After an unsuccessful attempt to woo England into his bed, which had been fiercely resisted by the other nation, France finally gave up (for now), and entered his room alone. This evening's discussion had brought up some memories that he had not perused over in decades, and besides, he felt like having some time to himself.

Back then, he was a carefree and of course extremely good-looking youth who had escaped the confines of the castle one afternoon, and had been enjoying a rare day in an abandoned field when he chanced upon the stranger wandering lost and in a daze. Seeing the man's dreadful condition, France had offered him wine and bread, and gradually the man was able to recover his speech.

Following some surreptitious inspection, France determined that the man was neither fey nor infernal, but possibly a witch or warlock, judging from his unusual clothes and strange accent. Yet this stranger somehow felt safe, which was more than he could say about any wandering madman during that era.

This handsome stranger, who offered his obviously fake name as "Jean… err… Jean Jacques-Pierre… Picard," had to be hidden from the spying eyes of the castle inhabitants, who were quite fond of accusing people of witchcraft, but he recalled Jean being quite adaptable to the situation, and soon he could be passed off as an errant younger-son in need of shelter during those war-torn days.

For some reason, France could never quite remember Jean's face clearly, it was always somewhat blurred and the features never distinct. But he knew that he fell in love the moment he first looked into those deep blue eyes, and that the man returned his affections in a subdued way, whenever he was not flirting with the ladies in waiting or squires or anything that moved and could say "bonjour."

No one had commented on the fact that Jean slept in his room, which France was supremely grateful for, seeing as that should have been cause enough to get marched into a cell and be hanged for witchcraft. It had been so much fun, having an older brother figure in his life, for he had always been an older brother to others, and none acted that way towards him. As soon as it was safe for him to do so, Jean accompanied him everywhere, so wise and funny and charming, knowing things that no one else knew, and France avidly hung on to his every word and gesture. Undeterred by the odd looks Jean sometimes gave him, France even tried to flirt with the man, at first shyly, and then much more boldly.

It was perhaps one week into their acquaintance that France first attempted to discover Jean's past. His attempts were foiled at every turn, and he could only figure out that Jean came from a distant land, was left here by accident, and was waiting for a friend to join him before they could go back home.

"A friend?" He did not want to meet this friend, if it meant Jean had to leave him, but he was naturally very curious about Jean's background.

"Yes, someone I had helped raised as a child. A very bright and brave if somewhat headstrong lad…"

"Oh! Does this mean you have family back home, Jean?"

"Of course. I have many younger brothers, and two sons, and one daughter."

"Y-you have a wife?" This was deeply distressing news, and France tried to keep from looking too upset.

Jean had laughed, such a warm and comforting sound. "No, no wife. I have someone I love, I suppose, but he does not love me back."

Now this sounded much more encouraging. "Would you stay here, Jean, if you knew someone loved you?" France asked, with his prettiest smile.

"I can make no promises, but I would consider it, yes," Jean finally said, his expression full of sadness that France was not able to understand at the time.

Weeks passed, and Jean paced the castle walls constantly, searching the horizon for any sign of his friend's arrival, but in vain. At last, he seemed to give up, resigned to his place here, to France's secret delight.

France convinced the castle lord and lady to grant him freedom, now that he had a perfectly capable guardian to watch over him, and with their consent, he and Jean moved into a cozy hunting lodge. Now that they were safe from possible accusations of witchcraft and other devilries, safe from petty gossip and more importantly, safe from the possibility of Jean's friend finding him, France felt free to embrace his new love and kiss him tenderly.

Jean had pulled away first, a slight frown on his lips. "Francis, my dearest Francis… Are you everything you say you are? Because I feel that this should not happen between us."

"I love you with all my heart and soul, Jean, that is all you need to know. And like you said, you should not deny love where you find it. Please, do not deny me, for I don't think I will ever love anyone like you ever again."

"Young people often say that-" Jean murmured.

"But I mean it!" France interrupted passionately. "Jean, I know that you are the one I will always love, even if we should part. Do you not feel anything for me?"

"Rather, I feel too much for you, and that worries me, Francis."

Almost to the point of tears, France remembered running out of the house and rather ruining his day by sobbing and weeping until he fell asleep in the middle of the forest somewhere. When he next woke, Jean had found him and had tucked him into bed, and France watched, wide-eyed, as he undressed in the light of the setting sun, ruddy light revealing well-sculpted muscle and pleasing, masculine lines.

"Sweet Francis, do you doubt my love for you?" Jean asked as he knelt onto the side of the bed, smiling so sadly down at him.

"No, Jean, never," he breathed, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

As if making up his mind after a long internal struggle, Jean nodded solemnly, then kissed him. "Tell me if something hurts, or if you want to stop, but say nothing else. Promise?"

France nodded, as Jean threw back the covers and carefully pulled off his tunic, placing light kisses on his lips and cheeks and bared neck and chest. Jean had turned out to be an exceedingly gentle and sensitive lover, and he somehow realized that this was France's first time with another man, and thus whispered soft sweet encouragements and nonsense endearments to calm him and make him feel good, before taking him to that place only true lovers could know. The minute details of that night had been lost in the passage of time, but France was quite sure it had been everything he ever dreamed, the kind of perfect deflowering that could only be found in cheesy romance novels and never in real life. Sometimes he did wonder if it was a dream, losing his virginity to such a perfect man. If so, it was a dream he was happy to remember, even to its bitter end.

A few blissful months later, another stranger rode up to their doorstep, dressed in chainmail and a heavy blue cloak embroidered with stars, followed by a flock of mourning doves and ravens wheeling overhead. It was none other than the brave friend that Jean had been expecting, who had at last found him and was ready to take him home. France could remember under the sound of flapping wings and melancholy cooing and unpleasant cawing their happy reunion, their embraces and babbling in a language he could not quite place. He had darted out to them, clutching at Jean's tunic possessively, pleading with Jean to take him along, to not abandon him here. The stranger looked at Jean, somewhat horrified but not too surprised, and Jean shook his head sorrowfully.

"Francis, your place is here, you know you cannot leave. Though I wish I could, I cannot stay with you, there are people who need me back home and I must go to them. Be good, Francis, and never forget that you are loved, and that love undeniably is all around, wherever you look." Jean tucked a freshly plucked wild rose blossom behind his ear and kissed him chastely on the lips, while tears streamed down France's cheeks unabated.

"Farewell, and good luck, mon amour. Je t'aime de tout mon coeur…"

As they rode off into the distance, France had vowed to search for his Jean and convince him to come back and stay with him, no matter what it took. But he did not succeed and was forced to give up after thirty years, convinced that his first lover had died. The countless men and women he took into bed afterwards could never come close, despite his best efforts to satisfy them and keep them close. In fact, the one person he loved nearly as much as he loved Jean, that girl who died for him, he did not, could not, love in that same way.

Eventually, France forgot about Jean, perhaps out of subconscious self-protection, and no one had probed into that question of his first love until America's innocent query this day.

No matter, it had been nice to remember something so sweet and marvelous, even if such nostalgia made him a little sad. Sighing deeply, France turned over to get more comfortable and almost screamed in terror when he saw England looming over him on the other side of his bed.

"Mon dieu, you almost gave me a heart attack! What are you doing here?" France looked over and saw the boys peeking in from the doorway, their eyeglasses glinting creepily in the moonlight. "And you two as well? Is something wrong? Whatever she may claim, I didn't touch her."

Scowling, England said, "They were worried about you after today's conversation, idiot. You always get sentimental and depressed thinking about the past, especially regarding those humans, and America here woke me up so we can all… talk it over. If you like."

"My dears, I am fine. Thank you for the concern, but I am not that maudlin, believe it or not."

England looked as if he disagreed, but instead he slid under the covers, cursing softly, and America and Canada jumped in after him, so that they squished him all to one side. It was dark in the room, but France could feel their gazes on him, and he smiled back unevenly, until England reached out and gently wiped the wetness from the corner of his eyes.

"Will you let us love you as much as you loved him, France?" England whispered, voice soft and so uncharacteristically tender.

Then France broke down and cried, wept for those wasted years and missed chances and relationships that never worked out, for the love that he gave but was never wholly returned, not until tonight.

"Yes, I will, because I love you all that much," he answered at last.

The briefest of silences.

"Liar."

Then he kicked them all off the bed. But lovingly.

[epilogue]

A few weeks later, France returned to his home to find that all of his Baroque-era antique wardrobes had been replaced with sensible, utilitarian Ikea ones. He knew America and Canada were behind this, judging by the way they stared at him with haunted eyes for several weeks afterward, sometimes sobbing and dashing away guiltily. But he also knew he was loved, as Jean promised that he would be, and so he smiled to himself, happy at last.

[author's note: This is the best France pairing I have ever written. I am not sure if I could write a better or more plausible story than this, and I'm sure the original requester of the prompt and other readers agree. I am kidding, this is the silliest France fic I have ever written, there is no logic whatsoever. But thanks again for your comments and favorites, stay tuned for more off-the-wall France fics!]