Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Fallen
To see Roderich in such a state of dress is truly new to Francis, standing at the door and watching the Austrian lay on his bathroom floor. His jabot is half-tied, his jacket dirty, his pants not quite lying properly. "Coffee?"
"Alcohol," the man moans; though his companion knows better, he gives in.
"I only have vodka here," Francis announces as he returns, bottle in hand. He's no desire to stay in Paris after the treaties are signed, shipping everything of value down to his sister including his precious wine. His knee still pains him if he doesn't lean gingerly on it, carefully walking around the face-down Austrian to sit on the edge of his tub. The man manages to roll over, leaning against the wall and taking the bottle. Pulling his glasses off Roderich downs way too much vodka in one go; even Ivan would have been impressed. "Are we getting drunk?" the Frenchman asks lightly, taking the bottle back to have his own swig.
"Oh God yes," and the Austrian pulls him to the floor to kiss passionately.
Others joked that wives were the better halves of their husband; Francis knows Roderich and Erzsi were proof of the expression. At those meetings where the two nations are both present, the Austrian switches between staring at Erzsi as if he could bring her back and looking away so that she would not see him. The Hungarian, for her part, mainly keeps her head held high and Francis understands immediately what she's doing, the only female in the room. Privately he asks Arthur and Alfred to be kind to her so that she can keep what little dignity she has left, consulting her officials instead with their demands.
And when they leave for the day he takes the Austrian home with him, Francis having volunteered to watch Roderich while Arthur takes charge of Erzsi. Gilbert and Ludwig could not be trusted outside of their prison cells; the French nation both hates to see them like that and revels in their weakness, wanting to whip them for all the pain they've caused him over the last century.
Some days Roderich is quiet, sitting on the piano bench with his head resting on the case over its black and white keys. Other days he cries in the bathroom, locked away as if Francis didn't know. Then there are days like today where he pulls off French clothes as they barely get through the front door, sucking his captor off wherever he can first slam Francis against a wall. He's unpredictable.
To think that this was once the great and mighty Archduchy of Austria is amazing to Francis, the afternoon sun hot as they sit beneath a tree out back. Roderich reads beside him, their fingers intertwined; Francis sips at wine.
"If she came back," he muses aloud, "what would you do?"
He watches purple eyes go wide on the book before Roderich responds, "Anything." Francis believes that, sipping once more at his wine.
"She won't." The Hungarian was too proud and too wounded to if she could.
"I know," and the Austrian goes back to his book.
Today he's a mess, the treaty done, his fate sealed. Roderich had asked in a whisper as they left if he could be permitted to have just five minutes with his former wife, to kiss her and say goodbye as they hadn't been allowed during the war. Because her treaty hadn't been signed yet, Francis had had to say no.
And this, the man's moans, his gasps, his silent tears, this was what it sounded like to fall from empire to nothing, Francis knows. What was Austria really? What united these people? What was there now for Roderich to live for, if not Erzsi? Fallen, he was fallen and Francis knew exactly how that felt.