Hello! I wrote this as part of a FrUK gift exchange on tumblr and thought I'd share it on here as well. Enjoy!

Fandom: Hetalia

Pairing: France/England

Song the fic was written to: Elizabeth by Gary Schyman

Warnings: None

Note: Pour l'amour de dieu means "for the love of god" or "for goodness sake", and ferme la porte means "close the door". I included the French to signify that their conversation is in French because it's canon that France cannot speak English (out of choice) but due to my piss poor French it is written in English for convenience aha. This is set right before the start of the Seven Year's War in which England and France clashed over territorial claims in North America, and one of the triggers for the war was the English stealing a ton of French merchant ships, as well as the French building forts close to English-owned land.

A swaying ship, clear blue skies, polished floorboards and velvet drapes; this was their stage, and so began their repetitive and eternal performance.

It would always start and end the same - the sound of heel meeting floorboard in constant repetition, impatience and growing frustration, the ticking of a grandfather clock and the quiet resounding splash of waves hitting weathered wood. And so France would stand, arms crossed, staring with growing disdain at the closed door before him and, like always, England kept him waiting.

And waiting. And waiting.

Men moved around him, sparing him nothing more than an occasional sympathetic glance for they were trained to work and nothing more, and questions surrounding matters outside of their concern were, after all, outside of their concern. Harsh summer sunlight pounded down upon France's head and soon he was sweating - a disgusting human function he would rather much avoid - and tugging at silk cravats and shirt sleeves to allow some of the fresh sea air to cool him. And still he was left waiting, and he knew with absolute certainty that England was sat inside a cool shadowed room, grinning like the little bastard he was, counting down the seconds and minutes with building amusement and wondering how long it would take France to lose his temper.

It didn't take long.

"Pour l'amour de dieu!"

France's fist connected with the weather-hardened captain's door once, twice, three times and as the door opened to reveal the smug face of his… his friend? Enemy? Lover? Impertinent bastard would do, and the urge to connect his fist with England's face was resisted only by the desire to be somewhere shaded from the midday sun. And so he stepped into a room all velvet and darkened shadows, ageing maps and polished mahogany, and stood before him, hands on hips, was a man - no, not a man, for he was so much more and yet so much less than that - dressed in captain's finery; regal he seemed, all silk and gemstones and upturned disdainful expressions, but still there was an air of something… wild, something untamed and urging to break free of all this frivolous and unneeded pomp. It made him smile, despite the anger bubbling away beneath the surface, for if anyone was completely unsuited to the life of a bourgeois it was England.

"Ferme la porte."

As usual, the customary French - France refused to learn the butchery of a language that was English, and there was something rather… appealing about the way England's voice wrapped itself around the speech of his people - but still, he refused to move.

Then, a sigh. "Ferme la porte, s'il vous plait."

And so France shut the door rather more firmly than needed, and as England winced and threw a dirty glare his way he felt a smug smile work its way to his lips.

"Do you know how much that door cost?"

"Probably more than one should spend on a door, my dear friend."

"Oh shut it, the last thing I need right now is your sorry arse criticising me on how much I spend. Need I remind you whose room is gilded entirely in gold?"

"At least my expenditure results in something beautiful, unlike your… your…"

There was no word that could quite express it, so France settled for a disgusted expression and a wave of gloved hands. England sighed, loudly, rubbing his forehead with a pained grimace.

"Just sit down you old fool, I would very much love to sit here and bicker needlessly but unlike you I have a ship to run."

"I would have a ship to run if you hadn't stolen mine already, my dear, and before you say a single word: yes, I found out."

France's voice was laced with barely concealed fury and, knowing better than to rile him in such a mood, England quickly shut his open mouth, eyes narrowing, before turning around and sitting upon a nearby chair. France remained as he was, leaning against the door, arms folded and fingers digging into his skin as he regained his composure.

Resounding silence consumed the room and its inhabitants, clutching at heartstrings and leaving the tension-filled air thick and hard to breathe in, and even after centuries of fighting and bloodshed neither were quite used to this unexplainable feeling; it left their nerves frayed and bones aching, chests heaving and hearts racing, and it was both exciting and exhausting and neither were capable of solving things any other way. Snide insults and fists connecting with flesh came easier, it seemed, than curt and courteous conversation.

And so the performance continued.

"Do you continue to tell little Amérique that pirates are the ones stealing those ships? Though I guess he is not so little anymore, non?"

"Shut it frog, I didn't call you here to arg-"

"Then maybe you should think better of stealing merchant ships from someone you should know by now not to mess with."

Again, silence, for there was an edge to France's voice that England had not heard for a number of centuries and he both longed for and was frightened of it. So, for once, he did not argue back, which France resented for why keep the peace when, yet again, war was looming on the horizon over something as simple and human as greed.

"Playing nice does not suit you Angleterre. Tell me, why bother calling me here if not just to taunt me, hmm? Come to announce war already have you?"

"It seems you're already doing that yourself."

"Do not speak as if you are the innocent fool being accused of some wrongdoing you have not done you child -" That hit a nerve and France knew it would - "so please, cut the frivolity and tell me why I had to drag myself all the way to the New World to speak to you."

England had not realised how riled he had made him, how close France was to reaching for the gun at his hip or wrapping his silk-bound hands around his throat. He had seen him like this before, far far too often, but never this badly. Something else had happened, something far more significant than England stealing some merchant ships as a petty way to solve his boredom.

And, unbeknown to him, he had crossed a line and France was furious.

"I called you here to approve new trading treaties, though I would much rather throw your exports into the ocean for the fish than give it to my people. Still, money is money."

England smiled, all sunshine and roses and fake honesty, and France's eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"First you steal my ships, and then you have the nerve to tell me you called me all the way here to approve trading treaties?"

France's voice was laced with disgust and he would have spat if such a thing were not far beneath him. England's smile widened.

"Yes, unless you can't even understand your own language."

He was toeing a thin and dangerous line between petty insults and starting a war and he knew it. It was in his hands how this situation played out and that power delighted him, and he was tired of obeying the greying and ageing men sat at Parliament settling problem after problem with tiresome debate when violence solved it so much better.

He would regret it, that he knew, but he always regretted it in some form or another. War was never pleasant, but there was something about it that set part of him free and released him from the chains of tiring immortality, if only for a little while. Lying on bloodstained battlefields surrounded by death reminded him, almost painfully, that even if he would live to see the world change beyond comprehension he could still die.

He could still die.

And so France's building anger did not dissuade him and instead encouraged him; it fuelled the fires burning deep within his heart and he welcomed the bubbling heat of rage within his veins. America had calmed his nerves over the years but those days were over - no, that sweet little boy was gone and all that was left was the consuming rage spurned on by exclusion and snide insults and his brothers criticising this way and that and he was sick of it.

When their eyes met, emerald and sky blue, they felt a spark pass between them and oh it was enticing, and they both knew they had almost missed this in a way neither would willingly admit with words for how could mere words describe it? It was not pure hatred, at least not on England's part, for amongst the desire to yank out beautiful golden locks was the desire to hold it, gently, gold between his fingertips as he left burning kisses against flushed cheeks. But the anger was still there, burning quietly, and so he was left with the contradiction that was his love, and hatred, for Francis Bonnefoy.

France took a step forward, one two three and forthwith in quick succession, and as his fingers grabbed hold of England's shirt and brought his face close to his, eyes narrowed with barely abated fury, he was met with an anger that matched his own and eyes full of malicious intent and sardonic amusement. Between his fingertips was the great empire he had grown to long for and despise in equal measure, the half wild thing from ages past playing at world domination in clothes unsuited to him. This was not the nation he had first met, the scared little thing clutching at his shirt with wide eyes and a longing for quiet rolling hills and nights spent under bright starlight.

No, that child was gone and he was faced instead with someone strong, someone powerful, someone fragile and corrupt and beautiful in all his imperfect glory and, in a way, he adored him for it. It was in the power he held, flowing unabated from his heart to the tips of his fingertips. It was strength and might and grandeur, a feeling that consumed and destroyed and took everything for its own. It was in the cocky smirk, the way he walked with the slightest movement of his hips, the almost predatory gaze that left you pressed against a wall, teeth at your neck, hands with the power of an entire empire holding you down. And France enjoyed it - he felt a thrill and exhilaration from it, a sense of being completely and utterly dominated and left ruined at the bottom of a rocky cliff, and it left a flood of adrenaline pounding through his heart and veins until he felt so alive it was addictive.

Despite England's lows he still remained powerful, and that was something France had never had, and could never have, and, if only for a moment, the power flooding through his veins was far more pleasurable than the weakness that had sunk itself deep into his bones as of late.

And so France pulled away, lips pulling up into a smirk, anger fading into a form of amusement that England had come to both love and hate for it meant France had caught on that he was doing this on purpose, and there was power and purpose in France's eyes now, something that caught the light of the sun and left you breathless because this had gone far beyond petty bitterness now - it was a game where neither of them intended to lose and that, above all things, made the long arduous centuries worth living.

This was their performance, and they had lived it every day since they had first met to the dim and transient present; England desired violence, and France refused to give it to him. Thus every conversation and every interaction became tension-filled and part of an intricate battle of wills where winning and losing simply did not exist - there was only the game, and nothing else mattered.

England stands, as he always does, reaching forward and grabbing France's arm to whirl him around and face him, for a part of him cannot get rid of the idea that this means he's somehow inferior, somehow being looked down upon, and forever being the underdog has meant this was something England simply could not stand. And so France smiles, leaning closer, intoxicated by the power flooding through his veins and the way England's fingers tremble against his skin and as he leans in and leaves a gentle burning kiss against his most dear enemy's lips he knows he would have this no other way, this complicated corrupted confusing love affair that had lasted a millennia and would last a millennia more.

And as he turns and leaves, heels clicking against polished floorboards, England stands and watches from his shadowed lonely abode as France walks over the gangway and into the busy harbour, stares avidly as his hair catches the bright sunlight like spun gold by a roaring fire for he is beautiful, beautiful in a way that England can never be, and as his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest he does not know whether the emotion consuming him is jealousy or adoration.