in Paris several hours later it was nightfall, the city half lit up with gas lanterns that seemed to reflect off every shining surface and doorframe, all shut tight as to hide from the undesirables who appeared at this time, revolutionaries of all natures and intents, calling upon the common people to support them, but that time of trust had passed six years ago. Right after the king was executed. America could hear their calls for revolution and freedom shouted in French at near empty crowds, the ones that were there too young to truly understand or too old to care anymore, ceaseless meaningless bulllshit that would do nothing, as there was no such thing as freedom in a coup, which by this point, was all the council really was.

They faded slightly as they approached the once royal estate, now converted into a makeshift government building, and it was even more unsettling than even the people had been to see this place, grand and strong and a symbol of a monarchical France, now seemed to huddle onto itself as much as the people it was supposed to represent. The remains of the great decorations that once adorned the palace were tattered and completely gone in places, splattered with bulletholes and faded somehow, the colors more grey. Indeed, the whole capital had an air of that greyness about it, of what he could not entirely place, but his worry for France only grew because of it.

He all but jumped out of the carriage when it came to a halt, thanking the driver with what he hoped were the right words as he walked quickly into the palace, remembering where his office was from the last time he was here, (he had a remarkable memory), knocking quickly on the oaken door before bursting in, too worried to bother with being polite, not that he had much success in that area anyway.

The sight he was met with was not one he had imagined in even his worst nightmares. The Frenchman was sitting at his desk, his expression twisted in discomfort and pain as he tightened the knot on blood soaked bandages wrapped around his neck. However, once he finished his head seemed to roll forward, farther than a head ought to normally, almost like it wasn’t connected to his spine at all. He didn’t freak out about this, merely sighing and muttering merde under his breath as he struggled to fix it in such a way that it stood without him supporting it. He seemed just about satisfied with his work when he looked up and saw the American standing in the door and jumped slightly, bringing his hands to his side quickly and grinning a fake grin at him.

“Ah, A-Amerique! I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” he said, hurriedly standing up and walking over to shake his hand, acting like nothing odd had gone on. He numbly shook back, still looking at him with an expression of worry and shock. “Mon ami, are you feeling well? You seem a bit pale.” he said, placing a hand to his forehead, presumably to check for a favor, and the irony in him being worried about his condition was just too much for him.

“How the hell did this happen?” he demanded, indicating a deep anger in his voice that surprised even him, tinged with worry and guilt, because he’d helped him so much and he’d done nothing in return. France flinched a little and opened his mouth to stammer something out, but gave up with a resigned sigh when he saw the look presented to him.

“Guillotine. I suppose the Comité figured if they can kill the king, why not the nation?” he said with a slight shrug, before resting one arm on top of the other in a sort of L shape, a trait he later learned he did when he was nervous. “But I am not so easily gotten rid of, as you can see.” he said, smiling slightly. “My people have seen harder times than these and will perhaps see more. But it does no one any good to dwell on it.” he said, and for a moment America could see the age of it all in his eyes, those centuries stretching back for who knew how long, and it was humbling and awe-inspiring to see. He then proceeded to walk a little closer, perhaps more than mere friends should, holding the younger nations hands in his own.

“Do not worry about me, jeune. I’ll be fine. You’ve got something great, a new nation, new people, a chance at greatness. Don’t waste it thinking about an old nation like me.” he said, placing a quick kiss on each cheek, and though he knew it was a greeting here more than anything, he still felt a slight red blush come over his face, because it didn’t feel like that to him. With that, he slowly stepped away, adjusting the fabric on his neck before looking at him, blue eyes mirrored with an affection neither could quite place yet.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you for a while, Amerique. There’s war to be had with Austria again, and I cannot hide while my people are out there. You understand this quite well I’m sure.” he said, and indeed he did, but at the moment his throat seemed to have been sealed shut so that he could not say a word. “I hope the next time we meet is a happier one, n'est-ce pas?” he said, and he managed to say a quiet ‘yea’ as he walked out the door, disappearing from sight beyond the first bend, an air to his steps that showed that even in times of trouble, France was not to be underestimated.

It made him smile, seeing that determination Europe was quick to squash, and when he managed to earn back all that land in Louisiana and the Central and South Americas, it did not surprise him in the least. France might seem weak, but much like Northern Italy, sometimes the cover was a mere mask to hide the powerful contents inside. It made him wonder where he might be in the future, all those years from now. He could only hope he could be that great.

October 29, 1986.

America was recalling all of this with a wide range of emotions playing across his face, from the original worry to fear and anger to a quiet admiration, which is the current state France happened to walk in on after finishing his (sadly single) shower, the towel on his head instead of where one usually put a towel, as he was uncommonly comfortable with nakedness, which was a bit odd at first, but after so long it just became a fact of life for the American. “You seem thoughtful. Thinking about how wonderful last night was perhaps?” he teased, snapping him out of it and causing a slight blush to dust his face. He wasn’t thinking about it before, but he certainly was now.

“No France! Jeeze, not everyone is as sex obsessed as you are.” he accused, but he just shrugged as he went about choosing a suitable outfit, walking conveniently in front of his love’s line of sight, and he certainly noticed when his gaze lowered for a moment before quickly looking away, his blush even darker. A smirk of success graced his face, and he was tempted to really convince him to stay in, but where was the fun in that? He’d much rather tease him all day and make him take him back. It gave him confidence in his seduction skills.

Once France had decided upon a simple t-shirt and brown jacket combo and tan jeans,  which still made him look sexy as hell of course, and America had gotten showered and dressed in his casual bomber jacket, white shirt and jean outfit, plus scarfs and gloves to fight off the slight chill, they headed out, America taking a quick goodbye kiss that was so sweet France couldn’t help but smile at it.

The Frenchman half listened as he told him all about the amazing pancakes around here, staying close by his side to stay warm in the wind chill. He had to admit, this state of his was rather beautiful in the late fall, a bit cold for his liking, but definitely a nice place for a honeymoon. Not to mention it had some of the best wine he’d had in quite a while. Not many people were out and about in the relatively small town, and so he risked holding his hand as he walked close, and the soft smile and slight blush it earned was really rather cute.

They soon arrived at a simple cafe and coffee shop, though they were much more known for their hot cocoa, according to his partner, proven true when they walked in and the wonderful warm air and scent of melting chocolate hit him in the face. It was cozy, the light a soft yellow that seemed to give it a certain sense of home, children scampering around with mittened hands and trying to hit each other with the huge marshmallows from their hot cocoa cups, since they tasted like sheep fluff but were awesome projectiles. In fact France himself was almost hit by one of these flying gelatinous masses, until America quickly pulled him out of the way and ended up accidentally French dipping him, loe the irony.

“Uh..um hi there?” he said, not sure what exactly to say, and he was tempted to kiss him there, but although Colorado was pretty accepting, even back then, he didn’t fancy getting kicked out if they started making out, which would probably happen with him. He gently stood him back up and sent a slightly annoyed look the kids way, though it wasn’t really their fault, and so they grabbed their cups and ran out, picking up the sleds near the door and daring each other to go down Mace’s Hill while pelting each other with the remaining marshmallows.

The lady behind the counter just sighed and rolled her eyes, murmuring ‘kids these days’ under her breath before turning her attention to the couple. “Sorry about that. You guys want anything?” she asked, and after some suggestion from America they decided to share a plate of pancakes and have some of their famous cocoa, (minus the terrible marshmallows.)

They didn’t talk much as they ate, as America was a bit focussed on the food and France on looking out the window, wondering where all of the children seemed to be running too. “Where are they even going?” he asked, slightly surprising America, who gulped his bite of pancakes to answer.

“It’s called Mace’s Hill, named after the Confederate camp that was around here, pretty far flung and the wilderness wasn’t too kind to the men in it. The hill’s known for giving the kids around here tons of injuries, hence the name.” he clarified, a half nostalgia in his voice, for the hill or the battle, France wasn’t sure. “Broke my nose in both cases anyway.” he said with a bit of a shrug, though it had been rather unpleasant. It was strange how today seemed to be full of past memories for both of them, but then again, it was their anniversary, or rather, the day after.

France nodded and continued to look out the window as he reflected upon it, he was still just a child then really, and the feelings were perhaps more than a friend or mentor should have, indeed, it was an interesting time....

October 21, 1861.

This day was different from the others France had met with upon his arrival in New World, before and after the nation he was meeting’s soil had been claimed Alfred’s own, not in that the weather was too strange, not quite warm and yet not too cold either, nor even in a sense of chaos or darkness. In fact, for all a newcomer would know, in New York City, there wasn’t a war that would lead to the deaths of more Americans than the Revolution, World Wars I and II and Vietnam combined.

It was just normal on the docks, bustling merchants going around getting their wares and sailors gambling in dark corners, cigars in their mouths and everything from Spanish silver coins to hardtack passed back and forth, and the occasional high class individual distastefully ignoring them, an entourage of servants following them, reminding him of a certain Germanic nation he was not too fond of.

But he didn’t allow his thoughts to linger on Austria too long, much more interested in the state of his ally, and more importantly, friend, America. He’d kept a good eye on the young nation after selling him the Louisiana territory, and he was glad to see he was growing up to be quite a power, if a bit divided. He didn’t understand that little divide was much more of a big deal here, that in fact, it’d caused the bloodiest war in his history. And so he was blissfully unaware of the events that would happen later that very day as he briskly walked from the aforementioned docks to a small estate of America’s in Upper New York.

“Amerique, I’ve come to visit!” he said as he knocked on the simple oak door of said estate, slightly confused when he received no answer. Must be out, he thought to himself, humming slightly as he took a key from his pocket. He tended to spend most of his visits, personal and nation both, in this house, and so America had entrusted him a key in case of this particular happenstance, though it hadn’t occurred until today.

The foyer was a fairly narrow one, America had never been one to live too much in splendor, a trait he himself admired, though he could never quite shake his love for the high end and beautiful. He hung his coat on the rack and nodded politely at the one servant of the house, a middle aged crone who was scrubbing the floors with determination, muttering about blood being a pain to get out of wood. Perhaps that should’ve given him a hint that not everything was right, but today seemed too perfect for such things, and so he dismissed it as a sloppy butcher or perhaps America himself dragging some animal to the kitchen, to the annoyance of his single staff. It seemed like something the nation would do, from what he knew of him.

“The master’s in the study if you’ll be needing him, but I wouldn’t disturb him now. Poor lad just got back from Manassas.” she said, pointing to a room just down the hall and actually acknowledging the man’s existence. “Curse those damn greys and their audacity. Claiming secession from the Union, why they ought to be ashamed of themselves! Lincoln and our boys will put them in their place, right enough.” she assured him, giving a quick nod before going back to try and get that troublesome blood out of the carpet.

France thanked her for the information and walked around her to get to the door of his study, knocking once again. “America, it’s me, Francis. May I come in?” he said, using his human name as there were humans were around. He was common knowledge in his own nation, but he was never sure in other’s. After a moment, he received a quiet ‘yea.’, so different from his usual enthusiasm it somewhat unnerved him, but once again he brushed it off as he opened the door.

America sat at a Davenport style desk, with its many drawers, curved legs and distinctive slanted surface, a quill balanced between two fingers as he twirled it back and forth, looking down at some official looking documents, the nature of which France wasn’t certain. He looked a bit tired and worn, slight bags under his eyes and a slight frown on his face, though he smiled a little when he entered, but didn’t get up to greet him, another oddity he noted but didn’t really process. “Hey there France.” he said as the door closed behind him, placing down the quill and turning his attention fully to the European, covering up the papers with one arm.

“Bonjour, mon ami!” he said brightly, he was just in a bit of a slump, he reasoned. It happened to the best of them sometimes, humans and nations alike, and if he was nice perhaps his own mood would brighten. He never was one for a sad attitude anyway, indeed his sunshine mood was so constant it annoyed most of the others, but he didn’t mind it. You didn’t really appreciate warmth until you’ve felt cold, and in the same sense France took in that wonderful attitude and smile as long as he could until he lost it, as he always did. He had learned to savor the now.

“Have you redecorated? I don’t like it.” he teased, he was always hounding him on his almost haphazard style, a running joke between the two. “I knew you wouldn’t.” he said, cracking a bigger smile. “I picked out the curtains specifically for the purpose.” he said, pointing to awfully violet curtains behind him that did not suit this room at all, and France shook his head softly at that. “Oh America, I fear for your partner someday.” he said, trying not to think of how he might want to fit that role. He couldn’t quite accept those feelings, not yet. America just rolled his eyes a little. “I think I’ll manage.” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Anyway, you criticizing my style aside, you’ll want to get settled in I assume?” he said, though it wasn’t much of a question. “I just have to finish up these papers and we can go out or something. Seven Sisters just came back to New York, if that sounds good.” he said with a shrug, never having been one for theatre. France, taking this as a hint, said that sounded good and gave a quick goodbye before heading up to his room. (Technically it was the guest room, but he used it so often, he all but claimed it as his own.)

After unpacking and changing into fresh clothes, a simple dress shirt, jacket and brown slacks, he returned to the American’s office, seeing him signing and pouring over the documents before placing down the quill with a relieved sigh. “Thank God it’s over.” he muttered, looking over at him and his eyes looking over him in an appraising manner, and France felt a pang of wondering what if before brushing it away. He was just his friend, no matter how much he might secretly deny wishing otherwise, and that was ok. Sometimes, things can’t work that way, and this was one of them.

“Paperwork is a pain, n'est-ce pas?” he sympathized, and he nodded, rolling back his shoulders as he slowly stood up, wincing a little as he straightened his back. “Tell me about it dude. I need to get out of that office.” he said, and so France walked over, hooking their arms as he half dragged him to the door. “Well then, we have a play to see, a port city to explore, and England to secretly bash. Let us not wait another moment!” he said with passion, continuing to pull him along, even though he protested slightly. “Francis, you don’t know where anything is! I can walk for myself! Francis!” he shouted, and from the next room the maid laughed, finding the whole thing hilarious.

Eventually America managed to get control of his own limbs and led the two to the building they were hosting the play in, paying two dollars so they could get decent seats, and refusing the Frenchman’s attempts to help pay, he was his guest after all. They made their way to the balcony seat with muttered excuse mes and perdons as they cut through the crowd, finally arriving just as the lights were turned down and the focus shifted to the stage.

It was an Italian style sort of play, almost opera like, but the comedy part of the romance was distinctly American, and indeed France couldn’t help but laugh a little sometimes at the frankness of it. In Europe, theatre was supposed to be meaningful, literarily superior, and therefore hard to understand, and the change here was refreshing. They didn’t stand for bullshit and stuffiness here, this was America! They were something all their own.

Indeed, his gaze tended to shift from the play to the nation himself, admiring him in the darkness in a way he dare not in the light, imagining those smiling lips against his own, wondering what he looked like with a flush on his face. He’d grown up so fast and yet he still kept strong, he really was a hero, a founder of the new. He fascinated him, more than just the some of that muscled body and bright smile, no it was deeper than that attraction.

It was in the way his eyes crinkled around the edges, the wide eyed wonder he saw in the world, the constant hope in a seemingly hopeless world. America never treated him as a lesser, nor a better, but as an equal, and he afforded him that same respect. He was in love with him, he realized, more than just friends or brothers. He loved him with a passion he hadn’t felt since he shut his heart down, after the death of Joan. It scared him, but he knew it was useless to avoid it. Love was a bitch, and she knew it full well.

He was distracted from his newfound discovery by some rather loud noises from the next room over, not to mention.... crude. He, being the nation of love, both cared and gave not a care for who was sleeping with who, but in a theatre? That seemed a bit kinky, even for his tastes. He turned to ask what it was even about when he was interrupted by and embarrassed sounding America. “Prostitutes. They um, do...stuff up here.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking to the side, a furious blush on his face. “Found this out the hard way the first time I came here. I had to pay them to stop bothering me.” he said, and France found the simple innocence adorable. The knife wound of his affections twisted deeper with each second, and yet he didn’t mind the injury in the slightest.

Nevertheless the noise soon died out and the two focused on the play, and while it was easy to think France might be having an internal crisis about his feelings, he wasn’t really. He’d always had a certain affection for the boy, the fact that it was different from familial or friendship wasn’t too big a shift in his own mind. No, the true trouble lay in if he should tell America of them, but it seemed unfair to do so as soon as he’d had them. No he’d make it worth something, and if they weren’t returned, he would move on. But he couldn’t help but hope to himself...

When the play was finished, it was near noon, and so they decided to head to a nearby pub like restaurant, and since it was America he pushed back his biting remarks about English food, who still held some affection to the awful schlup. At least the American scones weren’t like burnt rocks, and the Shepherd's pie looked like it wasn’t made of the ashen remains of people, so he suffered through the event, having a nice conversation with the younger nation about anything and everything, random thoughts and notions mashed together, the ease of conversation between two good friends. It was nice, he thought, to have someone who’d listen, and he could only hope America felt the same about him.

They departed around two after picking up a bottle of wine from a liquor store, (America at least allowed him to pay for that, as it was high end and a bit costly, but he couldn’t help it, he loved his wine.)  The afternoon was pleasant enough, not enough to go on about, but certainly not bashable either, and they continued their thoughtless conversation, occasionally laughing and teasing each other. America did seem to have a strange sort of saunter in his walk the whole day, and he’d have thought it from sex but recalled that this was a man who bought prostitutes to stay away from him, who blushed at the mere thought of such activities, and not to mention, he doubted he’d be on that end of it, so he wondered what it might be.

His thoughts were once again cut short when America suddenly stopped talking and clutched his midsection, causing him to halt  and hurry back, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Alfred, are you feeling alright?” he asked, eyes wide with concern. Then he looked down at his abdomen itself and dropped his bottle of wine in shock, the glass shattering against the cobblestones, but he didn’t care right now.

He was bleeding, country wound it appeared, and from how quickly the red was staining his white shirt, he was guessing it was something bad. “A-Ah....” groaned America, his face scrunched up in pain as he sank to his knees, his eyes looking hazy and vision blurring. This freaked France out a bit, and he quickly moved to support the nation personification from falling, calling out to passerby, “Médecin! Quelqu'un appeler un médecin!”, his tone desperate, because back then there was no 911, no EMS, and though some part of him knew countries couldn’t die like this, it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried for his friend.

An errand boy nearby seemed to get the gist, even if he didn’t understand the words, and scampered off to the man down the road, and a few middle class men came to help, asking what happened and France unable to answer them. “ I don’t know, he just started bleeding!” he snapped, shocking himself, and they backed away a few feet, scared, ironically enough, of the Frenchman. “F-Francis...” came the weak voice, and he immediately turned his attention back to the American, who was looking up at him weakly. “I’m gonna be fine... I promise.” he said, coughing a little before continuing. “It’s just.. a flesh wound... I swear...” he trailed off, smiling slightly, but he knew that smile, it was fake and it meant he was really hurting, and that scared him more than anything else.

When the doctor arrived and some men helped move him to his office, France didn’t leave his side unless he had to, his blood still staining his hands and arms red, and he paced back and forth outside of his room as he was treated, peeking in as he was bandaged up and disinfected, and the whole place smelt of blood and death and chemicals, much like the hospitals of the future. Some things don’t change.

Eventually though they allowed him to see the young American, who was asleep, his face so placid and expressionless he looked almost dead, but the constant rising and falling of his chest told otherwise. He sat in the chair next to him and watched that, trying to make sure he hadn’t slipped away while he was blinking, and slowly taking a hand and interlocking it with his own. “Oh Amerique... I worry for you.” he said to the empty air, as if somehow he’d hear it. “I’ll be here, ça va? I’ll always be here.” he promised after a long silence, knowing he couldn’t help him with this, but at least he was a shoulder to cry on, and he could only hope that was enough. As the five years of that war passed he kept to it, holding him and fixing up his wounds, physical or otherwise, when he needed him to, and he never felt more sorry for him then he had then. Perhaps it was the cost of growing up so fast. He wondered if it was worth it.

October 29, 1986

America wondered what his lover was thinking about as he looked out the window, not seeming to stare at any one thing in particular, a disconnect with their current state of reality. But he wasn’t completely gone, since he kept lifting the cup to his lips and occasionally taking a cautious sip, and after a few moments he was back and smiling at him, but it seemed a bit different, more thoughtful, he supposed. “How did you break your nose the first time?” he asked, and America was happy to answer. “Well, it’s this long story, involving one drunken escapade, two secret couples and this Russian yak....” he said, diving into the tale, which while interesting, is something best saved for another time.

When they finished eating and America finished regaling said story, they headed back out, and being a hopeless romantic he was, the younger had decided to take him to a frozen lake so they could ice skate, even if he wasn’t that great at it himself, and generally avoided it after Mattie kicked his ass at hockey. They rented some skates and America slowly stood at the edge, staring down at the frozen water, while France effortlessly glided and twirled around. “Come on Amerique, the surface is sound!” he called out, holding back a laugh at how conflicted he looked as he did figure eights with ease. America, who hadn’t even thought about the fact he could actually fall in, was not reassured by this.

“Hey babe, why don’t I just... stay here?” he suggested, trying his best not to sound like a wimp. “Nonsense!” said France, skating over and taking him by the wrists, and since no one was around he kissed him nice and deep as he lead him onto the ice, letting go before skating away, leaving a shell shocked American staring at him. “Where’s the fun in that?” he said with a smirk, doing some fancy ballet-esqe moves America couldn’t describe normally, let alone after that. He realized after a few moments he was actually on the ice, and that he wasn’t a fallen and bruised  lump, and so he cautiously took a stride forward, and then another, and slowly he began shakily skating around.

“Hey honey, check me out!” he said, grinning wildly and slowly picking up the pace, feeling confident. France stopped his spinning for a moment to watch him, doing simple turns and seeming very satisfied with himself, slowly gaining speed. “That’s wonderful cher.” he praised, who was he to downplay this for him? He started going around in big circles, and ran into a rather glaring problem.

“France... I don’t know how to stop!” he said, this never having been a  problem in a narrow hockey rink, plus the fact he was being beat down by his brother. He was so focused on this fact that he didn’t notice he had stopped going in circles and was heading straight for the only actual snow bank,under some pine trees. “Amerique! Look out!” he warned, but it was a bit too late, and America fell face first into a giant pile of snow, arms flailing and saying something akin to agh!

France quickly skated over, coming to a halt right at the edge of the pond, looking somewhat worriedly down at the America lump, who after a moment, stuck his head out with a big pile of snow on his head and looking dazed, but not like anything was broken, which he was glad for. “Owwww.” he groaned, and France wasn’t sure why, but part of him couldn’t help but find the whole thing hilarious, and he just started laughing, a light, almost airy sort of thing that lit up his whole face, and he just could not stop, sitting down in the snow next to him, and bringing his face down to his knees, glancing over at him every once in a while and continuing to chuckle until he felt out of air.

“Hey! It wasn’t that funny!” said America, blushing red from something other that the cold and shaking the snow off his head, annoyed at his lover and embarrassed for himself. “Stop laughing, you French.... asshat!” he said, taking some of the nearby snow and packing it into a loose snowball and throwing it at his head, and he stopped laughing alright, one hand going up to find the snow in his (amazing) hair and his eyes narrowing. “Run.” he said, any pretense of affection dropped. This was war.

America figured this out too late, and after the Frenchman quickly switched back into his boots, he started pelting him with snowballs, and America had to hold out an arm to try and protect himself. He stopped when he changed into his own shoes, he had some courtesy of course, but from then on, America was doomed. He laughed as he ran as fast as he could, occasionally scooping up some snow of his own to make a weak counter attack, but mostly just running and trying to weave his way through the aspen trees around the lake, for which the town was known.

Eventually the Frenchman caught up with him, grabbing him by his coat and pinning him against the nearest tree, both of them panting and flushed somewhat, laughs lingering on their lips. America’s flush darkened when he thought of how suggestive this whole thing was, being pinned to a tree like this, France wasn’t too dominant a lot of the time, but when he was, it was hot as hell. Not that he’d ever say it out loud though.

Just as he was thinking this, he felt lips connect his own, cold and chapped but sweet as ever, and it was only by instinct he was able to kiss back, arms moving from their place at his side to wrap around him, content hums falling from his lips. A huge part of him wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky to be able to do this, he could have chosen anyone, but no, this beautiful, wonderful, slightly immature European nation had chosen him. And people wondered why he smiled so much.

Once the two finished their activities, (ahem making out), against a tree, the usual sappy I love you’s and je t'aime’s switched back and forth, they headed back to the town, too cold and worn out to bother retrieving the skates, not that either much cared. They ate a quick linner, (the meal dubbed between the hours of lunch and dinnertime), and then headed for home, deciding to just stay inside and watch a movie, and probably make out some more until neither remembered which one they’d chosen anyway.

Two mugs of cocoa were on the side table, and France’s head was resting on the other’s chest, much like this morning, reminding him of all the things they’d been through and all the things they could do in the future. Usually this happened on the day of, but they had barely had the time, what with all the wild love making they'd been making. But now, his mind was free to remember and wonder.

“Hey France?” he said, the other blonde looking up, blue eyes staring right at his, sky eyes, he recalled with a smile. “Oui, America? What is it?” he asked, shifting slightly so he could see him better. In the background, some new romantic comedy played, but neither was paying much attention to it. “I’ve been thinking.” he said simply, not knowing where to start. “Oh no, what a tragedy!” he teased lightly, smirking at him. “Yea yea, whatever. I just... was thinking about us and... you know.. everything that’s happened.” he admitted, his words moving from his lips like slow falling syrup. There was a pause, and then the Frenchman said, “I have as well.”

It was a bit of a surprise to him, even though he supposed it wasn’t that unpredictable. “So we’re both a bunch of sentimental saps?” said America, his smile growing, and France’s mirrored it. “I suppose so. But we’re sentimental saps who have great sex, non? Like say, right now.” he said, his eyes flicking over to the bedroom. America just sighed at the predictable words, France never completely changed. “Maybe. But you do realize I’ve always loved you right? Just got stronger and more.... well that.” he said, he was never good at just saying sex, a blushing virgin at heart.

“Of course. I’ve felt the same. You really are a hero Amerique. Strong, loyal, chivalrous, brave,” he said, his tone loving and true. “not to mention fantastic in bed.” he added, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little at that bluntness. “Thanks sugar. I’ve always thought you better at being a hero than me though. Without you, I don’t think I’d be nearly so awesome.” he said, never the best with words, but he tried for him.

“Well then, you better prove yourself wrong, hmm?” he said, kissing him softly as his hands moved to the collar of his button down shirt. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas comment prouver grand et fort que vous êtes?” he hummed, and America was finding it harder to resist those downright hungry looks he was giving him. “You are one sex crazed freak.” he said, pulling him up into a much deeper, different kind of kiss, the one that left him wondering where the oxygen in the world had gone. “But you’re mine.” he said, his tone downright possessive, like if anyone even tried anything, they’d be stuck face to face to a tall and pissed off America. Oh god it was hot as all hell.

“Bedroom?” France questioned as he kissed him again, hoping to return the favor of stealing his breath away, and he felt him shift a little underneath him and wrapped his arms around his waist, picking him up easily but not stopping kissing him, mouths open for the other to remap as they had so many times. It was a bit hard getting to the bedroom carrying France with him, but he managed as well as expected without falling, slamming the door behind them.