Francis Bonnefoy observed the scene in front of him, using a hand to shield the heavy downpour from his eyes. He stood back with his men on the muddy battleground. Finally it was here, the ending of the Revolutionary war. He knew Alfred would be able to do it, and now he had done so, with France's help of course.
Though he was glad Alfred had finally gained his independence, his heart couldn't help but ache at the sight before him. Alfred and Arthur, both clad in their flashy military uniforms, stood across from each other. He couldn't hear the words that were being said, but Alfred seemed to be shouting something.
Arthur looked torn. His usually distinguished bright green eyes were filled with hurt and pain. The thing that made him stand out most was his flashy red coat. A musket was held in his arms, as was one held in Alfred's.
Of course Francis knew America's independence was for the best. He had sided with the youthful, determined young man straight away. He knew that Arthur needed to let go of his colony. So with his help, it was finally happening.
Francis was startled from his thoughts when Arthur suddenly charged forward at Alfred, his bayonet stabbing the American's gun and sending it flying out of Alfred's arms. France drew in a breath as Arthur had his gun aimed to Alfred's face. Would Arthur really shoot his former little brother?
No...no of course not. Francis knew Arthur could never do such a thing like that. Alfred was the only person who had made Arthur smile when he was younger, of course Arthur would not destroy the one thing that had made him happy.
His conclusions were right when Arthur slowly lowered his gun, letting it drop to the ground. The Frenchman drew in another breath as Arthur dropped to his knees, hands shielding his face. The slender Brit was shaking, so France could only assume that he was sobbing. It made his heart throb in pain to see his rival in such a state. A part of him wanted to rush to his petit Angleterre and hug him, but another part of him knew this was Arthur and Alfred's battle.
Alfred spoke a few more words before slowly backing away from Arthur, his men following. France knew how much it pained America as well. Nothing was harder than fighting someone you once looked up too.
France looked up as America came over to him. He could see a look of sorrow on Alfred's face. His hands were shaking a little, but still he gave an uncertain weary smile to France.
"Well...we did it. I'm free..." He trailed off, almost glancing back at Arthur but quickly shook himself of doing it. Alfred knew if he looked at England, he would start crying himself.
Francis smiled back at Alfred, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Good job Alfred. Go now...you are an independent nation now. There are many things you must do." He said warmly. Alfred looked uncertain though.
"What about...about.." He couldn't will himself to say England's name.
"I'll take care of him." France promised. He desperately wanted to run over and hug the man who was still sobbing in the mud, and make all his hurt go away.
"Okay...yeah. All right then." Alfred said slowly. Then a tiny smile crossed his features as the thought of independence slowly sunk into his brain. The American the proceeded back to his troops, leaving France to still stare at Arthur.
The brit was sobbing still, fingernails digging into the softened earth. His beautiful uniform was covered in dirt, grime, and mud. Then, when Arthur collapsed altogether onto the ground, France was quick to rush forward.
When he reached Arthur, he could see things more clearly. Arthur was a mess. It was worse than sobbing, the nation was whimpering and choking on his own tears, trembling violently.
Francis knelt down beside Arthur, resting a hand on his shoulder. Arthur shuddered, trying to burrow himself further into the mud.
"Shh...oh Angleterre. I'm so sorry..." France whispered. He truly was. When he had helped America win, he didn't expect it to affect the Brit this much. He wanted to take it all back, but of course there was no way too.
England gave out a low moan. "F-Francis..." He sobbed, but the Englishman was crying too much to put together full sentences.
"Shh, I'm here" Francis continued to sooth, pulling the limp young man into his arms. He didn't care that his own French uniform was getting dirty as well. He rested Arthur's head on his chest, using one hand to run his fingers through Arthur's messy hair, and the other hand to rub his back in gentle circles.
"I h-hate you!" Arthur wailed. "It's your bloody fault...y-you sided with him!"
"I know...I'm so sorry lapin. désolé...désolé." France whispered back, burying his face in Arthur's hair.
"I hate you so much...I hate you!" Arthur kept repeating as he sobbed. Despite his words, Arthur didn't pull away from France. The Frenchman assumed it was because no matter who, Arthur needed someone to hold onto him, someone to comfort him. It was quite cold and wet out as well.
"Why? My baby brother! Uhh." Arthur's eyes then closed, his head going limp against Francis's chest.
"I don't know mon cher...I don't know." France murmured back.
They sat in this position for a long time, rain still continuing to pour heavily. England began quieting, and eventually he made no noise at all in France's arms, just laying silently as tears continued to leak from his eyes. The rain mixed with the salty tears, and kept washing off of the Brit's face.
France felt tears streaming from his own eyes as he held England. It was beginning to grow even colder if possible, and France knew that if he didn't get them out of the rain soon then they'd both get sick.
He scooped Arthur into his arms as if he weighed nothing and began to walk to the place where his troops were stationed. A few of his fellow soldiers gave him odd or sorrowful looks, but he ignored them as he brought Arthur to his tent. The Brit was much too far gone to notice France laying him on a cot, changing him into dry and more comfortable clothes.
He pressed his face close to England's, burying his face into Arthur's neck.
"I'm so sorry Angleterre. Please forgive me."
The words were unheard by Arthur, who had fallen into a deep sleep. Francis sunk to the floor beside his Angleterre, letting tears flow form his eyes. This day would always be remembered...in good ways and bad.
France buried his face into his hands, and let his sobs be heard.
a/n: This is my first real angsty story. Please review and tell me what you think! :)