"The Bitter End"
America sat in his seat, stuck at another World Meeting, and frowned. Across from him sat England, who was diligently taking notes and whispering to France every now and then. Considering their well-known mutual hatred of one another, those whispers and the fact that England had willingly sat next to the flirtatious Frenchman was extremely odd. America, despite his easy acceptance of the unusual, found it hard to accept this. This strange behavior between the two turbulent countries was not something America was enjoying.
…
Was it just him or was France lacking his exuberant shine?
The Frenchman seemed to miss his usual glow. If America was honest, France seemed a little gaunt and pale. His eyes were downcast instead of roaming the room like that of a sexual predator. America had caught, more than once, Canada glancing worriedly at the Frenchman and had seen England willingly put a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeeze. America didn't know what was going on with France and England, but he knew he didn't like it.
"Und that concludes today's meeting." Germany said finally, "Please make sure you don't leave any of your belongings when you go."
In under a minute, France had ran swiftly from the room, leaving everyone slightly surprised. England sighed and went after him, resigning to come back for his suitcase after he found France. America, being the cool, sly person that he was, followed discreetly after them, wanting to know just what the hell is going on.
"Francis?" America heard England ask softly, "Everything alright, old chap?"
He heard a sniff and then the Frenchman said, "Non, mon Angleterre, but I will be. Time heals all wounds, non?"
"…It's been well over five-hundred year, Francis…"
"Oui, but it still hurts like it happened just yesterday…"
America leaned around the corner in time to see England embrace the sniffling France, "…I'm…I'm sorry, Francis…I never should have done that to you…"
"It is…alright, mon Angelterre. You were young. Young and stupid." France said as he rested his head on the Englishman's shoulder, "We all were, non? I just wish…"
England held the Frenchman tighter, "I know, Francis. I know…no amount of apologizing will ever make up for what I did…just…just know that I'm here, yes? I've got a shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk to when you need it."
If America hadn't been watching the scene himself, he'd had never believed that he was watching England apologize. To France, of all people. He was offering support too, which was strange as well. America was starting to think he was hallucinating. If he wasn't…if he wasn't, then he really should just turn around and go back to the meeting room, get his stuff and go home. This was none of his business and he really didn't want to know what happened next…
"I can ask you une question, oui?" France murmured, pulling back to look England in the eye, "Why did you do that, Arthur? Why did you take her away? Why did you take mon cher amour away from me?"
England swallowed thickly, "I…I don't know, Francis…"
"She was everything pour moi! Jeanne was everything and you took her away!" France yelled as he jerked away from the green-eyed nation, "Vous l'avez tuée et j'ai au moins le droit de savoir pourquoi!"
"I…I was upset. Upset and jealous. I…I was just a boy, Francis. A young and reckless boy." England said hesitantly, not wanting to upset France anymore that he already was, "You kept teasing and bullying me. I…I don't take too well to being shoved around, Francis. You know that. Bloody hell, you pulled my pants down, sheared my hair, shoved me to the ground…"
"Aussi? Come now, mon Angelterre. What else?" France spat at the Englishman, "That cannot possibly be only reasons why you killed her!"
America paused…say what now?
England looked at the ground, ashamed of his past, "You were taking everything from me, mon grand frère…My language, my land, my people…if I hadn't have pulled away…the suffocation would have killed me…I know killing her hurt you and I know you'll never truly forgive me for it, I'll never forgive myself it either."
"Je vous j'étouffais?" France said softly, "Mon amour, why didn't you tell me I was suffocating you? I would have changed."
"I did tell you. You just never listened." England glanced up at the Frenchman with a glimmer of their usual ambivalence, "All you were concerned with was being better than me and rubbing it in my face. That and…and…that bloody woman…if you can call her a woman. You may have loved her, Francis, but that bloody witch was crazed. All she wanted was a blood bath and that's exactly what she got. We both fell for it…and you still are…
"Through anything and everything, I still think of you as mon grand frère. My big brother. I'm tired of apologizing to you, Francis. Come and find me when you're ready to accept that fact that the past is the bloody past and this is the now. Jeanne is dead and gone and nothing is going to change that." England glared at France, all the hurt from their shared past surfacing in his emerald eyes, "You know where to find me when you're ready to face the truth. Good day to you, frog."
England turned on his heel and stormed back towards the meeting room, not noticing America who was in no way hidden from view. After hearing the door slam shut, America peeked around the corner once more, only to see France sliding down the wall, his legs unable to hold him up, and covered his face. Worried that something was wrong, America hurried over and knelt in front of the man.
"Ah, Francis? You okay, dude?" America said awkwardly, not entirely comfortable with the odd acting Frenchman.
France shook his head, miserably, "Non, Alfred. I'm not bien. I don't think I ever will be."
"Aw, c'mon now." America said, reaching out to lightly pat on the sad man's knee, "It'll be okay … whatever beef you got with England, he'll forgive you for. I mean, look at what I did! I practically ripped him apart when I revolted and he's forgiven me. I know that, even though the little guy's pretty steamed right now, he'll eventually cool off."
"Non, he wont…mon Angelterre is in pain and I caused it. I may not have known that I was the source of his hurt, but that doesn't mean I am any less guilty." France whispered, shame filling him.
America sighed sadly. This fight was over his head. The only thing he could do is sit back and watch it unravel itself. It was quite the internal battle, for the bespectacled nation, being the hero and all. However, America knew that this was something private, something between England and France. America just hoped that they settled this soon.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
France had to find England. France had been hurting and he'd be completely oblivious to England's pain. That had been extremely rude and France was anything but. Knowing that England wouldn't have wanted to sleep on his hurt, he headed towards the bar in the hotel that the nations were all staying in, knowing he'd probably be there to drink the pain away.
Boy, was he right.
France opened the door to the bar just in time to see England finish chugging what looked to be his fifth four ounce British ale. The Frenchman sighed at the rough looking man sitting at the bar. England always did seem to get more drunk when he was upset and five ales would no doubt get him sloshed.
"You…you stupid frog…I knew…I just…I just knew that you'd…get mad enough to leave me…you…you told me that you'd always bloody be there…be there for me…" the green-eyed nation hiccuped and ignored the tear that leaked down the side of his face, "B…b…but…'s a lie…a big, fat, stinky, stupid, bloody, french lie…bloody coward…w…wanker…"
France frowned at the drunk man, "Angelterre…"
"N-no! Don't say a bloody word, you…you…f…frog." England shook his head and tumbled from his bar stool, luckily caught by France, "What…do you think you're doing…you bloody twit…Get your…frog's legs…off me…I don't…don't want your bloody help…okay? You…you stupid…stupid frog…said you'd never leave…leave me…no matter what…no matter what I did…promised me…bloody fucking liar!"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Ma petite Angelterre! Why are crying, ma chere?"
A young England trembled as France wiped the tears from his face, "I'm hica-afraid…"
"Of what mon petit?" France asked as he picked up the crying child and held him close, "I have told you time and time again that le croque-mitaine is nothing but a tale meant to scare little garçons et filles. I've made sure Spain will never try to trick you like that again."
The small, emerald eyed child didn't settle. Instead, he cried harder. Big Brother was so kind to him, but was going to be like all the others. He'd be just like Scotland and Wales and Ireland and would scream and curse at him. He'd throw rocks and shoot arrows at him just like the others.
"I'm…I'm n-not afraid of th-that, mon frère…"
"Then tell me, mon petit. What has you so frightened?" France asked, trying to quell the terrified child, "Come now. Tell you grand frère Francis."
The little English boy began to bawl even harder, "I…I'm scared that…that you'll hate me…like everyone else. You…you're just gonna hate me…and drive me away…just like Allistor and Dylan and Alain!"
France looked at England in surprise. How could his little Angelterre's do that to their own brother! England was nothing more than a child! What had those three been thinking, throwing stones and running the beautiful emerald-eyed nation off?
"Arthur? Ma chère? Look at me." France ordered softly, gently, as he put the young nation on the ground, then knelt in front of him, "Arthur, mon Angelterre, look at me please."
France forcibly tilted his chin up so he could lock gazes with the boy, "No matter what you do, no matter who you side with, I will always be there for you. I am your France. You are my Angelterre. I am your Francis. You are my Arthur. I promise that no matter what may happen, I will always be there for you. I will never hate you. We'll always be frères, Angelterre. Frères jusqu'au bout. Brothers till the bitter end."
That was when England smiled. As long as France loved him and wanted to be his brother, everything would be okay.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
France sighed, but didn't respond to the ranting. It was sad, really. It was horrible to know that he was the cause of all this. Despite what England had done to his dear Jeanne d'arc, France had broken a promise. A child's promise. A promise of brotherhood. France had unknowingly broken his dear England's heart, probably what little remained of it after all the previous cruelty he'd gone through at the hands of his three elder brothers.
"Mon Angelterre I owe you an apology." France murmured, still holding up the drunken Englishman, "However, Arthur, I think it can wait. I should get you back to your room and tucked into your bed."
After somehow managing to pull out his wallet and pay for England's drinks, France pulled one of the man's arms around his shoulders and walked him out of the bar room.
"What…hic…what're you…?"
France hushed the English speaking nation, "Hush, Angelterre. I simply wish to help you back to your room. It would be better if we settled our problems in private."
"I…I am not…am not bloody sleeping with…with you…Francis." England protested weakly as they stumbled onto the elevator and pressed the right button.
"…I was not thinking of doing anything sexual with you, ma chère. I just wanted to get you safely put in bed."
Finally, finally the elevator opened and they managed to make it to England's room without incident. France gently laid England on the bed, then removed his tie, belt, and shoes. Suddenly he heard a pathetic whimpering noise and he looked worriedly up at England's face. The man was crying, silent tears, no where near as dramatic as he had as a child. France smiled sadly and reached up to wipe the tears away.
"Arthur—"
"M'sorry that I killed Joan. I tried to stop, at least stall Therage. I knew…knew you would be deva…devastated if something happened to her…"
"But you did not like her, non?"
"No…b-but you did…and that's all that mattered to me…"
France's smile warmed. So his little Angelterre cared about his opinion. France had known that, but hearing England say that he had put something of France's desire before his own made that secret, frozen, unforgiving part of his heart melt a little.
"You know, mon amour, for the longest time, I thought you hated me…"
England shook his head groggily, "I didn't hate you, Francis. I don't…you're my bloody grand frère. Frères jusqu'au bout…Brothers till the bitter end."
It was then that England finally passed out and France began to relax. As comforting as the Englishman's words had been, that did not mean France had been unstrained. His poor Angelterre. He was going to have such a a hang over in the morning. France reached up and brushed some hair away from England's forehead,
The Frenchman pulled away to set out two aspirin and a glass of water for England when he next awoke. Then, and only then after he'd made sure his precious friend was taken care of did he kiss him on the cheek and whisper gently in his ear.
"Je t'aimerai toujours, ma petite Angleterre. Dormez bien doux, cher petit frère."