miikka-xx: researching european history while imagining francis non-conning everyone during the napoleonic era is really, really unhealthy. trust me.
title: to the beholder
rating: T
summary: Francis is undeniably beautiful and Arthur tries to understand why. Napoleonic!France/Arthur. Complete.
disclaimer: naaah, though there is enough blatant slash to fulfill my cravings.
warning(s): one swear word! or two. francis molesting everyone and being sexy.
to the beholder
Francis is so beautiful at his apogée, as he calls it, and it almost hurts to look at him for too long. His blonde hair falls in soft waves like molten gold, his eyes as bright and challenging as the sparkling water of the Indian Ocean Arthur sails through, his mouth being pursed and pink, stained with blood and rose petals and his smile cuts through the dark - white as Russia's winter he has marched through.
Arthur shrinks away, busies himself with building factories and dressing his queen in Asian silk, and tries to ignore the way Francis straddles Austria, his fingers elegantly pilfering the pockets and plucking away the Italian states like it's nothing - nope, nothing at all. Arthur would think after being beaten back five times during one campaign would motivate Roderich to stop and let Francis have his way and be done with. But no, the damned idiot doesn't even pause to gather a sufficient army before barging through and dying not so gloriously - white uniforms stained with lifeblood.
Eventually, Francis gets to slip his fingers (long, elegant, pianist fingers) through the short cropped, white hair of Prussia, making Gilbert stiffen and hand over Berlin reluctantly. He undresses the young man and admires his battle scars and the way the inflicted bruises colour the white skin into blending shades of red, purple, blue, green - 'c'est un arc-en-ciel,' smiles Francis and Arthur's breath catches because he is so stunning, so damn beau -
And then Francis, so arrogant that Arthur wants to punch his mouth and bloody his teeth, marches through General Winter's best attempts to kill with cold and snow. There is a sick satisfaction in Arthur's gut when Russia walks forward, setting fire to Moscow and laughing - so sick and psychotic and desperate. France comes back, a slump in his shoulders, but still so pretty that if Arthur didn't know who he was, he would've fucked him hard in some dark, dirty alleyway.
He fights too, accepting treaties with Austria (that stupid Roderich, so impatient at times and so desperate at others) and Prussia (with Gilbert's scowl so severe, it might just etch itself permanently there) and even Russia (Ivan's eyes so cold and calculating that they send shivers up everyone's spines).
They fight and they fight and they fight and Francis looks as amazing as he always did - but better. Arthur can't bear to even glance at him without wanting ruin him so completely. He wants to break Francis, make his mouth bleed, his pink skin bloom with green and blue coloured bruises... Arthur fights and he snaps Francis in half on a rainy day at Waterloo.
'You took him,' growls Francis, spitting blood onto the muddied ground, as his silk hair drips with raindrops, still looking stunning despite mud on his cheek and uniform ruined completely. 'You took my Napoléon.'
'Saint-Hélène,' replies Arthur with a tight smile; and the satisfaction he expected to feel at this moment is severely lacking.
'I know where!' the other snaps, smearing the mud off the high cheekbones and stands up, though wincing, only to turn on his heel and walk away.
'It's for the better,' says Arthur to the retreating back, staring blankly at the red uniform so stained with dirt that it appears brown instead.
Francis pauses, tilts his head to the side so Arthur can see only half of his face, when the Frenchman shrugs.
Francis looks so... so... that Arthur feels his heart swell because no one has looked so - so - when they have been defeated. Yet that golden hair, the pink lips, the glinting blue eyes and Arthur thinks that Francis always looked beautiful, arrogant or broken.
It hurts, just a little, and maybe he's a bit jealous, but Francis's bitter laugh echoes through the battlefield just then and Arthur doesn't pity him anymore - just hates him.
'C'est plus facile comme ça, mon chérie?' cackles the Frenchman and Arthur doesn't know what he's answering - the statement or the relationship - and maybe he doesn't want to.
an: oh fruk. my yaoi otp of this fandom. i think the 19th century has so much francis/everyone potential. i just want to write fics for every date i come across.
french:
apogée – peak
c'est un arc-en-ciel - it's a rainbow
c'est plus facile comme ça, oui, mon chérie? - it's easier like this, my love?
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