England says goodbye to his human lover.

AKA: Watch me yaoify a historical figure... Let's just pretend that sort of relationship was acceptable back then!

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine

Republic of Florence, 1477

England hesitated, lowering his fist without knocking. He couldn't go through with this, could he? He glared at the door in front of him, as if it was failing in its duty by not giving him an answer. But his scowl dropped away, leaving behind the beaten expression he had worn for days, since coming to his decision. I don't want to leave him. He continued to stare at the door, occasionally raising a hand then letting it drop again. I don't have much choice though, do I? There's a reason we try not to get involved with humans.

This would be the easier parting, he had decided; leaving now, a year into their relationship. It would hurt, but they would both heal. The alternative was much more horrifying. If they were together forever—oh sure, a human partner would have to marry some day, but that didn't matter—then what? He would die, that was what. In no time at all, from England's point of view. What was another fifty years? Or forty, or thirty, or however long he had to live. It was nothing, no time at all. He would have to watch the man he loved age (and eventually he would have to either explain his true nature, or come up with a nice elaborate lie to explain his own lack of aging). Then he would die.

And wouldn't that be a far more painful parting than what England had planned for today?

In the end, the door really did decide for him. It swung open to reveal the young man he had grown to care for so much. His beautiful Italian lover. They had met by accident while England was in the country on business, a very lucky chance encounter. And he would always think of it as such. Never would he regret their time together, even if it meant heartbreak in the end.

"Ah...I was just coming to see you," England said in Italian.

"I can see that." The young man grinned. "Come in, Arthur!"

"Not right now. I...I actually have other business to attend. I just had to talk to you for a moment." Seeing his lover's endearingly cluttered room, full of the maps—both purchased, and hand-drawn—that so fascinated him, would just break his heart further.

"Oh. All right." He shut the door behind him, grin fading. "You look so serious."

"I'm always serious!"

"True. But more so than usual." He poked the Englishman in the ribs. "And I've seen your playful side."

"I wish it was that side that had come to visit."

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse." England took a deep breath. "We can't see each other anymore."

Whatever he had been expecting, that obviously wasn't it. "What?"

England inwardly cringed at the hurt in those eyes. At the unshed tears that coated them. "I'm sorry. It's...it's really complicated. You wouldn't understand..."

"I might."

"Official business, you know? My king needs me." Technically true, if not actually related.

"And you believe it's for the best if we never see each other again?"

It was like he had cast a fishing line into England's chest, and was slowly drawing his heart out. "I'm afraid so."

"I shall never again wake up to your grumpy face? For that, my country should declare war on yours." He quickly held up his hands. "I'm only kidding."

"I know." England took another deep breath, fighting back tears. "So I suppose I should go before this gets too difficult."

"It already is." He placed his hands on the blond's face and drew him close for a kiss. "So go," he murmured when they broke apart. "If you think that's best."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

They stared at each other for another painful moment, then England forced himself to turn away. He had to leave before he did something embarrassing, like start bawling. He walked steadily forward, refusing to look back—if he did, he might never leave—until he heard the door swing open and slam shut again.

"Damn it..."

"That was very sad," a voice said from behind. England grit his teeth, quickly rubbing his eyes. The voice was most definitely not Italian.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped in his own language. He refused to speak that bastard's tongue.

"Ah, I am not here to tease, mon ami." France draped an arm around his shoulders, and for once, it rested there innocently. "That was a very brave and painful thing you did."

"Sh-shut up! I don't need your sympathy."

"Come on. I'll buy you a drink."

England stared at the ground as they walked. "I guess that would be okay."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

England glanced behind them, at the house that was fading into the distance. "I suppose I can tell you about him. I loved him...do love, that is. I shall cherish his name forever."

"And that fine Italian specimen was Monsieur...?"

"Vespucci. Amerigo Vespucci."