Annual Christmas gift for queen-sheep. Her prompt this year was "Would you stop being so deliberately obtuse?"

Go to the very bottom to see dates and their significance, and translations for the French used.

Summary: England and France were once known as Albion and Gaul.

They did not understand each other even then, but that mattered little in the face of the warmth that their hands exuded when clasped tightly together.

Or: Love is a matter of trying, time and time again.

Characters: FrUk. AmeCan. France (Francis Bonnefoy), England (Arthur Kirkland), America (Alfred F. Jones), Canada (Matthew Williams).

September, 2013.

"L'Angleterre," Francis says.

Arthur spares him a glance, fleeting, then looks back to where Alfred and Matthew are sitting close together, talking quietly between themselves. Alfred's hunched over to hear Matthew's quiet whispers, and Matthew is curled into himself; they look like they're hiding something. Or are sharing an intimate moment.

He watches as Alfred leans closer, stupid cowlick brushing against Matthew's forehead. Matthew shifts back so that the previous distance between them is reestablished. Constantly, they are readjusting.

Alfred frowns, thick eyebrows drawn together in thought. He taps a finger against the table, other hand propping his chin up.

"Arthur," Francis says, putting a hand on Arthur's to still its tapping. "Mon ami."

"What?" Arthur finally snaps, feeling foul. He turns to see Francis properly.

Francis straightens in his seat. He looks impeccable, as usual. Not a strand of hair out of place. His expression, however, is tired. It is nothing like what Arthur expected to see.

Annoyed at this, Arthur crosses his arms. "No 'love is beautiful?' No 'love will prevail?'" He asks, snide, mouth thinning dangerously.

Francis' own mouth thins. His eyes look angry for a moment, then resigned. "We had our chance," he tells Arthur, ignoring the way Arthur flinches like he's been physically struck. "Let them have theirs."

—

April, 600 B.C.

England and France were once known as Albion and Gaul.

They did not understand each other even then, but that mattered little in the face of the warmth that their hands exuded when clasped tightly together.

—

June, 1580.

Alfred was tiny when Arthur first saw him. Tiny, but strong and vibrant; a miniature tornado of energy.

Arthur realises now that the boy is also insensitive and oddly perceptive.

It is a terrible, terrible combination.

Alfred kicks, sending a small wave of water Arthur's way. Arthur splutters, already regretting his decision to try and teach Alfred how to swim. The boy already knew, and is good enough to pester Arthur with hard hitting questions while doing it.

At least the water is cool, a good contrast to the way his body seemed to overheat in the sweltering sun whenever it was out.

"So?" Alfred says, trying to float in the water. He starts sinking almost straight away. "How come you and Francis always fight?" He gives Arthur an expectant look, eyes wide and bright, wet blonde hair plastered to his forehead.

He looks entirely too innocent, considering that he knew Arthur hated answering any question to do with France and was deliberately ignoring Arthur's discomfort.

Arthur sighs. Turning to stare at the shoreline, he takes in the towering trees swaying with the wind, their leaves a bright green that Arthur would not typically find in England. Every now and then, he thinks he sees a flicker of movement in the forest - wild animals sneaking around right under his nose.

The new world is startlingly vibrant and wild, just like his new charge.

And of course, Francis wants a piece of the land. The unwelcoming thought makes Arthur grimace at the tree line.

"Arthur," Alfred calls. It sounds like it wasn't the first time that he called for Arthur, which makes Arthur flush in guilty embarrassment for a moment before Alfred kicks up more water, splashing Arthur in the face yet again, as he adjusts himself so that he's treading water as well.

"Don't be a brat," Arthur says, automatic. He watches Alfred sulk by ducking half his face under the clear water with a deep crease between his eyebrows. He leaves the boy to it for a moment before opening his mouth again, amused enough by Alfred's actions but tiring of them quickly, patience wearing thin.

Arthur is, after all, terrible father, but a decent older brother.

"I don't like him," Arthur answers, which makes Alfred snort.

Alfred shakes his head, hair flying everywhere from the vehemence in which he carries out those actions. "Liar," he says. "You always make this face when someone mentions France."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Usually that is a bad thing," he replies. He flicks some water at Alfred's face, then swims a little bit away before the boy can acquire his retribution. The sun breaks through the cloud cover at that moment, sending the lake that they are swimming in into a dazzling natural display. The water shimmers, blinding Arthur for a moment before his eyes readjust to the increase in light.

Alfred finishes his angry spluttering, not even noticing the sun. "You're trying to distract me!" He accuses.

"It's not that hard," Arthur retorts.

Alfred opens his mouth as if to refute that, but closes it as he thinks, nose wrinkled. He switches tact, taking to whining to get what he wants. Like a spoiled brat, Arthur thinks with more fondness than it deserves. "Can't you be honest about this? I really would like to know, and you'd hit me if I ask another person."

Arthur considers this for a moment.

"I suppose you're right," he admits. "Okay, we fight a lot because we always have. We just don't get along."

Alfred tilts his head. "Then why do you make that face? The sad one."

Arthur is silent for a moment, contemplating it. Insensitive and oddly perceptive: such a terrible combination.

"There's a lot of history between us," he says finally, quiet. Then, louder, "Maybe if you actually paid attention during your lessons you would know!"

Alfred scoffs, beginning to swim laps around Arthur, who stays in place treading water. He feels a bit like a shark is circling him.

Arthur eyes his young charge with a mixture of amusement and fond exasperation. Of course Alfred would be restless even now, in the wild forests just outside of their residence. Of course.

"It's not like you learn anything from them," he hears Alfred grumble, which. Maybe. Maybe not.

—-

May, 1431.

"L'Angleterre," Francis says, voice breaking. His hair is a tangled mess, covered in dirt like the rest of his body; sunny yellow stained to dirty gold. Arthur does not dare look Francis in the eye for fear of what he would find there.

"France," Arthur manages. He blinks back tears and chokes on his own apologies, distinctly aware of their watchers. Arthur and his royal guard, Francis and a few men from his forces. They're standing a ways away from Francis and Arthur to give them the illusion of privacy. They do not know what, exactly, Francis or Arthur are. Just that they are important to their leaders, and that this discussion must happen one way or another.

That this discussion must happen because the people who carry the mantles of France and England want it, instead of the countries or even leaders willing it is neither here nor there.

Francis lets out an unsteady breath and gives him a watery smile. "If I had known, I would have asked her to stop."

Arthur shakes his head, laughing a bit. He sounds more hysteric than amused. "Joan of Arc? Stop?"

Francis' smile tightens. "Jehanne. Her name was Jehanne," he says, taking a step closer to Arthur, mud squelching beneath his boot. Behind him, Arthur feels more than hears his guards shuffling in place, anxious from the proximity between then.

Francis takes another step closer, voice rising. "Her name was Jehanne. She was born in Domrémy, she was nineteen when she was killed, and I loved her."

He stops his advance, standing so close to Arthur that his feet bracket Arthur's right foot.

It is strange, seeing Francis so close. Francis is taller than Arthur, so when he bends down to speak to Arthur his hair falls into his eyes, which are blue, blue, blue. Arthur does not back away, lost like Icarus was to the sun.

"I loved her like I love you." Francis says quietly, a bit tenderly.

Francis looks at him sadly. "Not enough to withstand nations, I suppose."

Arthur does not know whether he speaks of Joan, or of Arthur. He does not ask, but feels much like he would spiral down regardless of the answer.

—

February, 1327.

"I love you," Arthur tells Francis.

—

June, 2012.

"Iggy," Alfred chirps, giving Arthur a bright smile.

Arthur blinks, looking up from his papers. The G20 meeting had just been adjourned.

"Alfred," Arthur says back, a touch mocking. Alfred grins good naturedly.

"Did you write notes on the Los Cabos Growth and Job Action Plan?" He asks, flopping into the vacant seat next to Arthur. He leans back straight away, looking a moment away from kicking his feet up and placing them, dirty shoes and all, on the heavy oak table that the nations sat around for the meeting.

Arthur rolls his eyes, shying away from the foot that Arthur had decided was better used for nudging Arthur. "Yes, unlike some lazy people."

Alfred squawks in protest. "I'm not lazy! I was just - distracted." He says the last part quickly, words mumbled together. Arthur is immediately suspicious.

He narrows his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows as he watches Alfred chew on his bottom lip.

There's a light blush on his face that is definitely not from the warmth of the meeting room.

"All right, what did you do?"

Alfred splutters, "What? Nothing!"

"Then what was so distracting, hm?" Arthur presses. He quirks an eyebrow in amusement when Alfred crosses his arms defensively, brown leather of his bomber jacket crinkling faintly.

Alfred scowls. "Okay, fine," he says, then leans in as if he's sharing a secret. Maybe it is.

"I was looking at Mattie," Alfred mutters, cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

"Oh," Arthur says.

—

December, 1775.

"He's beautiful," Alfred sighs, like the true lovestruck young man he is.

Then, "He hates me," Alfred whines, face scrunching into a pout faster than Arthur can say 'Lord help me.'

He says it anyway.

Alfred gives Arthur an affronted look, turning where he's seated on the grassy hill to throw snow in Arthur's direction in an act of petulance.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "What in the world gave you the idea he hates you?" He asks, thinking back to last Christmas, when Matthew blushed prettily as Alfred swept him around the living room, waltzing his way into Matthew's heart. Matthew still gets this far-away look when Arthur mentions Alfred, though now it is often tinged with concern and a bit of angry grief.

He brushes off the snow from his clothes. "You're a handsome enough bloke, I guess." He comforts Alfred, or at least attempts to.

Alfred snorts, shrugging, then pushes up his glasses. In the late afternoon, the eyewear reflects the glare of the setting winter sun. Alfred's whole being seems to soak in the sunlight and reflect it back in some way tangible; his blonde hair is golden in the sunlight, and his skin looks dusty, like he's of the earth. Wheat fields in the summer personified, unbothered by the cool temperatures of winter.

It is not too far off the mark.

"Matthew only speaks French to me," Alfred mutters. He's look down at his hands, which are drawing befuddling shapes into the snow. His hands and clothes are powdered with snow, which will melt and get him sick if he doesn't dry up properly soon. Looking at him, Arthur sees more resemblance with a country boy dressed in military uniform than the young soldier he is, unsure and nervous as he uncharacteristically is.

It's a reminder of how young Alfred is, how young the thirteen colonies - the United States of America - is. Soon enough he'll learn not to have such obvious nervous habits.

For now, Alfred is young. Young and in love: the best or worst combination for a young, powerful nation, depending on who one asked. He could get away with a few things for now.

"He doesn't hate you," Arthur reassures him, feeling a bit ridiculous. He pauses, looking at Alfred seriously. "Though if you keep pushing him he might try to kill you a little bit."

Alfred laughs nervously. "We'll just have to see," he replies, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

Arthur supposes that is the best Alfred can promise of the United States of America.

He switches topics. "Will you be visiting for the holidays?" He asks, looking at Alfred hopefully.

Alfred grimaces, guilt on his face. "Sorry," he says. Arthur can already guess what he'll say next, but he does not interrupt. "The men won't appreciate me visiting a red coat for the holidays, you know?"

"But I - I've got something for Matthew. Could you give it to him?" Alfred reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a letter, crinkled and flecked with something red in the very corner, hard to make out. It is either blood or the red ink that Alfred used to address the letter.

Boy is learning, Arthur thought with approval. Others would not be able to tell that the red is actually blood. Maybe Matthew would worry less if he cannot see evidence of the effects of this little war.

"Oh, all right," Arthur says. "But only just this once. I'm not going to be your personal messenger for all your love letters."

Alfred blushes bright red, but does not deny it.

Arthur decides to be tactful and does not comment.

—

October, 2013.

Arthur pulls aside Alfred during the break in the UN meeting, face pinched with worry. Alfred is confused, but follows him to the corner of the room willingly, a steady stream of chatter that would be annoying in other circumstances soothing Arthur's nerves.

Arthur knows that he is possibly the worst person to talk about this with Alfred, but he raised him, both him and Matthew, and he still cares about what happens to them.

"I know that you and Canada are together," Arthur says, cutting off Alfred.

Alfred blinks, mouth closing shut with a click. He shuffles awkwardly before clearing his throat. "Er, yeah? We were trying to keep it, uh, private for now. You know how the other nations talk."

Arthur is tempted to roll his eyes, but doesn't. Instead, he continues. "Alfred, I know that you two care for each other but - this is. You know this is - it's a terrible idea."

The personification of the United States of America blinks slowly, not understanding.

"America. Dating other countries is all swell, so long as you don't fall in love. But you and Canada - you two look like you're in love." Arthur says. "England is an old nation. I've seen two nations fall in love together, then violently fall out of love time and time again."

I do not want to see you two go through that, he does not say.

He watches Alfred's eyes light up as he finally got what Arthur was trying to get at. "Iggy," he says, face and tone uncharacteristically serious. "It's fine. We got this."

Arthur purses his lips. "Alfred." He says. "I want you two to be happy. Truly. But I don't want to see either of you get hurt because your governments have a disagreement or something worse."

Alfred shakes his head. "No, listen, I've got this." And then he looks over to where Matthew is talking quietly in French with Francis. "We've got this," he corrects, face tender. He turns back to Arthur, standing his full height, which is taller than Arthur, and stares into Arthur's eyes challengingly.

Arthur bristles.

"I'm not saying that you shouldn't - goodness knows you to should be happy, but you need to know this could end very badly. It's already ended badly between you two - don't tell me those burn marks you gave each other have already healed." Arthur says hotly, face scrunched up angrily.

Alfred swallows, looking away. Arthur unfortunately does not even get the satisfaction of pride at having made Alfred back down first, too worried to truly enjoy it.

"No. They haven't." Alfred reveals, a touch self conscious when he superstitiously pats his chest. "And we're aware of how it can end. But - Arthur, we're not kids anymore."

"I know you're not!" Arthur exclaims. The others still in the room waiting for the meeting to begin again glance at their corner in surprise, a little fear. A superpower and an old power fighting is never a good sign, but they're not their nations right now - they're the people. Not America and England, but rather Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland.

In his periphery, he sees Matthew looks over to them, face concerned. Matthew opens his mouth as if to say something, head tilted slightly to the side. Arthur watches Alfred turn to Matthew with a smile and shake his head. Watches Matthew hesitate, then nod and turn back to Francis.

The other nations eventually go back to their own conversations, the noise rising again.

Alfred is still looking at Matthew when he next speaks. "We're also not just nations." He says, eyes softer than Arthur remembers seeing them for a long time. "And maybe - maybe even if our duties come into conflict, I think we can work it out."

He turns back to Arthur, and Arthur sees quiet confidence that Arthur usually associates with Matthew in the set of Alfred's shoulders. "We know this can end badly, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

Arthur shakes his head in despair, but also awe at the kind of courage they both had. "A lot of people have tried, and that ended terribly. A lot of people haven't because they can guess how it'll end. What makes you so sure that nothing bad will happen?"

Even as he says it, he regrets it. But he remembers of a time long ago, and he does not want it to be repeated.

Alfred smiles, the twist of his mouth a bit bitter. "I know something bad will happen. That's the way the world works, right? Not a kid, Iggy." But then he pauses, as if he's thinking. "We both know, I think. But I also think that maybe - maybe we love each other enough to try, anyway."

And that's. Arthur can't really say anything to that.

—

November, 1764.

Mathieu is the boy's name. Arthur immediately begins to call him Matthew, in and outside of his head.

He speaks little English and, sometimes, when Arthur scolds him for falling back onto his French, he speaks strange languages that Arthur hears the Indians use. Arthur is not sure whether the boy is cursing him or not.

Matthew reminds Arthur much of Francis when he first becomes a British colony.

Alfred and Arthur are outside, somewhere between the thirteen colonies and the new British colonies to the North. Arthur is introducing Matthew to Alfred for the first time.

The carriage ride took far too long, thanks to the snow on the roads, and Arthur is almost thankful that the carriage could take them no further into the town if it meant he could walk and possibly warm himself up through the exercise. The interior of the carriage was freezing; he thought he was going to lose his bum to frostbite.

The winter months in the new world are always frigid and treacherous, for all they were beautiful, he muses.

Arthur pulls his coat around him tighter, carefully negotiating his way through the snowy street. Despite the good amount of snow piled everywhere, the town is bustling full of people. He has to keep a tight hold on Alfred's shoulder lest they be separated.

The house that Arthur picked for Matthew to reside in is just down the street, not even a ten minute walk from the town centre, but the slippery roads make the walk seem incredibly long.

"So what's Matthew like?" Alfred asks, patiently steadying Arthur when he slips for the seventh time.

Arthur thinks about it. "You'll see for yourself soon enough," he settles for, ignoring Alfred's groan of annoyance.

"And you better be on your best behaviour, you hear?" Arthur continues, trudging through the snow to open the wooden gate of Matthew's small townhouse residence, grimacing at the loud squeak the hinges make as they move. They begin sloshing their way to the front door.

"He only recently became a British colony. He doesn't use much English yet," he says. He stops halfway up the path to give Alfred a piercing look. "Understand?"

Alfred waves a hand dismissively, pushing past Arthur. "I do have manners, Arthur."

Arthur is tempted to tell him he only thinks that, but shakes his head in exasperation instead.

They make their way to the front door in silence, aside from the crunch of snow beneath their feet. It's a solid wooden door, perfect for the English architecture of the house, and the brass knocker that adorns the door is simple, but polished, Arthur notes with satisfaction. Matthew was taking good care of the house while Arthur was away, it seems.

He uses the knocker, waits, and is unpleasantly surprised by who opens the door.

"France?" Arthur hisses, shoulders tensing. Beside him, Alfred straightens, eyeing the Frenchman with suspicion.

Francis looks impeccable, or would if it were not for the purple bruises underneath his eyes. His suit is carefully put together, scarf tucked neatly into his coat. Even his white gloves look pristine.

Arthur feels underdressed next to him, incredibly aware of the fraying ends of his coat sleeves.

"Francis, actually," Francis corrects, accent irritatingly thick. "I am allowed to visit Mathieu, L'Angleterre,"

"Arthur," Arthur corrects, ignoring Alfred's incredulous look. "Since we're both here as ourselves, and not our countries. And of course you can visit Matthew."

Francis nods, jerky. "I was just about to leave. Please, come in, Mathieu is waiting for you. I expect he is making tea now."

Arthur swallows. "Right," he says, motioning for Alfred to get inside when Francis moves out of the way. Alfred does after a moment where he stares between Arthur and Francis, then gives Arthur a look that told him that they would be speaking about this later.

Warily, he exchanges places with Francis: Francis now stands on the doorstep while Arthur stupidly holds the door open, letting out all the warmth as he stares at the back of Francis' head, who is now taking the few steps down the porch.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," he calls, unable to help himself.

Francis looks back at him, face unreadable. "We tried, did we not?" He says finally. "That is all that matters."

It isn't all that matters, but Arthur does not tell him that, just as he does not tell Francis that he loves him all the same, second disastrous try at a relationship or not.

—

February, 1327.

"You always did have terrible timing," Francis replies, but he's grinning.

—

November, 2014.

Alfred presses a kiss onto Matthew's forehead before he runs out of the meeting room, late for an appointment. The other nations that that attended the G20 meeting and decided to stick around afterwards watch in amusement as the American tears out of the room.

Matthew blushes bright red as he studiously ignores the stares from the other nations that caught the kiss. He packs his bag slowly, looking deep in thought. By his feet, Kuma-something paws at the ground. He looks more energetic than usual. A bit fatter.

Arthur smiles despite his reservations about their relationship. Beside him, Francis laughs quietly.

"They're doing well," he murmurs. Arthur nods.

They are. And even though Arthur still thinks it's a bad idea to have a relationship with another nation you were in close contact, he's glad. He supposes that they really do love each other enough to try.

It is… terrifying and exhilarating to realise that they managed to do it. Have a healthy, happy relationship. Not that he wants their relationship to fail - he just always thought it would be impossible to do.

But he'd based that assumption on his own failures. Alfred, for all his similarities, is not Arthur, and Matthew is not Francis.

And now Arthur isn't who he used to be, and neither is Francis. It gives Arthur courage.

"Do you ever think," Arthur starts, hesitant. In the corner of his eye he sees Francis turn to look at him, but Arthur knows himself. He'll lose all his bravery once he looks into Francis' eyes. So he keeps staring straight ahead as he continues, seeing but not really registering Matthew give an odd look for staring.

"Do you ever think about starting over?" Arthur asks. "About trying one more time?"

Francis is completely still, completely silent. Helplessly, Arthur finally looks at him, and gets lost in Francis' surprised blue eyes immediately, his throat closing up.

"Another relationship between you and I?" Francis asks delicately.

Arthur nods jerkily, eyeing the bob of Francis' Adam's apple when he swallows.

"Yes," Francis croaks out. "Yes, but I never thought - never thought of it seriously."

He pauses as if he knows his words had pained Arthur.

"Give me time." He says, clasping a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "And I shall have your answer."

It's more than Arthur had hoped, at any rate.

—

November, 2014.

Two weeks later, Francis texts Arthur.

Dinner? the text says.

Sure, Arthur texts back, pretending not to notice the fine tremble in his hands.

—

August, 1800.

Matthew grabs Alfred's had as they walk through an empty street in York, early enough in the morning that few people are out, if at all.

Arthur pretends not to notice.

—

December, 2014.

Francis opens the door and smiles. "Mon ami," he says, pulling Arthur into his home by the wrist. "Come in - how are you? Dinner is almost ready."

Arthur smiles nervously. "Good. I'm good." He says, taking off his coat. He lets Francis take his coat to hang it as he toes off his shoes.

He feels overdressed next to Francis, dressed in his khaki pants, white dress shirt and 'old man' cardigan. Francis is wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt, his hair pulled up in a sloppy ponytail and his feet bare, toes pale against the dark wood of the floor.

He's beautiful.

"Have you thought about it?" Arthur finds himself asking. "What I talked about last meeting?"

Francis stills for a moment from putting Arthur's black coat on the antique coat stand by his front door. He slowly brings his hands down, fiddling with the fabric. Arthur gets nervous.

Well, more nervous than he already is.

"It's completely fine if you want more time, I'd understand that - and if you've already decided that's completely fine as well. I won't push you to change your answer, promise," he babbles, only quieting down when Francis finally turns and puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

"Arthur," he says firmly. "Arthur, I had thought that I was being obvious enough that your sensibilities would not be offended," he waves a hand around the house as if to encompass the entire house; the smell of dinner wafting into the hallway from the kitchen, the untidy pile of shoes by the door, Arthur.

"But you are entirely oblivious, it seems." Francis continues in fond bewilderment.

Arthur frowns, because that's not entirely fair. He had a feeling, but he wasn't certain. Perhaps that was the problem the last times they tried - communication problems compounded by their belief that the other would understand the small things as well as they'd hoped, and getting mad when the other didn't.

Francis shakes his head, then smiles as his hands slide down Arthur's arms to hold his hands. Arthur's hands are cold from the frigid air outside, but they warm quickly in Francis' hands.

"Yes," he says, "the answer is yes, "mon cheri."

His smile grows wider, and Francis looks more like the roguish young man he used to be and, on occasion, still is. "Third time's the charm, no?"

Arthur smiles and tightens his grip.

—

Unknown.

It started like this:

"Would you stop being so deliberately obtuse?" Arthur demands.

Francis' eyes widen in surprise before closing as Arthur finally, finally kisses him.

Translations:
L'Anlgeterre - England
Mon ami - my friend
Mon cheri - term of affection; my sweetheart, my dear, etc.

ORDER OF EVENTS AND THEIR SIGNIFICANCE (in order of appearance):
September, 2013 - G20 summit in St. Petersburg
April, 600 B.C. - Bronze Age in Europe. Spring, commonly symbolizing new life, and thus, new beginnings.
June, 1580 - Years after English colonisation in North America began, French colonisation, mainly in Canada, is just starting up. This is why Arthur thinks that France 'wants a piece of the land.'
May, 1431 - During the Hundred Years War. Joan of Arc is burned at the stake. Jehanne is the old French way of spelling her name, the modern equivalent being Jeanne.
February, 1327 - Ten years before the Hundred Years War is stated to have officially began.
June, 2012 - G20 summit in Los Cabos. The Los Cabos Growth and Job Action Plan was actually a topic of discussion during that summit, which you can find documents for here: www. .
December, 1775 - Before the Battle of Quèbec in 1775 (the Battle that stopped the American Continental Army from taking Québec city). During the American Revolution.
October, 2013 - UN meeting on international migration and development in New York.
November, 1764 - A year after control of Canada was handed over to England from France in the 1763 Treaty of Paris.
February, 1327 - Ten years before the Hundred Years War. In reply to Arthur's "I love you."
November, 2014 - G20 summit in Brisbane.
August, 1800 - Twelve years before the War of 1812.
December, 2014 - Present time.

Go to my tumblr to see the references I used for this story.