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Title: After the Bombs
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: France/England
Warnings: Yaoi, obscene amounts of fluff, and a few pitiful attempts at basic French
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: France is dying in the trenches, but there's just enough romance and melodrama to make him happy about it.
AN:In my head canon, England was totally Merlin. So, I'm horrifyingly jetlagged right now, and yet I can write things. Actual things.
We forget all our trials
While there
In our baby’s arms
- After the Bombs, The Decemberists
He was dying. He could feel it. He could barely breathe for the fire in his ribs. The filthy trench he lay in was another open gash – infected, oozing – on his back. It was one of many. He didn’t want to think of how many there were, but he’d lost a lot of blood – too much; more than a human would have survived.
Somewhere, a bomb went off. Francis was beyond even whimpering in pain as he felt more of his people die and another wound open up in his side. Gunfire rattled overhead. More explosions. More pain. How much more of this was he expected to take? How much more could he be expected to live through? He only vaguely remembered Rome in his final years – and it had taken years, oh dear God – but he remembered the scars and the frailty. And, he knew, not even Rome had suffered like this. Never.
Another bomb. Another wound. Why couldn’t he die?
He had better memories of his days in Rome’s house than the ones of the older nation fading. He’d been young, then – just a child – and free of suffering. He’d been happy, free of responsibility. He’d fallen in love for the first time, while living with Rome. The first, and if he was really honest, the only time. Oh, he’d had other lovers, but…
But the moment he’d seen the screaming, blue-painted brat Rome had hauled in – kicking, flailing, biting bloody marks into Rome’s arm – Francis had lost his heart.
He sometimes wondered if England remembered. If he remembered composing wildly imaginative curses (mostly against Rome and France’s much younger self) on lead tablets and casting them into the water, or screaming at Rome for calling him Arturus - “my name’s Emrys, you bastard!” Probably not. The memory grew faulty after so long. Francis could remember the exact pattern of England’s woad tattoos where they’d scrolled over his cheekbones, but he couldn’t remember what his own name had been.
What had happened to those tattoos, he wondered. They had been so beautiful. England had suited them.
More pain and please, please just let him die.
Strong hands lifted him from the mud, and suddenly his head was resting on something that felt like a pair of legs. Francis could hear ragged breathing – his own – and nothing else. The gunfire had paused. The agony of his latest injuries raged through him, but when calloused fingers brushed his hair back from his face, he found the strength to open his eyes.
It was Emrys. Arthur. England.
He was painted in mud rather than woad these days. Under it, his skin was pale and sick-looking. He’d lost weight. It didn’t suit him. His ridiculous eyebrows were drawn into a frown and his eyes were dull with weariness – and worry. Ah, his England feared for him. His pain was eased, if only temporarily.
England’s fingers brushed his hair again with a kind of tenderness that Francis had only seen the other nation demonstrate a few times before – and even then, only towards America. The rarity of it made him cherish the gesture even more. If this was to be his last day on earth, at least he could spend it in the knowledge that England cared for him a little bit – somewhere deep, deep down. His life was complete.
He opened his mouth to thank him, but the words came out wrong as always. “You look like hell, mon cher,” he whispered. He smiled faintly as England scowled but didn’t drop him back into the mud – his injuries were good for something it seemed. It was true, though as awful as England did look, he was still the most beautiful thing Francis had ever seen. If only he could say it. But no, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk being dropped again and lose his chance to die tragically in the arms of the love of his life.
“You look worse, bloody frog,” England muttered. He ran his fingers through Francis’s hair again, betraying his words with a caring gesture.
“It is the end, mon ami,” Francis replied. He couldn’t get his voice to rise above a whisper, and the thought of breathing deeply enough to try sent shards of premature agony through his chest.
“No it’s not,” England said. Francis had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes – England would still have argued with him if he’d said that water was wet. They just had that kind of relationship.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset, mon cher. You’ve been wanting this for years.”
It was true, but it was still a low blow, and Francis regretted the words as soon as he saw the pained look on England’s face.
“Not this,” England whispere. “Two and a half thousand years I’ve hated you and cursed you and now that you’ve finally got it into your thick head – “ He broke off. There was another gentle stroke to Francis’ hair. England leaned down slightly and lowered his voice. “ – I can’t imagine the world without you.”
Oh. Francis stared up at him, up at those green, green eyes and the gaunt face and his hand rose of its own accord to trace spiralling lines in mud and blood on England’s cheek, following the lines of long-vanished tattoos. England blinked at him. He was probably blushing, but it was hard to tell. The world was growing darker. Was it night already?
“J’taime, mon ami,” Francis whispered. His strength failed him and his hand dropped back into the mud with a squelch. “Mon amour.”
England’s eyebrows rose. “Since when?”
“Since forever.”
His eyelids felt heavy. He struggled to keep them from falling closed. Was this it, then? Ah, but it was a perfect death, despite the pain. He’d shared his feelings with England and not been dropped or punched or drowned in the filth of the trench. He was in England’s arms and he felt oddly warm.
And England’s breath was hot on his ear as he whispered a reply, but darkness stole it away before Francis could understand.
…
Death was soft and warm and smelled like the sheets on his bed in his Parisian apartment. Francis frowned. It also smelled a bit like England’s cooking and that couldn’t be right because surely no afterlife could be that cruel.
He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. He was in his apartment and bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows. His eyes stung and his body – realising that he was awake – bombarded him with messages of its discomfort. He groaned in agony. Why hadn’t he been left to die?
He could vaguely remember confessing his love to England while in the trenches. He cringed. If the odour of failed scones was anything to go by then England was here, and he would no doubt soon be praying for death. Merde.
“Francis?”
He cracked his eyes open again. England stood in the doorway, not wearing his uniform for the first time – that Francis had seen – in years. Instead he was dressed in neatly pressed brown trousers and a green sweater vest over a pale blue shirt.
“If you have ruined my kitchen Angleterre, I will kill you,” Francis told him. He’d meant to say ‘you’re beautiful’, but he never could say what he meant with England and besides, the threat of scones was preying on him.
“Someone’s feeling better,” England grumbled, but he approached the bed regardless and sat on the edge of it, smoothing Francis’ hair back from his face. He was blushing and – to his horror – Francis felt his own face redden in response to the familiar gesture.
He could charm the world, but England turned him into an idiot. Oh, the shame of it.
England spoke suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’re a prat,” he said. “A complete, melodramatic bastard, and if you seriously thought I’d let you die tragically in my arms after confessing your love for me – and not even having the decency to let me reply, at that – then you’re an even bigger idiot than you look.”
Francis had the sneaking suspicion that there had been something affectionate in that speech. Somewhere. He just wasn’t sure where it had been, so instead of commenting, he settled on looking wounded.
England sighed. “Pillock,” he said. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Francis’ lips. He pulled away before Francis could try and deepen it, but it didn’t matter: there was a delicious flush on England’s cheeks and a soft look in his eyes and Francis wondered if he was in heaven after all.
England cleared his throat. “I bought some pastries from that place down the road,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
Ah, it was most definitely love after all. If England wasn’t inflicting his cooking on him, it had to be.
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: France/England
Warnings: Yaoi, obscene amounts of fluff, and a few pitiful attempts at basic French
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: France is dying in the trenches, but there's just enough romance and melodrama to make him happy about it.
AN:
We forget all our trials
While there
In our baby’s arms
- After the Bombs, The Decemberists
He was dying. He could feel it. He could barely breathe for the fire in his ribs. The filthy trench he lay in was another open gash – infected, oozing – on his back. It was one of many. He didn’t want to think of how many there were, but he’d lost a lot of blood – too much; more than a human would have survived.
Somewhere, a bomb went off. Francis was beyond even whimpering in pain as he felt more of his people die and another wound open up in his side. Gunfire rattled overhead. More explosions. More pain. How much more of this was he expected to take? How much more could he be expected to live through? He only vaguely remembered Rome in his final years – and it had taken years, oh dear God – but he remembered the scars and the frailty. And, he knew, not even Rome had suffered like this. Never.
Another bomb. Another wound. Why couldn’t he die?
He had better memories of his days in Rome’s house than the ones of the older nation fading. He’d been young, then – just a child – and free of suffering. He’d been happy, free of responsibility. He’d fallen in love for the first time, while living with Rome. The first, and if he was really honest, the only time. Oh, he’d had other lovers, but…
But the moment he’d seen the screaming, blue-painted brat Rome had hauled in – kicking, flailing, biting bloody marks into Rome’s arm – Francis had lost his heart.
He sometimes wondered if England remembered. If he remembered composing wildly imaginative curses (mostly against Rome and France’s much younger self) on lead tablets and casting them into the water, or screaming at Rome for calling him Arturus - “my name’s Emrys, you bastard!” Probably not. The memory grew faulty after so long. Francis could remember the exact pattern of England’s woad tattoos where they’d scrolled over his cheekbones, but he couldn’t remember what his own name had been.
What had happened to those tattoos, he wondered. They had been so beautiful. England had suited them.
More pain and please, please just let him die.
Strong hands lifted him from the mud, and suddenly his head was resting on something that felt like a pair of legs. Francis could hear ragged breathing – his own – and nothing else. The gunfire had paused. The agony of his latest injuries raged through him, but when calloused fingers brushed his hair back from his face, he found the strength to open his eyes.
It was Emrys. Arthur. England.
He was painted in mud rather than woad these days. Under it, his skin was pale and sick-looking. He’d lost weight. It didn’t suit him. His ridiculous eyebrows were drawn into a frown and his eyes were dull with weariness – and worry. Ah, his England feared for him. His pain was eased, if only temporarily.
England’s fingers brushed his hair again with a kind of tenderness that Francis had only seen the other nation demonstrate a few times before – and even then, only towards America. The rarity of it made him cherish the gesture even more. If this was to be his last day on earth, at least he could spend it in the knowledge that England cared for him a little bit – somewhere deep, deep down. His life was complete.
He opened his mouth to thank him, but the words came out wrong as always. “You look like hell, mon cher,” he whispered. He smiled faintly as England scowled but didn’t drop him back into the mud – his injuries were good for something it seemed. It was true, though as awful as England did look, he was still the most beautiful thing Francis had ever seen. If only he could say it. But no, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk being dropped again and lose his chance to die tragically in the arms of the love of his life.
“You look worse, bloody frog,” England muttered. He ran his fingers through Francis’s hair again, betraying his words with a caring gesture.
“It is the end, mon ami,” Francis replied. He couldn’t get his voice to rise above a whisper, and the thought of breathing deeply enough to try sent shards of premature agony through his chest.
“No it’s not,” England said. Francis had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes – England would still have argued with him if he’d said that water was wet. They just had that kind of relationship.
“I don’t know why you’re so upset, mon cher. You’ve been wanting this for years.”
It was true, but it was still a low blow, and Francis regretted the words as soon as he saw the pained look on England’s face.
“Not this,” England whispere. “Two and a half thousand years I’ve hated you and cursed you and now that you’ve finally got it into your thick head – “ He broke off. There was another gentle stroke to Francis’ hair. England leaned down slightly and lowered his voice. “ – I can’t imagine the world without you.”
Oh. Francis stared up at him, up at those green, green eyes and the gaunt face and his hand rose of its own accord to trace spiralling lines in mud and blood on England’s cheek, following the lines of long-vanished tattoos. England blinked at him. He was probably blushing, but it was hard to tell. The world was growing darker. Was it night already?
“J’taime, mon ami,” Francis whispered. His strength failed him and his hand dropped back into the mud with a squelch. “Mon amour.”
England’s eyebrows rose. “Since when?”
“Since forever.”
His eyelids felt heavy. He struggled to keep them from falling closed. Was this it, then? Ah, but it was a perfect death, despite the pain. He’d shared his feelings with England and not been dropped or punched or drowned in the filth of the trench. He was in England’s arms and he felt oddly warm.
And England’s breath was hot on his ear as he whispered a reply, but darkness stole it away before Francis could understand.
…
Death was soft and warm and smelled like the sheets on his bed in his Parisian apartment. Francis frowned. It also smelled a bit like England’s cooking and that couldn’t be right because surely no afterlife could be that cruel.
He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. He was in his apartment and bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows. His eyes stung and his body – realising that he was awake – bombarded him with messages of its discomfort. He groaned in agony. Why hadn’t he been left to die?
He could vaguely remember confessing his love to England while in the trenches. He cringed. If the odour of failed scones was anything to go by then England was here, and he would no doubt soon be praying for death. Merde.
“Francis?”
He cracked his eyes open again. England stood in the doorway, not wearing his uniform for the first time – that Francis had seen – in years. Instead he was dressed in neatly pressed brown trousers and a green sweater vest over a pale blue shirt.
“If you have ruined my kitchen Angleterre, I will kill you,” Francis told him. He’d meant to say ‘you’re beautiful’, but he never could say what he meant with England and besides, the threat of scones was preying on him.
“Someone’s feeling better,” England grumbled, but he approached the bed regardless and sat on the edge of it, smoothing Francis’ hair back from his face. He was blushing and – to his horror – Francis felt his own face redden in response to the familiar gesture.
He could charm the world, but England turned him into an idiot. Oh, the shame of it.
England spoke suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’re a prat,” he said. “A complete, melodramatic bastard, and if you seriously thought I’d let you die tragically in my arms after confessing your love for me – and not even having the decency to let me reply, at that – then you’re an even bigger idiot than you look.”
Francis had the sneaking suspicion that there had been something affectionate in that speech. Somewhere. He just wasn’t sure where it had been, so instead of commenting, he settled on looking wounded.
England sighed. “Pillock,” he said. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Francis’ lips. He pulled away before Francis could try and deepen it, but it didn’t matter: there was a delicious flush on England’s cheeks and a soft look in his eyes and Francis wondered if he was in heaven after all.
England cleared his throat. “I bought some pastries from that place down the road,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
Ah, it was most definitely love after all. If England wasn’t inflicting his cooking on him, it had to be.
