A wartime request fic for the lovely LawlietLight7! I know the specific guidelines were WW2, and the use of mustard gas wasn't exactly plentiful then, but I just had to be mean to poor Francis. Trust me, it's worth it by the ending. Which I still haven't recovered from. Aaanyway, I hope you enjoy! uvu
Sweat. Oil. Gunpowder. That omnipotent tinge to the air…copper? Old coins, settled in fine leather pouches?
Blood.
Francis' eyes snapped open, brow slicked with sweat, the dust in the air rendering his throat parched, and a whole lot of nothing in sight. He tried to raise a hand to investigate, god knows he tried, but there was one thing wrong with that. What he couldn't see was that his wrist had been dislocated, no, make those wrists. But why would it hurt so much…?
It all came to him at once: a dingy holding area, a man with slicked blond hair and piercingly blue eyes (cold, without compassion), a plethora of rough accents barking enquiries at him in a crude dialect he couldn't quite wrap his head around, and… Blood. That coppery scent, the very musk of death. Only it was coming from him. He had not been able to see back then, either, and it was awfully true what they had said about other senses growing sharper when one was removed. It was an agonising process, really, feeling your life being drained away, drop by crimson drop. Yet here he was. Lying on some kind of bed, completely oblivious to the world, and wondering just how he got there. He could feel someone watching him. The presence of another unseen was driving him insane.
"Is… Is it over?" France croaked; what he noted about his parched throat hadn't just been for show.
"Not by a long shot, unfortunately." There! A voice, directly to his side! It seemed strangely aggrieved, tinted with the knowledge of age, and was unmistakeably English. It didn't take long to put a face to the voice. Arthur Kirkland. Officially a Private, despite their position as nations. Back in the day they would get promoted to a squadron leader at the drop of a hat, but now they were shoved into a corner, told to write this and win so-and-so a war. The world had certainly grown crueller, not just for Francis. The sloshing of a bucket of water sounded beside him as an old, damp rag was practically slapped onto his forehead. He drew out a hiss of discomfort. This was aggression. What he had done to deserve it wasn't all that clear.
"Angleterre…" His company flinched at having his cover blown, he didn't need sight to gather that much. He paused his task of unscrewing the lid from a canteen.
"Save your breath." Faux-irritation sounded as the canteen was shoved into his mouth. Not that the Frenchman was about to complain, and instead took deep, greedy chugs of it. Somewhere along the line, Arthur grew sick of the silence. It was an old, notable quirk of his, arguably kept from scavenging the seven seas. They both knew he would take cannon fire over tranquillity any day. It was what set him apart from Francis, who preferred a glass of wine and soft, soothing music.
"Look at us." The Briton growled, pulling the canteen away from Francis as quick as you like. At this rate, he would probably have drunk until he was sick; a surprising amount of concern. "The world's 'superpowers', if you will, shoved to where we struggle like common muck to remain in existence. All at the hands of some loony with a shite moustache."
Ah, the positive outlook of the English. They weren't just common muck; they were the cockroaches after a detonation. Nothing for them to live off, their survival – pointless. "It is tacky, I will give you that." A bout of disgustingly loud coughing burst from the back of his throat, blood lurching upward into his mouth. He shuddered by reflex.
"Says the man stewing in his own blood and sweat." Another cap being undone – more water? No, this was alcohol. Francis had what you would call a knack for picking it out. "That being said, I do wish they had a camera or two here. You certainly don't look as damned gorgeous as you claim to be now."
"Am I really that bad…?"
"Mmf." A grunt of approval. Arthur swallowed his mouthful of whiskey. "Moving swiftly on from your bloody face…" Well, he was being literal there. "It's ironic, wouldn't you say? Those very fields we once inhabited as children, cursing and running underneath the sun have been transformed into places where such actions are taken for very literal purposes. For instance, I can't imagine you were exactly yelling in delight once the mustard gas came in."
Bile quickly spiked Francis' gullet. How could one forget the way it burnt him from the inside out, broken flesh swarming through the air, laced once more with that stench. Copper. Okay, enough of that, enough of that… He swallowed heavily, allowing distant recollections to swarm through his mind instead. Two children, playing, cavorting through summer meadows, the sun bouncing off their hair, the way Arthur could pout and whine if one were to squeeze his cheeks…
"Ah, excuse me, gentlemen. It's time to remove the bandages."
Was that the voice of the nurse? He honestly didn't know, too busy with the scenarios in his head, too busy with how things were before this living hell, too busy with… Coping with the searing agony as the strips of cloth were unwound, a lamp's light engulfing his limited sight in a hideous, flickering glow. Look somewhere else, look somewhere else… Ah! Like before him at the foot of the bed, where Arthur sat. Although… His frame was gaunt, almost anorexic. Nothing like the chubby child's body from his mind's eye. His cheeks were taunt, hollow, lacking their previous pink hue. The arm that would usually have lashed out at Francis was bound by a sling.
And those eyes. Those eyes that had bid farewell to their light, their conviction. Those eyes that were mere ghosts of those of the pirate, the 'knight'.
Those eyes that had been crying the whole time.
For a certain Frenchman who wouldn't wake up.