Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. It belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and any and all other respective owners.
Please note that the parts with normal text take place in the present in the story (August 26, 1944), and the italicized parts are memories.
When Paris was taken by the Nazis, France got drunk on whiskey, and somewhere in the trenches, England got drunk on wine.
France didn't fight. England knew. France didn't fight when Paris was taken, but England would certainly fight to get it back; he swore it. As he watched the flower of an explosion bloom out in the battlefield, he swore that he would battle Germany a thousand times to free Paris. His newfound resolve did not serve to rid him of the images of France, tired and sad, that had plagued him since this war began.
As centuries flew by and the world changed around them, some nations began to turn cold and cynical. They are immortal, so they watched as their people lived and died, over and over and over. They could never fall in love, they could never laugh without the pressures of war or suffering, and they could never truly lead their own lives.
"It is eternal torture," those nations would say, "not being able to die."
France was not one of those nations. He retained boundless warmth and passion, always with a brilliant smile on his face. He insisted that as long as his people were happy, so was he.
England knew better.
One day in the trenches, England and France had a meeting. France looked unkempt and dishevelled, something the France that England knew would never have permitted in a million years. England vividly remembers that his hair was grimy, his face ashen and his lips drawn together in a tight frown. He remembers that his eyes were more grey than blue, that his uniform was more brown than red and that he was more charcoal than gold.
France has lived for too long, and he began to turn as detached and sorrowful as the rest. It just so happened that, unlike the others, he is skilled in the art of masquerading.
The walls of the trench were low; they just reached England's nose. It didn't matter, because they were still the walls of a cage. They housed wild animals with sharp claws and bloodied teeth, ready to be released upon whomever their ringmaster wished.
France pretended to be someone he is not for who-knows-how-long. He wore a gilded mask of brilliant smiles and flirtatious remarks and poised swords, upholding his duty to be "the country of love". And so, when England first saw the terrible despondency behind France's eyes, he wondered if anything France ever did or said was real.
"Thank you, England, for fighting for me," France said, small and fragile like a child. "I would have been alright, but thank you."
"I couldn't leave you to him, even if you are a disgusting, slimy frog," England answered, trying to take jabs at France to re-establish some semblance of normalcy between them. France hadn't insulted him once since he arrived, and England couldn't stand it.
France didn't respond to England's attempt to get a rise out of him, just shrugged. England was disheartened to say the least; France had always had enough energy to pick fights with him, even during the Great War.
England began to see that France plastered on fake smiles and forced out terse laughs. He began to see the cracks in France's façade, the little things that made everything he did more of an act than a reality. But England knew - knows - that France couldn't be seen as lost. A millennium of death taught him that, at the very least, and it was not a lesson that would be so easily erased from his mind.
"I am sure I could have managed on my own," France murmured when the silence between them grew too heavy.
"Yeah, and pigs fly," England scoffed. "You've always been a blooming surrender monkey."
Again, France didn't snap at him or even call him names. There was just...nothing.
England battled for France back. Operation Overlord was a decisive victory for his army, and Britain and its allies slowly retook land in France from the Nazis. And when America, the Resistance and the Free French forces take back Paris, England immediately goes to find France.
England hated how nonchalant France had become about everything, hated how he couldn't care less if he lived or died.
He hated how this France was just a mask.
There are parades in the streets, crowds cheering and crying. Nazi flags are being ripped or burned, soldiers of the French Second Armoured Division are marching down Champs-Élysées, people are on their knees, thanking whatever force they believe is out there. Birds seem to be singing merry tunes, and England is sure he saw someone crack open a bottle of champagne and share it around. It is a joyous time.
But France is not there. France is not celebrating. So, England keeps walking.
France pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and took one - England noticed that there were only a few left - before offering another to England. He refused, mostly because he knew that France was a heavy smoker, and he certainly complained that the tobacco rations he received were not nearly enough already. France shrugged and put his cigarette between his lips, producing a lighter from his pocket and touching its flame to the end. An ember caught and smoke began to curl into the night sky, mingling with the ash and the soot and the dust from the battlefield that already choked the air. England noticed that there were no stars. There were never any stars.
Far away, there was the ear-splitting rat-atat-atat of a machine gun.
Somehow, England knows where France will be; Île de la Cité. That's what comes with centuries of knowing someone. He knows that it's a place that he goes to to think, with the Seine right beside him and the sounds of the city foggy in the distance. England goes, leaving the festivities behind. He is not French, nor did he win back Paris; he shouldn't be there anyways.
When England arrives, he finds France on a bench, staring blankly forward in a deserted park while his people celebrate.
It started raining, like it always seemed to those days, grey and drab and not France. It did nothing to stop the muggy air from clinging to England's skin.
There were shouts in the distance, the sound of boots on dirt and then more gunshots. England saw France wince a little and he grimaced. Pain was not something one should show on the battlefield.
Mud began lapping at their boots, but France didn't seem to notice; he only shielded his cigarette from the rain and took another long drag. The smoke blended in with the rest of the landscape.
England mused that the rain on France's face made him look like he was crying, and maybe he was. Or maybe the sky was crying for him.
England makes his way over to France and sits down beside him on the bench. It's forest green, and the paint is chipped and peeling.
France doesn't seem to notice his presence, just continues staring at nothing. He doesn't look happy or sad that the Nazis are gone, just that endless nothingness that England knows that he has been hiding this entire time.
France smelled of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. It was branded into England's mind, because it was so unlike France, just like the rain. England can recall it like he is still there, can still taste its wrongness.
"...France?" England asks, warily, because France looks fragile, like porcelain bound to shatter.
France doesn't answer, just keeps staring. England feels his stomach drop.
"France?"
He still doesn't answer, and England wonders if he's more doll than nation.
"France?" England is desperate now, terrified that France will never be the same and so, by extension, he won't either.
France doesn't even spare him a glance. England is sure he can see France's endless torture of guns and bombs and grenades reflected in his gaze.
"Arthur…?"
The sound of England's human name coming from France's lips was foreign, like a sword wrapped in silk.
France's eyes swirled with anguish and hate and despair, dark and cold like the mud around them.
"Hm?" was all England could think of to say back.
"Francis, dear Lord, look at me!" England grabs France's chin and forces him to regard his presence.
France flinches away from his touch, and the fear pooling in England's stomach worsens. He lets go of France like he has been burned.
At last, recognition flashes in France's eyes.
"England?" there is the ghost of a smile on his lips, weak like it always seems to be lately, but at least it's genuine.
France took a step towards him. "Would you care if I died?"
England took a step back, because France had that look in his eye, that glint of emptiness that sooner or later, he would try to fill with sex. England did not want to become tangled up in that.
"Yes," England answered without a moment of hesitation, eying France warily. "If you died, where would I be? There's no England without France."
England smiles a little in return, and he finds himself placing his hands on the hollows of France's cheeks. He feels the coarseness of the ghost of a beard under his fingers, feels the jagged bones and the sharp edges. France looks old, tired, looks perhaps more like a skeleton than a man. He looks worse than he did in the trenches that day.
England kisses him.
France stepped forward again, and England subsequently stepped back.
"At least someone cares," France muttered, mostly to himself. "Because I don't anymore."
Step.
Back.
Step.
Back.
They began playing a childish game of tag in a trench in the middle of a war, a game that neither could ever win or lose.
England isn't entirely sure why. Maybe it's because he hasn't seen France for years, maybe it's because he thought he was dead, maybe it's because there's no England without France. It doesn't matter, because France's lips are on his. France is alive. France is alive.
He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes.
England hit the wall of the trench, and for a moment, he considered bolting. But when France reached out, he didn't. He froze.
France caressed his cheek, and England felt half-healed cuts and angry blisters on his knuckles. His eyes were cold and blank.
"Arthur, if we die, promise that you will be buried next to me in that field that we met in."
The kiss is hard and desperate, like they're both trying to make sure that this is real, that they're real, and for a moment, England wonders if it was too much. But France kisses him back, almost mechanically, and then they're kissing on a bench in an empty park in a recently liberated Paris. England is still in his military uniform and France still has a red Nazi band on his upper arm, but they're kissing.
This is their sanctuary.
England hesitated. Wouldn't he rather be buried in his own country than some field in Normandy? But then again, France was the first friend he ever made. He supposed he owed him, for making his childhood a little less miserable.
"Sure," he finally answered.
France shook his head, unsatisfied. "Promise me."
There are cheers in the distance, but they don't matter. Nothing else matters. France, breathlessly, asks England to spend the night. England says yes.
France takes him by the hand and leads him to his apartment. He avoids the main streets, the parades and the crowds, and they wind their way through ancient alleyways, their boots clicking on the cobbles. The entire way, they can't keep their hands off each other; they steal chasté kisses and card fingers through hair. For England, it's because he's trying to memorize each detail of France, trying to remind himself that he's alive and he's free; for France, it's because he has someone with him who is not foreign or rough.
England blinked, and for a long moment, France stared at him. His gaze burned, even in the cold of the rain.
"Promise. Me," he repeated with gritted teeth.
England imagined himself, dead, lying beneath a mound of dirt in that field in Normandy. He imagined himself holding France's hand, a reflection of them the first day they met, when France's sky blue dress swirled in the breeze and England was young and foolish.
"I promise," England said, and he meant it.
France unlocks the door and lets England in, and England doesn't even wait for it to close to start undoing his buttons. His fingers are trembling. His shirt is cast to the floor and France kisses him again and again and again.
They don't even make it to the bedroom.
The ghost of a smile cracked France's lips.
"Thank you," he sighed, like a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. He sounded helpless, small. "Thank you."
England couldn't stop thinking of him and France holding each other in a grave in Normandy. Maybe they would cross into death together, too. He couldn't decide if that would be a bad thing or not.
They are ravenous and feral, hungry and wild, England because he aches for France, and France because he aches for release. They're on the floor and there's too much teeth, but England just wants France to hold him, so he ignores it.
One is drunk on passion, on rosewater and red wine; the other is drunk on sorrow, on hollow wind and whiskey. And it isn't the way it should be.
England shrugged. He didn't understand why France wanted this, especially after fighting against each other for more than a millennium.
There are fresh scars all over France's body, jagged and cruel. They come in all shapes and sizes, but each one is a heart-wrenching reminder that France is still so different from how he should be, that he's old and tired and that the passion is a mask. England traces them, commits them to memory.
There was a pause, filled by the patter of rain on mud and the distant gunshots that still shattered the stillness. England knew he should be there with them instead of here with France, but he made no move to leave.
The silence was deafening, because they always had something to say to each other. It pressed on England's shoulders, weighing him down, heavy like lead. They were England and France, and they always argued. This quiet just reminded England of how much this awful war had changed France, reminded him that everything he had been was fake; he was too used to the passionate France, to the France that would fight with him just for the sake of it, to the France that always bounced back.
France is everything in those moments that they share. For a while, the war doesn't exist, just each other and the electricity. England is so glad that he can feel France's skin beneath his fingers, so glad that he can remind himself that France survived.
Sometimes, France trembles, and England wonders, enraged, what those krauts did to him.
Lost in his musings, England didn't notice France until his arms were wrapped around him.
He stood, frozen in place, as France buried his face in the crook of his neck. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes swirled in the air around them, and warning bells went off in England's head. France shouldn't smell like this. He should smell like lavender and roses and wine.
"Thank you," France repeated. "Thank you. For everything."
They finally get to France's bed, and slowly, they become quieter and softer and more reserved. France falls asleep with his arm slung haphazardly over England's abdomen, but England remains far too awake. Eyes wide, he stares at the ceiling, illuminated slightly by the streetlamps of Paris outside the window. It began to rain a while ago, and it makes everything look ghostly pale.
England listens to France's heartbeat, perhaps a bit irregular from the fighting that's still going on in his country, but still calming.
They were both soaking and the rain was cold on their skin, but their embrace was warm. England, slow, unsure, hugged France back.
England rolls over and smiles a little at France's face, peaceful and slack in the rain-dappled moonlight. He traces over the curve of his lips and the arch of his nose and the shape of his jaw, and then wraps his arms around him. He is holding everything that's left of France.
He was holding everything that was left of France. He was holding the trenches and the rubble and the guns and the Louvre. He was holding the ash and the lavender fields and the graves of too many.
France pulled away.
France pulls England closer.
England is sure he's gripping France hard enough that it would hurt, but France doesn't stir. England never wants France to leave, not when they survived and are together.
Realization hits him, a tidal wave of relief and melancholy; they survived. They could be in that grave England promised he would be buried in, holding each other in death, but they aren't.
They're alive.
But alive isn't living, and they've both been alive long enough to know that.
England was left to grasp at empty air as France began to walk off. His boots splashed in the mud as he went, just a shadow at the other end of the trench in the moonlight, and England watched the cigarette he was still holding bob slightly with each of his steps. As he got further and further away, it became the only star in the entirety of the land of France, gold and red like France, the person, should have been. It was the only light in the darkness.
England almost dares to think nothing matters, for they remain. There are graves and cigarette butts and guns, but they're still here. And England is almost willing to accept that as enough, but he is too used to being drunk on whiskey and France on wine, not the other way around.
Author's Note: Yo! So, this is, at long last, the fic that I promised for weirdonamedbrie! Yes, I know it took forever. I'm sorry.
This was inspired by episode five of Hetalia: The Beautiful World and loosely based off of "Skulls" by Bastille. If you've never listened to it, you should. It's a great song.
Thanks so much for reading!