"A Nation Divided is Better Apart"
A/N: HELLO ALL. This is a little thing i wrote in my spair time, flitting between school and my lack-of-social life. So, this took me about three weeks to finish over-all, and i'm EXTREMELY proud of it. I warn, though, i might have missed a few spellings and whatnot. Please disregard those. ...please. owo
WARNING: If you are unomfortable with the thought of blood, gore, or open wounds- DO. NOT. READ. This gets pretty graphic, ad slightly OOC, and if you don't like that sort of stuff of have a verrrryyyyy weak stomach, i wouldn't advise reading this.
ANOTHER WARNING: This fic contains disturbing images, self mutilation, cutting and suicidal thoughts, and language. So, i'm warning you now.. owo
DESCLAIMER: i don't, never have, and never will own these sexy, sexy people. Meh heh.
ONWARD TO ZE STORY!
He never knew it'd come to this.
The tears streamed down his face. The empty bottles of wine were scattered acrossed floors so cold they rivaled that of the arctic. He'd never knew he'd stoop so low, so vunerable to the influence, so vulnerable to that thought, the very thought he'd surpassed for years.
Would things be better, if he weren't alive?
He would never voice the question. Never say it aloud. Never hear the tinge of French kiss the filthy words.
Yet, he couldn't get them out of his head.
He knew, somewhere within him, that the answer was no. That his darling Seychellis would be heartbroken. That his beloved Jeanne, may her soul rest in peace, would be dissapointed in him, tears brought to her beautiful eyes.
Yet, his intoxicated mind, at that moment, said the answer was yes.
He wracked his mind for reasons to do it, for reasons to hurt himself. He thought to his sons, the faces with eyes that mirrored his own, the dissapointment that kissed their tear-stained cheeks when he gave them up, let them to life with Arthur.
Arthur.
The Brit was cold. He was hateful, and teasing. But.. he wasn't a bad person. He knew that, somewhere, he must care about the Frenchman. Said man thought and thought, thinking of signs that proved the Englishman cared for him.
He found none.
He knew it was stupid. And he begged with all his might, willed his body to stop. Begged it not to drag the shiny silver blade across his beautiful skin. Begged his mind to think of reasons, think of anything that the Brit had said or done that proved he would care if Francis was gone.
But, once he started, he could stop.
Slice after slice, the blade edged into tan, smooth skin, uncalloused by scars or wounds, dug deep into the nerves and flesh, ripping it, parting it. A sea of red.
He couldn't help but laugh a drunken chuckle.
Another cut, another laugh, another reason why he shouldn't live. Why his blood should run dry, and why his mind should shut down, his body stop working. Tears streamed from sea-blue eyes, blond curls falling over wet cheeks. In a moment of mere minutes, his left arm was covered from wrist to elbow in horizontal slits, all flowing a beautiful shade of crimson.
It only figured his blood was gorgoues as well.
He looked around, his eyes landing first on the edge of the tub. Blinking hazilly, he leaned over the side and released the contents of his stomach into the porceline bath. Coughing, he leaned back aaginst the wall, the smell bothering him none. It was better then smelling the metal of the blade.
He sighed, resting his chin on his chest. Eyes locked on the buttons that littered his shirt he slowly, but surely, pulled the buttons appart with his good hand, the other draped haphazardly across the rim of the rub, stainging the pure white red.
As soon as the shirt was open, his chest exposed, he picked the razor back up and began to work on the skin there.
Small little lines, large gashes that ran inches wide and deep. He laughed, the blood running down along his hips and pooling on the floor in small splashes. He couldn't ignore the playful plop! that each drop made as it joined the others.
Not moments later, he was finished.
He smiled at his art, a beautiful horizon of a crimson sunset. He lay back against the bathroom wall, his clean arm drapping across his eyes. A dark laugh escaped his lips as he whispered,
"Nothing is worth it anymore."
"...Oi, Frog, you in here?" The sound of the front door opening made his heart flutter. Why was Arthur here? He never visited! And this, of all times to show up unnanounced!
Merde.
Francis listened closely, so in-tune to his senses, that he heard each and every footstep the Brit made as he walked along the marbled floors. If he listened close enough, he could hear the crude remarks he made about 'taste and colour' as he walked. It made the Frenchman chuckle.
The footsteps stopped.
"...Frog?" Francis blinked lightly, moving his clean hand off of his eyes, and laying it lightly over the top of the toilet. Arthur couldn't have heard him, right? It was just a small chuckle.
Not that it made much difference anyways. The Brit was bound to find him.
"Frog, where the bloody hell are yo-" A face, a small, childish face with bright green eyes and toussled blond hair filled the doorway, large eyebrows filling up most of his forehead. He stood there, one hand on the door, the other dangling lifelessly by his side.
Those beautiful jade eyes widened and he fell to his knees.
"F-Fr... What did you do? W-Why..." The Brit slowly made his way to Francis, his hand reaching out to touch the edge of his bloodied shirt. Arthur had seen many battles of his time, many soilders deaths and explosions.
But he'd never seen something like this happen to someone he cared about.
Francis chuckled, his half-lided eyes gazing at the Englishman silently. He simply nodded once, flicking a numb hand towards the side of the tub- there, resting on the floor in a puddle of his blood, was the razor.
Arthur's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no words came out. He sat back on his legs, his hands clenched in his pants,
"Why... why would you do this to yourself, Francis?"
The Frenchman remained silent. He looked away from the Brit's eyes, shame and regret filling them. He closed them silently, trying to retend that, if he did so, Arthur would just dissapear.
A loud crack rang out through the bathroom.
Francis opened his eyes, recoiling from the force of Arthur's palm on his cheek. The Brit's face was bright red and there, in the corner of his eyes were gathering tears, thretening to fall.
Francis had never seen Arthur cry.
"You... stupid, immature... s-stupid..." At first, the Brit's voice was a yell. But after the first two words, it shrank to nothing more then a mere whisper. "So stupid.."
Francis, truly, didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't know the sound that would come out, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't like it. The walls of his throat felt dry, and he new if he spoke, Arthur wouldn't be able to hear him.
Arthur never heard him.
Said man hung his head, covering his face with his hands and let a shaky sob out from between his lips. Tears ran freely down his face.
"This is... all my fault."
"Mon Angleterre-" Francis was right- his voice felt foreighn. Like his lips didn't want to make out the words, didn't want to put up the effort of speaking. Arthur sat up sharply, causing the Frenchman to wince and prepared for another smack. But, when he opened his eyes, he felt a lump form in his throat at what he was met with.
Arthuir was kissing his wounds.
The man still had tears streaming from his eyes, but as he straddled the Frenchman, that diodn't really seem important. Without touching him at all with any other part of his body, his hands resting by Francis's hips and his knees beside his thighs, he leaned down, green orbs wide and focused as he placed a small, chaste kiss to a gash near the man's collar. The tears spilled from his cheeks, crashing against the FRenchman's bare skin, and running into other cuts- the salt from them burning like hell. He cringed at the sting, but stayed relatively still as Arthur continued along his chest, down towards his abdoming them back up , kissing the one's he missed.
Francis could feel the tears pricking at his eyes. He watched, still completely silent as Arthur moved over him, the red, sticky liquid clinging to the Brit's perfect lips. His blood. His pain.
He was trying to kiss away the pain.
Arthur sat up then, sitting on his haunches, again, without touching Francis at all, and looked right into those deep, bright blue eyes,
"Francis.." He tried to wipe at his tears with his sleeve, cleaning the blood from his lips as well, but they continued to fall freely- a deluge of fear and sadness escaping down his face. He looked back to Francis, trying to fit his mouth around his words without sobbing, "I... I don't know why you did this. I might not ever know, i might find out tomorrow." He paused, taking a deep breathe and trying to calm himself, "But.. P-People only do this kind of stuff... because they're u-upset, and they need physical pain to forget about the emotional." Tears began to well in his eyes again as he sniffed, "B-But, you... you always seemed so happy. I mean, i-i know we've had our... tifts... in the past, but t-t-they were nothing this bloody serious that you had to... had to.." He shuddered, holding back a sob and the urge to just wail and scream and cry out. He needed to reserve himself- no matter the situation, he was a gentleman.
"That you had to hurt yourself... like this." He tried to contain it, he really did. His body shook with sobs and the tears were flowing freely once again. He let out a shaky breathe, pressing his fifsts to his eyes, "You shouldn't... shouldn't have done this, Francis. Look at you!" Francis looked across his arm and down his cheast, his throat closing off even more then it already had. Emotion and sadness erupted in his chest, and he looked at Arthur, meeting his eyes,
"Mon-"
"No!" Arthur shook his head, removing his hands and placing them on the Frenchman's shoulders wich were, thankfully, free of cuts. He shook his head, hair falling into his face, "No. You had no right to do this to yourself, no bloody right at all. You... you're a great person, Francis. And-and i don't give you enough credit for that. No one does." He paused, blinking the tears and hair away, "But... but this, this isn't how things should have happened. You could have c-came and talked to me, o-or one of the others, we would have listened!" Francis closed his eyes slowly, opening them and shaking his head gently,
"Art-"
"Goddamnit, frog!" Arthur was yelling again, the tears flowing more heavilly, his eyes blodshot, "I love you, okay? I fucking love you!" Francis seemed taken aback, eyes wide as Arthur continued, yelling and crying, a mixture of gasps and sobs between each word, "I love you! I love you so fucking much, and here you are, laying on your bathroom floor, bleeding from your bloody-fucking chest, and your arm! Your arm..." He stopped yelling, his words but a whisper, "I fucking love you, and you've no idea how much it hurts... how much it hurts to see you, laying on your bathroom floor, bleeding." He opened his eyes, finally, and stared straight into Francis's, a small smile on his lips, "I love you, and i'm sorry i didn't say it sooner."
Francis sat up then, leaning foreward slightly to press his lips to Arthur's, smiling despite the pain riplling through his damaged body. He pulled away, his own tears now slipping from his blue orbs,
"I am happy to hear this, mon Angleterre." He paused, lurching foreward slightly, pulling his good arm around Arthur's back and resting it there, a one-armed hug. Arthur began to cry again, crying against Francis's shoulder, sobbing and wailing and letting it all out- the fear, the shame, the sadness. Francis smiled softly, whispering into the man's ear,
"Je t'aime aussie, Arthur."
Both men couldn't help buit smile through their tears.
A/N: aaaaand, that's my fic owo um... thank you for reading, and DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW! even if you hated it. Go ahead, i really don't care. Just click that little button right there and write away~