Throughout history

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, I just own an unhealthy devotion to France as a nation and its history. English is not my mother language and neither is French, any constructive criticism is appreciated. Special thanks to Stars of Yaoi/Lacertae who kindly did the beta reading for this story despite how annoying I can be

Warnings: France is going to speak random French because… well, he's France

Starting at Bouvines. 1214

It had all begun during that blasted change of millennium. Or so England wanted to believe, so not to admit that everything had been a natural progression of things from the very first day they had met. A progression so natural that neither of them could actually pinpoint a real starting moment. That was why England had appointed the passage of millennium as the cause, just because he needed something to blame and usually such a thing worked quite well for plenty of people for all kinds of reasons, so: why couldn't it work for him?

After all, it had been their first proper attempt at cohabitation, a cohabitation England had accepted to stop France's whining and his cries out of fear of the unknown. Still, the panicked words France had spoken to him had kept running through his mind for quite some time, both during their cohabitation and even after he had finally ejected the French nation out of his borders – with love, of course.

"It's all I've ever wanted, to have you!" The bloody Frenchman had blurted out amongst his whines. England had frozen up and docilely capitulated. And no acceptance of anything else had been better, despite the facts that France kept molesting him as always and that they had kept quarrelling on a regular basis, even after the Normans had actually conquered Britannia.

It was during that time that England's heart stopped for the first time in his chest while France was smiling at him as he served him dinner, all the while blabbing about how England had to learn how to cook it properly if he wished to grow up beautiful and strong like him.

It hadn't been the first time his heart had stopped seeing France smiling at him, far from it, but usually the gratuitous insults that followed had always managed to make him come back to his senses. That had been the first where not even those had made him stop staring transfixed at France. And France had noticed it, apparently, had blushed a deep scarlet and finished serving the meal quickly to England before going back to his seat and digging into his own.

Before things could get worse, England had freed himself from France's dominion. And had grown up.

And things had started going to hell ever since.

France's teasing kept making his head spin, his smile froze him on the spot, and all his carefree joy went straight to England's nerves. Especially since each and every time they were at war against one another England was the one who fell, both literally and metaphorically.

Except a few times England had caught France staring at him and blushing, France just seemed as ethereal as he had always been, no different from his fairy friends and even less predictable. At the end of the battle of Bouvines, while their armies fought on the battlefield, they had escaped the proper battle to bicker with one another in private far from their sovereigns' eyes on the top of a nearby hill. As England lost his balance and France reached out for him, they ended up rolling down the slope. When they eventually reached the foot of the hill, France was atop England, grinning childishly at him, as if all of it had been a game and not a cruel battle to own the other.

"I win, England." France sniggered as he opened his blue eyes to stare down at his friend. Their intensity made England actually feel the truth of those words in all the possible meanings.

Some locks of hair slipped from behind France's ears, framing his chiselled features, their shadow over his eyes making them shine more than usual, coupled with his dishevelled appearance.

England gave up fighting and just closed his eyes, accepting the defeat and surrendering to the mood. True to what his expectations had been, France bent over him to kiss him chastely on his lips. England answered back automatically, and then their hands began touching and exploring each other's body, craving to know as much as they could in the briefest time possible. Eventually England's hands found their way through France's soft hair and their kiss grew even more intense.

France begged to deepen the kiss and England offered no resistance, opening his mouth to his childhood friend almost immediately. France was not as confident or greedy as one would expect from a kiss stolen during a history-changing battle –he teased England's tongue with his own uncertainly, testing, seeking more confirmation from his friend that he was alright with it.

Nevertheless, it frustrated England to no end. Therefore, the island nation tugged France's body even more against his own and, with a firm grip on France's hair he kept his head in place as he took control of the kiss, forcing his friend to answer his passion with the same desperation he was feeling.

It soon became a war of tongues, fighting for dominance. France took care to change the rhythm frequently, sometimes separating their lips long enough to leave a more chaste kiss on the tip of England's tongue or on his shining red lips, making his friend soon losing focus of everything else around them, so swayed he was by the continuous changes and the increasing pleasure and expectations that were building inside his body.

Whenever France interrupted the teasing to deepen the kiss even more, England couldn't help but moan in surprise, his soft gasps of pleasure answered with France's barely contained growls.

Only when they heard the cries of the battle dying down in the distance and the sound of the French general voice calling out their victory, did they decide to part. France exhaled deeply and rested his forehead against England's one, looking serious for the first time since they had met.

"I will never stop wanting you," France murmured, seemingly saddened by the admission of his own feelings. "In every way possible."

"Then we have a problem," England answered in the same tone, his body still tingling with a sensation that he could only call lust, despite it being his first time feeling it so strongly. "Because I will never stop wanting you too… In every way possible."

France chuckled at England's words and then his face fell as he reached out with one hand to stroke his friend's cheek.

"This really is a problem… you are worth turning Europe and the whole world into a battlefield, mon cher," France whispered seductively in his ear, then his lips ran down the length of England's neck, making him melt even more under his ministrations.

"Likewise," England moaned back, as they resumed touching and kissing whatever piece of flesh they could reach with their lips, uncaring of the calls for both of them from their generals coming from the battlefield.

They broke apart hastily only when they felt steps approaching from the other side of the hill or rather France had felt them, considering that they were on French soil and not much could happen without the French nation's knowledge. This, at least, when he let himself focus on his surroundings, something that rarely happened.

They only had enough time to conceal their growing erections the best they could and start their way back up the hill before they met the angry French King, still barded for battle.

"Bonjour, Philip," France greeted, pretending complete innocence.

King Philip II took a good look at his nation and then at England.

"Is it in my best interest knowing what you two have been doing?"

"To each their own battle, mon ami. You won yours, I won mine," France explained shortly. His words seemed to be enough for the French king, who simply nodded as they began walking back up the hill, taking care to keep England between himself and his nation.

"Captives will be brought to Paris, I plan quite the show off," King Philip took his chance to explain to France. "What do you plan to do with him? England in chains might be the peak of our performance."

England, shocked, turned towards the French king, feeling for the first time in his life as if he was in serious danger. Nevertheless, a friendly hand fell on his shoulder, ready to calm him down.

"You can't expose him as England, you know it's not permitted. Having him amongst the prisoners at the parade won't make anything better," France countered seriously. "We'll bring him to Paris, and then we'll contract with King John his release, along with the one of the most notable prisoners we have captured."

"You're no fun at all," King Philip answered back before starting a long rant against the Holy Roman Empire that France nor England followed at all.

Once he was secured inside France's tent and they were once again alone, England eventually let out the breath he hadn't even known he was holding.

"Thanks for saving me from that shame," England offered his friend. "But you should have accepted your king decision. I completely lost and barbaric parades are your forte."

"You speak about barbaric practices." France chuckled as he changed from his armour to one of his loose and soft tunics. The style had changed over the course of those last few years, but France still looked damn good in them, and in anything longer than the waistline, be it shirts or dresses.

What was worse, in England's opinion, was that they both had grown in the last few years: France didn't look like a girl anymore – not much, at least – and England's boyish features had hardened just enough to make him look more a teenager than a child. He was still smaller than France was but the difference in their height had shortened considerably despite the French nation's own growth.

What still bothered England, on a matter of physique, was how he was now strong enough to be a real challenge to France, but no matter how much he had trained, his body kept itself slender and thin, making him feel not much of a threat to his nemesis.

His nemesis, who had grown in these years some biceps and hard muscles he couldn't help noticing while he changed. England could barely stop the urge to test with his hands how those hard muscles felt under those comfortable-looking clothes.

"This battle changes everything, mon cher," France continued, unaware of England's stare on him as he freed his hair from beneath his tunic, making them fall gently over his shoulders. "We will have time to hurt one another properly in the future. We don't want to ruin that kind of fun before it begins."

England realised that while what France had said made no sense, he still understood the meaning of his friend's words. Maybe he was the only one who could understand that, because he felt the same. Now that England was an adult and had proven to be a potential asset to anyone willing to oppose France, things were bound to get ugly. Still, they were not their armies or their sovereigns. What their people wanted and felt fuelled their emotions and changed their way of feeling, but they were not that either.

They had to live through the palpable tensions rising between their people, even when those tensions translated into something sexual for them. Even when they had known one another for a lifetime and they could still call each other friends. Even though England could certainly name what he felt for France with a different word.

They were nations, but the way they went about their feelings and the ones of their people was still quite human.

"If a nation feels too strongly for something, it might be its downfall," England told France eventually, earning his friend's sad stare.

"Then ruin me next time, England," France answered him, closing the space between them. "Because I hope to ruin you just as much."

France cupped his neighbour's chin with his hands to bring their lips together once again in a sweet and gentle kiss, one he didn't have the courage to deepen.

He soon broke it and stared back into England's eyes, looking unsure of himself in a way that seemed almost unnatural considering how France used to be normally. He swallowed and kissed England once again chastely on his lips, as if he was attempting to regain the courage he had lost.

"Je t'aime, Angleterre," France whispered against his lips eventually, staring at his friend with a desperation and a seriousness England was unused to see on France's face.

England stared back at him, his green eyes growing larger in surprise. If this was what losing brought him, then losing didn't sound so bad. He had done everything he could to get France's attention and by losing he thought he had been diminished in France's eyes.

Apparently, he had just been an idiot. An idiot like France was, however, since he was still staring back at him, as if he feared some kind of rejection. As if any smart person in this world could even conceive the idea to refuse France, men, women or nations alike. Refusing fair France was a notion unknown to the world, at least in England's opinion.

"I love you too, idiot," England answered back, feeling on his own lips the ghost of France's smile right before the French nation kissed him again.

The kiss became quickly more intense this time as England parted his lips for France almost immediately and their tongues met once again in a maddening dance. Finally, England could give into his deepest desire and touch France freely, enjoying the contrast between France's strong and muscular body and the delicate fabric he was now clothed in.

Starting from his sides he moved up to his chest, the hardened nubs welcoming him as soon as he began teasing his lover's nipples. He then wandered back to his abs and after that up again, only to close even more the space between the two of them and move to explore his broad shoulders and delicate back, finishing with a soft moan into Frances's mouth as he took a firm grip of his ass cheeks.

In the meantime, France was all but standing still. The French nation attempts at manhandling his lover, however, were slightly more difficult than England's, since his lover was still dressed in his torn armour.

While the island nation made him feel cared and appreciated like no one else, France took his time to undo the shoulder protection, the chest plate and, most satisfactorily, also the groin protection. He was glad about his priorities when his lover pushed into him, and he could feel almost all of England's frame against his own, something that made his head spin and his cock harden.

He enveloped England in his arms and then let his hands wander up to his back and then lower to appreciate briefly his firm buttocks under the thin layers of harsh cotton of England's shirt and pants.

"Still too many clothes, mon cher," France took his chance to protest, as he kissed England with renewed vigour, entangling his fingers in his blond unruly tresses.

England let France free to do as he pleased and he took a firmer grip on the French nation's butt to press their groins one against the other.

France whimpered in need and put all his remaining brain cells together to disentangle from England. In front of the eyes of a surprised England, France went to the corner of his tent in order to take two pieces of cloth and wet them into the nearby bucket of water. When he had properly dried it, he went back to England and handed him one of them.

"I'll offer you a proper warm bath once back to Paris, mon amour," He told him, stumbling only a bit on the words meaning 'my love'. "For now we'll have to make do with this."

"Thanks," England answered, easily guessing the purpose of all that, then he took the wet cloth and finished stripping –not that France had left much on him- from his under-armour clothes. "Do I stink that much?"

France quietly chuckled as he stripped of his tunic too, and then quickly proceeded to take away the worst of the grime from his own skin.

"Quite the opposite, mon cher, I like the smell of victory," France teased, grinning back at him in a way that made England shiver down to his bones. "Still, I hoped for this to be a bit more than just me claiming my victory over you and I must smell dreadful."

England had actually been far too aroused to think about the smell, but even if he hadn't, he would have had nothing to protest, since in all honesty France was France, and had the ability to smell like roses even on the battlefield. That blasted Frenchman. He hadn't fought against many nations so far, but France really was something else, dancing on the battleground like he was on the stage of a theatre.

"You worry too much for me, considering I'm the one who lost," England countered, pretending to be annoyed even as he blushed furiously. "I don't plan on being nice when I'll best you."

"Me neither," France answered him, throwing the cloth to the floor far from them to go back and embrace England. "But when I'll do it, I want you to remember that it will be with love."

England let his own cloth join France's and closed the gap between the two of them, returning his lover's embrace. Now that they were both naked, every sensation felt heightened, so much that France found himself unable even to kiss England, for fear of losing it before anything even started.

"Your cot," England moaned over France's slightly parted lips, feeling no better than France did.

The French nation nodded and led his lover to his cot, making him slip under his blankets, in case after making love they both fell asleep. He had given up bragging about his victory to turn this into a pleasurable experience for the both of them, he wasn't about to let his lover catch a cold.

As they were both comfortable under the blankets, they resumed kissing and exploring each other's bodies, much to France's delight since he'd had no time to savour his friend's older body properly before. Eventually, France managed to trap England under him and the English nation could just moan in frustration.

"France, c'mon, I won't last much like this," England whispered in his ear, feeling France chuckle against the skin of his collarbone that he was molesting.

"It will be my pleasure, mon amour," France answered him as his hands began searching beneath his pillow for something. When he finally found it, he presented England with a small bottle of oil.

Before England could ask what his friend's intentions were, France resumed kissing him as he opened the bottle and poured some generous amount of oil on his fingers before teasing England's entrance. The island nation winced at the feeling and groaned his frustration.

In order to add to it – France had promised not to brag and to make it pleasant, not that he would be fair – the French nation moved further down, so that he was level with England's groin. Before the island nation could protest, he took him resolutely in his mouth, making England gasp in surprise and pleasure. Distracted like he was, he almost didn't notice France adding another digit and then scissoring him properly. When he added a third finger, though, he noticed, but mostly because he had loosened up enough that France had managed to stimulate his prostate properly.

"Fuck it, France!" England swore, grasping a handful of France's wavy hair to make him move back upwards and away from his cock and glare at him. "Fucking fuck me, idiot, I have no intention of being tortured by you!"

France chuckled amusedly and left a brief peck on England's lips.

"You're so cute, though, that to stop now would be a pity…"

England's eyes grew larger as he glared back at France, who simply sniggered and trapped him into a happy embrace. England rolled his eyes, but eventually held him back, before taking France's chin between his thumb and forefinger to make France stare back at him once again and kiss him properly.

France melted into the sweet kiss, enjoying each second of it, especially when England groaned in irritation tasting himself in France's mouth. When he'd had enough of bothering England, he resumed a more proper position between England's legs, allowing England's hips to rise just enough that his cock was ready at his entrance.

"Ready, mon cher?"

"I was ready an hour ago," England bit back, earning a playful lick on the tip of his nose before France actually followed though his intentions and entered him, sheathing himself fully inside his lover in few careful movements that were made easier by the god-sent oil France had had the intuition to prepare beforehand.

England swore half-heartedly at the intrusion, as he attempted to adjust to the new sensation. When he opened once again his eyes to look at his lover, he found France's eyes closed shut in deep concentration. He reached up to cup his face and to guide him down, so that he could leave a caring kiss on his forehead.

A blue eye cracked open and England offered him a warm smile.

"Do I feel good, France?" He teased evilly, managing a smug smirk seeing the older nation so affected.

France swallowed hard and nodded, his shoulders slightly trembling as he tried not to move.

"Then show me," England continued, almost whining, as he stared deeply into his lover's eyes.

France took it as the sign he was waiting for and began thrusting into England, first slowly and then in earnest as soon as he was certain that England could take it. It didn't take him much to lose completely focus of what he was doing, however, as he completely abandoned any attempt to build a steady rhythm in favour of just going with the flow and wherever England's moan and whispers lead him.

For someone who was starting to be recognised as the country of love, he surely wasn't able to prevent himself from being swept away by it. Still, France really couldn't help it.

England's heat around his cock and his soft voice calling his name were a reality he had never dreamed to experience least of all like this. He had dreamed plenty of times about how their first time would be like, but his own imagination had never prepared him for the real deal. He had never even hoped that they could have their first time, much less having it so soon into their lives.

They had known one another for a lifetime, a lifetime of teasing that had lately been unbearable. He had so hoped that it hadn't been frustrating only for him and that it had been frustrating for England at least enough for the island nation to give up his pride and admit their mutual attraction. England had surpassed his best expectations, however, ending up confessing his love for him. Therefore, there was nothing stopping France to take his friend, nothing except his own resistance to the deep desperation brought by his feelings.

France felt inadequate for the first time in his life, but that feeling only fuelled his desire to become better, something that only England could cause him to feel, in love as well as in war. He would become the country of love, he would learn to love England so fiercely that England would always stay at his side… as for now, though, he only hoped he could endure long enough.

With the hand still slippery with oil, France eventually began stroking England, hoping to save his own pride and bring England to his climax before his self-control broke. The added stimulation eventually sent England over the edge and, hearing his lover's cries of ecstasy, France himself finally let himself go, releasing inside his lover with England's name on his lips.

He didn't have enough strength left to do anything else then collapse over his lover, though, he just let himself go and allowed England tiredly hold him.

"Je t'aime. Je t'aime, Angleterre," France managed to whisper into his ear after a while, his lips gracing lightly his lover's ear shell.

"I love you too, France," England answered back, barely managing to leave a kind caress on his lover's head before falling asleep into France's caring embrace.

He had never been as glad to lose as he was now.

T.B.C.