Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
Author's note: Happy Thomas Jefferson's birthday everyone! Have some Franco-American angst that would have made my favorite man proud. Don't you like how I didn't do the obvious for this prompt? I do.
L'histoire française
Revolution
"Why me?" Francis asks quietly, twirling the wine in his glass.
"I need my independence Francis," Alfred pleads, the young man leaning forward as he speaks. Part of the French nation loves how he's grown up, tall and strong and handsome. The other part hates to see a once little boy matured like wine, because perhaps his boy has matured too then. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"I know," he sighs, "I know. But why me Alfred, that's my question. Why me?"
The American teen stares at him, sitting and blinking as if taken aback by the question. "Because," he says. No words follow that.
"Eloquent as your elder brother," Francis mutters. Alfred tenses at that.
"I'm not like him; I'm not someone he can keep in his shadow any more. I need to be my own country," and as the words flow from him the Frenchman remembers another young boy pleading in English with him that he just wanted to be his own country, and couldn't he understand that? So like his brother.
Francis has heard all he needs. "Enough." Alfred silences immediately.
It was one thing altogether for France to help America; it was another thing entirely for Francis to help Alfred. England was his enemy, not Arthur. The man had done many things to him but had he ever done something as bad as this?
Matthew, his mind screams suddenly and Francis's hand balls in fury, Alfred watching but not reacting because he may not be the brightest of nations incarnate but Matthew is his brother and he remembers that war well enough, even if he had fought with Arthur.
"He misses you," Alfred mumbles, his gaze dropped. Francis nods.
"I'll help."
It didn't change anything, Francis keeps repeating to himself. He's sitting on the edge of his bed in only his chemise, gentle Virginian sunlight streaming through the open window. The hour of the morning is late; the door opens.
"Francis?" a soft voice asks, a voice the world would now recognize as the voice of the United States of America, the final battle of the war won.
His grip tightens on the edge of the bed; it didn't change anything. "Ouais?"
There's the rustle of clothing and the dip of the bed as Alfred sits beside him. He can tell from the way the young man's shoulder brushes his that he's no longer wearing his military jacket, though the deeper blue eyes are closed and he has no desire to open them. A hand is rested on his shoulder in an intimate way.
At that he loosens his hold on the mattress.
"I needed you too," Alfred moans quietly. "Arthur loved both of us but you always loved Matthew more."
"Mathieu needed me more," Francis tries to explain in a hushed voice, resting his head on the American's and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. When did he get so broad? So handsome? "You were always the stronger one Alfie, I've never had any delusions about that."
The silence encompasses them, the wind blowing by. It's hot and Francis misses home and their bodies are aching, but the war is over and there's a peace that comes with that even before the treaty is signed.
"You're still my son," Francis says into his hair, "and I love you." Alfred never liked that language, always wanted to have a brother, not a father. It was one of the things that made him different from Matthew, why he was drawn to Arthur while Matthew came to Francis. But while he knew one day his children would leave to make their own lives, what became of brothers who raised one another?
It didn't change anything. Matthew was still gone, so he holds Alfred instead.
