Warnings: Blood, gore, death, attempted fluff, and author's own headcanons incorporated.
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Story#80:
"Mon Cher Ennemi"
A dull ringing was what remained of his hearing to the right where too many bombs caught him at close range, everywhere reeked of gunpowder and sulphur, making his eyes burn; several fractured ribs, bullets yet to be extracted, and exposed entrails kept in place with makeshift bandages; still he doesn't stop ploughing through the sea of festering bodies and burning rubble. The smell of blood and grime was suffocating, and every dry swallow tasted of copper and bile… The noises buzzed idly in his brain, deafening and disorientating despite his impaired hearing; And his left arm – which he no longer felt – dangled from his shoulder like a dead animal, mangled and useless. Other than that…?
He was fine.
There were far more important things at the moment than dying. Like living; And those with whatever life left who were still fighting to keep it. The nightmare was almost over… but not quite yet.
Then, there's the pressing matter of his injuries needing treatment. With immeasurable damage upon his land, there was only so much his immortality could do. In times of grave peril such as war, a personified Nation's existence was as imperative to his people as their cohesive existence was to him. No matter how messed up he may be, it was part of his function to make himself better; in order for his people to get back on their feet. A last ray of hope binding a country together, so to speak.
Nevertheless getting himself treated was out of the question. His people needed what limited medical supplies and attention were available which were dwindling at best. So as he inched down the disrepaired streets of London, dragging the mortal bits of his half-immortal body – haltingly, horrendously – as sure as he painted a trail of blood from ground zero to his domicile – he began carving a solemn vow in his heart— that he would do everything, whatever it takes in what imperfect power he possessed, to obviate and occlude any possible repeat of this unforgiving strife in their futures…
If his continued existence was to be of any relevance at all—
It was to never forget.
Staggering up his porch, he pushed the already partly unhinged door, clutching what he could of himself tighter to keep from literally falling apart. He's been through comparable ordeals before, but this was by far the collective sum of all put together. His body was on the brink of collapse; No less could be said for the current state of his house. Everything beyond the landing of the ground floor was in shambles save for the staircase which was missing a few treads, but a huge section of the first floor remained intact. He was relieved his bath and bedroom were among those spared. He expected so much worse.
Collapsing at the foot of his staircase, he reclines his head. A rumbling in his chest swells and spills forth from his lips as manic-hysterical chortles. Delirium no doubt was kicking in. But it was more than the pain making him light-headed: adrenaline, disorientation, frailty… bitter relief and creeping insanity— and something else he dared not name. Despite everything – despite all the resistance met, he had managed to convince his people to risk what they did to save their dearest enemy, and as of now – ally. They could have used all the resources they had to defend their own shores at the onset, but instead charged beyond the Channel and lost a great many – too many at the shores of Dunkirk and Normandy… What had possessed him to do it? Was it pity? Or fear…? Or something else entirely…?
Elation mingled with his suffering… France was alive. Barely breathing when he found him— but alive nonetheless; So much more than he dared hope for.
Alive.
Like he was – or so he had to keep reminding himself…
When he had been shot in the trenches expectorating blood, a Canadian soldier fighting alongside him told him that he was fine; that *dying was a long way from dead. He pulled the English Nation to his feet and led England's own hands to press securely over the gushing hole in his gut. There was something exuding from him that was not Nation, but something just as resilient; And England knew he spoke the truth. For the likes of them at least, that path was longer than ordinary people. Much too long.
Meaning he had no choice but to make his continued existence less unbearable; Meaning extricating the shards of glass, rusty debris, and bullet fragments from his frayed flesh before infection set in; Meaning— he had to disinfect his open wounds until his flesh sizzled and sterilised, and then he would have to stitch himself up; Meaning he did not have the luxury to pass out, no matter what.
Many un-anesthetized hours later, he is submerged in a tub filled with clean albeit stale water. It was swirling with blood and grime now, though, and colder than when he had left it. The flowing liquid sluiced his skin and soothed his throbbing muscles. As the physical pain and numbness temporarily receded, his heart began to pound wildly in his chest. His whole body shook as the initial shock gave way to the repercussions of full-blown trauma; his mind now allowing itself to truly grasp everything for the first time in so long; bombarding him with images of the horrors he had lived through in strikingly vivid detail— horrors forever impressed into his very soul; Unwanted memories that would plague his dreams for the rest of his unending life. Hot, salty tears flowed down his cheeks, the burning fever racking his body offering no warmth, only heightening the chills.
Death was far, far away now, and dying was all that remained…
His people – the ones killed and dead, each one hurting and broken and bereaved… Every broken bone, every blister, every teardrop, every heartache, and loss— he could feel them all so lucidly now, and all at once— he could barely breathe. His entire being was inevitably caving-in to the abysmal sorrows that war always birthed. He moaned and shook, as the sobs that forced its way out became louder and more desperate; choking him, draining him, and at last, calming him of all the terrors that accumulated in his veins…
The crying kept him human.
Yet if he was in purgatory now, France was undoubtedly in the lower levels of hell suffering worse. Whatever he was going through must be multiplied a hundredfold in his neighbouring Nation – with his beloved Paris defiled and defaced and so many of his people to be buried, his path from dying to dead could be abbreviated for him any moment.
Despite the overabundance of sensation he was experiencing, England found himself wishing that he could feel more. Wishing that he had the auxiliary capacity to feel not only his own country but a fellow Nation. To feel France. Because to lose France would be to lose a part of himself and he would not be able to bear it. That was all he knew and dared acknowledge by far.
Please, frog…
Don't disappear.
-x-
"France!"
No answer.
The Nation was underneath a pile of rubble, his body covering a little girl whom he evidently tried to shield from the blasts. The girl stirred at his voice but France remained unmoving. His uniform was so badly torn and bloodied in too many places that England didn't know where to put his hands. He feels for a pulse by the Nation's neck, but couldn't register any; his own fingers trembled too violently and his heart thundered in his ears.
"I know you can hear me!
"Wake up!"
-x-
"Seriously dude, I've seen stiffs out there who look better."
The English Nation was so deep in thought that he hardly recognized who it was.
"America. What are you doing here."
He wasn't really interested in the answer; much less making conversation. It wasn't unnatural for them as Nations to identify with the afflicted in times such as these— and so many of them were dead.
"You comin' or not?"
England's fists clenched instinctively at his sides. Somehow the lure of France's cold and lifeless body has lost its appeal. No longer did it bring about the satisfaction and excitement he always fantasized it would. And he had been fantasizing about killing France all these years, but now… finding him dead and killing the man became two very different things along the long and merry path of their tumultuous relationship.
"Earth to limey! You've been gripin' about Frenchy since this shit hit the fan! Now we finally got the order, yer just gonna sit on yer ass?"
That slightly got England's attention. Enough for him to blink; His murky thoughts momentarily averted by the boy's wayward manner – he was never able to curb that appalling crassness… (And he wasn't even sitting, thank you very much).
"Look," America began, his tone filled with impatient goading. "I know you two have been dreaming about killing each other since you were in your diappies… but don't you think it's a tad early to be mourning? That bastard is tougher than he'd have us think, I mean, nobody ever expects him to survive— not even *Wall Street! But he does all the freakin' time! I dunno how he does it… but damn if he has the audacity to die now…"
The scene beyond England's window slowly came into focus again, though still slightly tilted, like the view from a ship about to be overturned. The raging inferno, the gunshots, the screams, and explosions; every now and then the world shook and fractured and broke apart a little bit more, tipped to one side a bit more; as carnage and pandemonium mercilessly buffeted it— with it, England's state of mind.
He was out there, somewhere in this holocaust… How much less of France would remain to find?
America scratched his nose absentmindedly (something he often did when finding himself in an incredibly awkward situation). He shifts his feet and speaks uncharacteristically sombre, "Y'know, when I fought you for my freedom… I told him I wanted the pleasure of striking you down even just once – it wasn't a request – but he made me swear not to lay a finger on you. He said that pleasure was only his; the same way he'd never let himself die by any other hand except yours… sum'n' to do with being 'dearest enemies' and 'no sweeter death' and shit I think… T'was d'stupidest thing I've ever heard, but hey, he looked so doggone serious about it, I couldn't bring myself t'argue. So I just said, 'whatever man' and went with it. Dude wouldn't help me until I gave my word! (Though I'll never figure out how 'death' can be 'sweet' or how 'enemies' can be 'dear'… geez, now I know why they call it *'oxymoron'…)" The last part America grumbled almost incoherently. England didn't need to hear anyway.
The Englishman's eyes began to sting with an all-too-familiar warmth, but he refused to blink and set the emotions free. Why did he feel so irresolute about everything all of a sudden? Was he really afraid? Or worried? If not for his people, he would not have any need for such emotions. He didn't fear death, hell knows he welcomed it; But if this was fear, it was a different kind. It wasn't for his people or for himself…
"So uh… are y'gonna just sulk there watching the fireworks all day or what, huh?"
Slowly the Island Nation straightened up and turned to face his former colony.
"I do seem to have mended my appetite for hunting frogs."
-x-
"I know you can hear me!
"Wake up!"
With much difficulty, he finally manages to roll France's sturdy frame off the little girl, who was amazingly alive and unhurt save for a few scrapes and bruises. She shakily got to her feet and looked at her saviour with wide, watery eyes.
"Francis…!" England shook him urgently, slightly irked in the back of his mind by how his voice cracked and quaked.
But France remained unresponsive; his chest so still and face so serene, England felt his own eyes start to water.
The girl wobbled closer fearfully, "Est-ce que…?" (Is he…?)
"Non! Ne craignez rien! C'est impossible!" (No! Fear not! That would be impossible!) England snapped a bit harshly, abashed to be caught by a child coming so unhinged. He felt hot wetness escape his eyes and streak down his cheeks, carrying with it all the bottled-up fear and despair he felt. He hung his head defeated, soft sobs slipping from his lips.
"Vous… vous êtes anglais." (You… you're English.)
England looked up at her words and caught the astonishment in her eyes as it flitted from France's prone form in his lap, to him— to his bright green eyes; then back to his hands, which tightened instinctively around the unconscious Nation.
"Oui. Je suis." (Yes. I am.) He replied under his breath. And somehow he got the impression that she understood much more than just that.
A barrage of footsteps stole their attention, and the next instant the girl was being examined by a medical staff, and France was being hoisted off his arms. He watched helplessly – agonisingly; his eyes unwavering on the Nation's lifeless form as he was eased into a stretcher and carted away. England vaguely dismissed the nurse who tried to examine him as well – stressing that they needed more attention than him – and stepped back to give them room.
"Merci Monsieur Anglais!"
England turned just in time to catch a weak hug and a kiss which landed at the corner of his lips. He only had time to blush before she was led away too, waving at him shyly. Smiling as bravely as he could muster, he returned her gesture with his uninjured arm… waiting until they were out of sight, before he allows more tears to fall freely and his façade to crumble completely…
"De rien petite… Ce n'etait pas moi qui sauver votre vie…"
(It's nothing little one… It's not me who saved your life…)
-x-
There is nothing out here… nothing but the firestorm… nothing but howling death and destruction…
In the distance a siren blared its warning, a deafening rising wail— but it was more an omen of death now, as people frantically scrambled for shelter and children cried for their mothers; and the world shook and shattered one harrowing explosion after another. France looked around desperately at his city, at his people— and suddenly he couldn't move; it's as if his body was being branded with searing white-hot iron from the inside and being brutally ripped apart. He collapsed to the earth, clutching at his chest in an effort to outlast the paralyzing pain – a pain so intense, he couldn't even feel the tears that flooded his eyes or hear the screams that escaped his lips. From his lopsided view on the ground all he could see, hear and feel— was his heart… breaking to pieces… along with his beloved Paris. Summoning all his will power and using it to fuel his failing body, he rolls over and struggles to knees, pushing against the floor with all his might to get back on his feet, the pain unrelenting. Merde. I can't die, my people need me... As his vision slowly regained lucidity, so did the dissonance of absolute bedlam all around him. When he rushed forward through the smog of smoke and dust to help a pair of elderly civilians who had fallen in the middle of the street, another deafening BOOM rips through the city. The force of the blast sends him pitching forward, almost snapping his spine in two as he smashed into a solid brick wall. He heard several cemented sections disjoin and crumble and fall – then he wasn't so sure anymore if it was the wall or his ribs. He was drowning in his own blood— and he commanded himself to breathe…! But his lungs wouldn't take in any air, his heart seemingly arrested at the shock, the world shook and spun all over again, and all around him, his people and his beautiful capital continued to fall…
Non… mon dieu… s'il vous plait…
Rendre ça fin!
(No... my god... please...)
(Make it stop!)
-x-
France, je connaitre tu m'entends…
Réveillez-toi!
(France, I know you can hear me...)
(Wake up!)
France's eyes flutter open. At first, his surroundings are a whitewashed-haze, but slowly a cracked ceiling comes into view, then a room… and…
Angleterre…?
"Welcome back… Thank God… I thought you'd never wake up."
The Englishman helped him as he gingerly heaved into a sitting position to make sure he was well awake. It felt like he had been asleep forever…
"Merde… 'ow long… 'ave I been out?"
"A fortnight," came the grim reply. "You were in a coma for the most of it."
France's gaze settled on England's face for a long while, lost in worried pools of verdigris before his dry lips cracked into a weak smile. "It felt like I was dead."
The Englishman's breath caught in his throat, a hint of pain flitting briefly upon his features. "You were."
France lifted his arm cautiously, and finding that it was working fine, reached to gently caress the younger Nation's cheek. "So zat is why you 'ave zose awful bags un'zer your eyes, petit rosbif. You look like a starved panda."
"Unlike you, my looks are the least of my concerns!" England grumbled. "Besides, you're one to talk, I don't think I've ever seen you this un-fabulous before."
At that France laughed heartily, and plainly not a single iota of handsomeness was lost to him despite everything.
"I'm glad you're back." The Englishman whispered, finally getting it out of his chest.
France's emaciated frame leaned forward, pulling close to wrap his arms around England; who stiffened as a surge of warmth flooded his body ignited by the Frenchman's chest against his. Was this another one of his dreams…? Because it certainly felt like one; After too many restless nights by France's bedside, praying and dreaming that he would wake up, he couldn't tell anymore. But England closed his eyes and hugged back anyway, like he always did in those dreams. They stayed that way for some moments, slowly coming to terms with the rocky present and the not too distant past.
"Tu me manqué aussi, Ar'zzur." The Frenchman pulled away to give his companion an appraising stare; then satisfied that he wasn't dreaming himself, returns to their snug embrace. "You came for me like I knew you would… Merci de tout, mon coeur cher Angleterre."
"Actually… we have Ivan to thank for that." England confessed. Until the very last moment, his bosses remained obstinate despite his expedient appeals to come to France's aid. If not for Russia playing along, things might have been very different; He shuddered to think it. "Your home in Paris it's… not yet habitable. You're welcome to stay here while you recuperate."
France smiled brightly, "I know I'll be safe with you, mon cher ennemi…"
"Makes perfect sense," England huffed, as he was pulled into the bed to snuggle.
England tried his best not to shiver at the ticklish sensation of fingertips running through the fine hairs at the base of his nape; or soft chapped lips and fine stubble pressing into the sensitive skin under his jaw… True he had not shared a bed with France in eons – not since they were the equivalent of human teenagers in appearance – back when he was terrified stupid of thunderstorms. But just like before, they knew each other's presence mysteriously served a panacea for all ails, especially nightmares.
"I'll recover much faster with you taking care of me." France murmured in earnest.
"What, with my ace cooking?"
"Hah, alors! I feel like jumping and running around alread'zy~"
"Stop exaggerating frog. I cook fine."
"Perchance you 'ave not'zing save zose rationed river slugs of yours, oui? If so, zen I'm in luck. You just boil zem with a pinch of salt. What more could you possibly do to make zem taste any worse?"
"Shut it or I'll push you off."
"You would'zn't hurt a sick man."
"Try me."
France's eyes twinkled as he smiled playfully and England's heart did that familiar intoxicating flutter it always did in such instances. A feeling he missed actually... and thought would never feel again as he watched his childhood friend waste away for the past weeks, not knowing if he would ever wake up.
Feeling his cheeks burn, he graces France will a small smile in return, genuinely happy to be able to see those brilliant blue eyes again. The very ones he loved so much.
And in those precious moments, everything seemed right with the world… True, it would take a long time for them to rebuild and recover everything they've lost; but for now, they have everything they need; as the tranquil melody of twittering birds, the gentle breeze on their faces and the soft pressing of lips lull them both into a much deserved, peaceful dreamless sleep.
The End. Not.
Notes:
*'Dying is a long way from dead' - The Canadian soldier Arthur fought alongside with in WWII is Logan, yes, Wolverine. =3 (If you guessed this, lemme know and I just might give you a prize.) And that quote is from the very first Marvel Limited Series Wolverine #1. Loved him since I was 11 and the best thing about him is: He's not American. d: (Nothing against Americans, it's just that most popular superheroes already are.)
*Wall Street Journal & incomprehensible oxymoron - references to excerpts from: "Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong" by Nadeau & Barlow and "La Belle France" by Alistair Horne.
Again, I find myself writing whimsical pieces with sequences so random. I really have no idea why my brain keeps on doing that. Anyway, DocsToGo deleted most of my preliminary revisions of this and I deserve a virtual cheese cupcake for managing not to hurl any breakable objects in a fit of passing berserker fury. 8D *snikt*
(10/13/2012 - 08/04/201)
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