England stood on front of the doorway, a heavy feeling in his chest. No, it was not love-it was fear. He knocked, but it was very quiet. He definitely knew it was wrong to talk to him at this time, but he needed this to be assorted.
"France?"
"What do you need from me, England." The Frenchman grits through his teeth, an atmosphere of depression and mourning floods the air— it was only now Francis has used "England" in his vocabulary.
England's eyes widened and he gulped furiously. His mouth jumbled up words before he gave a clear, yet, shaky, response. "I-I wanted to talk." he tried keeping his eye contact away from the Frenchman, yet, the Frenchman's eyes were directly piercing through England.
"You had the nerve." He spat, glaring towards the Englishman.
The warm eyes once filled with passion and glee are still the same, yet, it is not.
They darkened a hue that belonged to the stormy seas, a hue that belonged to the dimming sky as the clouds cover the ethereal light of the sun.
"I-" England knew if he wasn't going to say anything, he would definitely slam the door on front of his face and they would never talk for months. He took a deep breath before replying, "I'm s-sorry."
"Sorry?" France just wished this man would go away.
The images of Joan flood his mind. He wishes to stop, but all he can recall was Joan, her eyes ever so bright, talking about how she'd love to defend the oppressed, the mission her God has been whispering to her ears.
"S-sorry, England? You think y-our sorry would take her back?!" His sonorous voice breaks to a yet sharp object, ready to stab anyone in a millisecond.
"France, please-" he could see the man on front of him look like he was growing insane. England stepped back in fear, his heart beating in such a fast pace he could hear it with his own ears. "I had no choice-my people wanted it!" he gripped his fists to stop his hands from shaking.
"But aren't you supposed to guide your people?" Francis looked towards the Englishman.
He tries to keep his tears from spilling, but they do, in their own accord, the crystals of grief run down.
England watches as France cries, his tears slipping down his face. His eyes was filled with deep sorrow, and for England, a wave of guilt crossed him.
It was his fault.
Those words rang around his head like the time after he had burnt Jeanne. His breathing intensified as his hands shook more, "I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean it.. I-" England had such minimum words on how to express himself, his body slowly felt more anxious.
"I know it's my fault-I didn't know her intentions of her doings.." he tried to recall the reasons why he had burnt her, and he realized, all the Brits who participated in this burning all misunderstood her-
Even England was wrong.
"You...you did not know?"
"I did not know.." England quickly replied, not trying to sound so arrogant, "I-I misinterpreted her.."
"What kind of justice do you have!" He yells, gripping to the point wherein his knuckles turned white.
"You-you, kill a person with a crime you don't even know what they commit?!" Anger and sadness both mix in his tone.
"God, I do not know anymore! I don't know you, or anyone!"
England didn't know what to say-his words jumbled up, but in the end, he had no courage to make up a sentence. Instead, France's words echoed in his brain; every insult and hatred France had was repeating in his brain.
Then he felt something wet in his eyes, and it wouldn't stop flowing.
"England..." France called out.
"How...how could you do this to me?"
Silence.
"Do you know how much I've loved you? How much I would do anything for you, England? Did you know?"
England didn't know what to think. What did France mean..? He loved him? He cared about England?
"You cared about me?" England spoke in between cries.
"I did." he replied.
"I did, before."
"..alright.." England didn't know anymore, he felt like he was getting a panic attack inside of him. It was definitely wrong of him to visit France today. He was so stupid.
"Thank you for this conversation, I-I'll be going." He didn't know what to do, so he turned his back against the Frenchman, wiping his tears as he deeply sighed.
"You broke my trust, England."
Yes, he had to leave. Yet, he felt guilt as he said those words. It feels as if he should not have, pray tell.
But this...this—inhumane thing he has done to Jeanne. The justice to England and injustice to him...it just says that they aren't to cross ways, as God has planned.
There, he slowly sits, he no longer can see much, everything is a blur, tears continue to flood and his eyes are sore.
He wonders...to when will he cease these tears of grief?
A/N
This isn't something I made independently, but this is actually a roleplay of mine between my friend and I. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a great fanfiction. Please enjoy this and understand we are not planning to make a sequel. Thank you.