Some days were easier than others. Some days he could make it all the way to late afternoon without even thinking of her. Some days though, he woke up with her name on his lips. Some days he'd think on the good times, the fond memories he had, and he wouldn't shed a tear. But some days he'd drop to his knees in retched weeping coughs, convulsing sobs of her name falling ungracefully from his mouth. Some days it was simply too painful to recall. Some days he would do almost anything to forget, just to not think about her. His Jeanne. His precious darling Jeanne. And the man who'd taken her from him. the man who knew him like no one else did. The man he'd had and been had by many ways many times before.
Some days it was sweet. Some days they were allies, friends, even lovers in the purest sense of the word. Some days they would share sweet touches, tender embraces that softly warmed their skin and put sweet smiles on their faces. Some days they would find themselves in each other's arms, craving the contact of one another's flesh. And on those days, it was beautiful. But some days, they made love like it was war. Some days there was nothing but pain in their passion. Some days it was only the tearing of clothes, the collision of bodies and the violent tangling of limbs and lips that left them scarred afterwards. Yes, some days he needed Arthur, Francis would admit, and some days Arthur needed him. But some days they would sooner drive a knife through their own hearts than confess their desire. Some days, they flat out hated each other.
They had fought many times before. They could scream and strike and kick and claw and fuck until it was over, about anything at all, but they had never once fought about Jeanne. Of all the curses, insults and accusations they would hurl at each other, they never brought up that dark and fateful day in their history. Neither dared reopen the festering wound that had never really healed in the first place. And so no matter how many times they fought, nothing was ever resolved. Francis still hated Arthur, and Arthur was still responsible for Jeanne death. And both of them still needed the other more than ever. One would say that they were well into the aftermath of their greatest battle. But in truth, the war had never really ended.
Some days were almost easy. Today was not one of those days.
Francis awoke with a start; he was certain he'd heard someone calling his name. Not just someone. Her. The memory of that day was burned into his mind as vividly as it had been centuries ago. And just as it always did, the memory ended the same way; her tortured screams in the smoky air, and one man standing over him as he fell to the ground in despair. One pair of sharp green eyes looking down with pride on his broken form. One pair of devilish lips twisted a sickening smirk, and one silky smooth voice tainted with bitter laughter. Arthur. The man he hated, the man he needed, the man he could no longer ignore. It got worse every year, every anniversary bringing with it more unresolved agony that he couldn't bear anymore. Francis knew that he could not let another May thirtieth pass without dealing with this, this horrible thing. Otherwise, he knew he might just snap.
"Morning Frog." England yawned, slumping into his seat next to France at the round table. He was completely exhausted from the rigours of this days-long world meeting. As usual, everyone insisted on talking all at once, resulting in a multitude of fights for control and no real resolution of international issues. God, it was draining. Sometimes coffee couldn't even keep him awake during these things. And with so much on his mind, the once-great Empire's ability to remember important days had been greatly diminished. In other words, the significance of this day had completely slipped his mind. And even when the Frenchman did not return his jab of a greeting, the Brit was still at a loss as to the reason for his silence.
"What, no clever retort, no sexual slander, not even a nod?" Arthur snapped his fingers in front of Francis' face- nothing, the elder nation didn't even blink. He must have one bloody awful hangover, England thought, seeing the state of France's eyes- they were red and puffy and utterly lifeless. He looked literally sapped of all energy. And still, England didn't remember.
"Someone had too much of that nasty French wine last night, eh old boy?" England scolded playfully, elbowing France in the ribs. France again made no reply, at least not externally. On the inside he was a seething mass of bitter white hot rage. The fucking bastard doesn't even remember. I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him. Francis repeated silently, a hateful mantra that somehow kept him calm. I'll kill him. Instead, he got to his feet and stormed from the room just as Germany called everyone to order.
"Oi, Frog! Where the bloody hell d'you think you're going?" England hissed.
Wherever the fucking hell I want, what's it to you? France retorted mentally, flying past the double doors and heading for the elevators. England followed at a distance, equally worried and curious about what the Frenchman might do next. He jumped into the second elevator and followed Francis straight up to their shared floor, cursing all the way. What the fuck do I care if the bloody wanker leaves the meeting? And why am I following him? When the doors slid open, France was nowhere to be seen. Arthur stepped out into the hallway, puzzled.
That's strange, I could have sworn- the blond was suddenly grabbed mid-sentence, dragged into one of the rooms and thrown violently to the floor. He swore loudly, turning to face his captor. France stared back, his formerly lifeless eyes on fire with fury. England got to his feet and looked around- he couldn't help but notice the state of disrepair everything was in. Empty bottles, some broken, lay strewn across the carpet- papers and books were in shambles on the desk. The sheets were torn halfway off the bed and the curtains were pulled closed, hiding the world and most of the light from view. It's worse than I thought, England told himself. But he still didn't remember.
"What the hell- this place is a bloody wreck!" he stepped foreword towards the other man. "What in blue blazes is wrong with you?" When he saw tears brewing in those deep blue eyes, he paused and softened his tone. "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" France growled, spinning on his heels and pushing England down on the desk with a loud thunk. Books were sent flying and papers were scattered in a flurry of movement as the two men wrestled for control. France eventually won and pinned England to the desk by his shoulders.
"What the hell do you care what the fucking matter is!?" Francis yelled. England stared, mystified.
"Francis, I-"
"Don't you DARE call me by that name you washed up son of a bitch!" Francis slammed the back of Arthur's head down, hitting it off the wooden surface. "Don't act like you know me!" He pushed himself away, pacing madly and rambling. "Don't pretend you care! You didn't care about me then, and you sure as hell didn't care about her!"
Her? England thought, rubbing the back of his skull. Oh. Damn. How could I forget? Damn.
"It's May thirtieth." He said simply.
"Oui! It's May fucking thirtieth!" France screamed, slow-clapping. "And you fucking forgot! How could you forget today of all days!?"
"Well to be fair, I-"
"To be fair?" Francis hollered. "What's fair? You never showed fairness to her and you don't deserve it you bastard!"
"It was centuries ago!" England spat. "As a nation, you should have moved on!"
"But as a man, I can't!" France snapped. The words hung in the heated air between them, waiting to be answered or blown away.
"It was wartime!" England finally answered. "I did what I had to do, and we both bloody well know you would have done the same damn thing!"
"Bullshit. I would never have taken someone so important from you simply for the sake of winning some fucking war! You betrayed me! You're a cold sick murderer! A traitor! That's what you fucking are!"
England could only glare. Yes, he had allowed the death of Jeanne D'Arc out of political spite. Yes, he'd wanted to win the 100 years war more than anything else. But there was more to it than that. France was right. England was a traitor. Not to any nation, but to the man Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur would never even admit it to himself let alone anyone else- but jealousy had also driven him to this act of betrayal. For all the centuries they'd been alive, England had loved that bastard, loved him to the point of madness. Unspeakable madness, a century of war, and the most brutal act of (he shuddered to think) murder, murder that he had practically committed himself. That was the love- if it could be called that- the love that was tearing him apart. And now, the result of that love threatened to destroy them both.
"Don't look so calm!" Francis practically ordered. "You should be eaten up with guilt like any decent man would be! But then I guess you're not a decent man, are you Arthur?"
"No, you're right, maybe I'm not!" Arthur replied, catching Francis off guard. "For a long time, I didn't eel guilty, because I didn't understand how you could have cared about one human being so damn much." He admitted. Part of him wanted to tell the truth, that he had just maybe been jealous, how he had felt hurt- and that just maybe the thing that was the most painful was the guilt he really felt- but his pride and his anger were overpowering "And how you were practically willing to give up everything for some woman-"
Francis finally lost it, striking Arthur in the jaw, sending him reeling. He bounced back though, delivering the same blow France had dealt him. Francis lunged for Arthur, knocking him to the floor, hands around his throat. Arthur kicked and fought and struggled until he was over Francis, giving him a hit that would no doubt become a black eye before shoving off of the man and scrambling to his feet, Francis following suit.
"I did what I had to do to win that war fucking frog." England growled, gasping for air after nearly being strangled. "And I refuse to apologise to the likes of you."
France merely smirked.
"I bloody hate you." Arthur hissed.
"Et toi, mon cher Angleterre." Francis replied.
The two men collided once more with a force that could rival an earthquake. Their kiss was painful and sloppy, teeth clashing and tongues battling, fingers ripping through clothes and tangling into hair, pulling their bruised faces impossibly close. Francis slammed Arthur up against the wall, trapping the other's lithe body against his own stronger form. Arthur fought back, clinging to the other blond's shoulders as the man ravaged his mouth. They both tasted of blood and cigarettes, with wine on France's lips and tea on England's tongue. When they finally broke apart to breathe, their lips still brushed together, tingling with fire and electricity and a thousand years of passion.
"Is that a gun, or are you enjoying yourself?" France smiled coyly, pulling a loaded revolver out of England's trousers. Arthur drew a knife from the Frenchman's pants pocket and chuckled morbidly. The barrel pressed to England's temple, the blade scraping France's throat, both nations paused, breathing heavily.
"Go ahead. Do it." Arthur coaxed, drawing a slight red line across Francis' pale neck. "Have your revenge. You bloody well know you want it." And I bloody well probably deserve it. He hissed as the knife dug slightly deeper, stinging more and more. He smirked again, brushing his fingers across England's cheek and grinding their hips together, eliciting a moan from the other's throat as the knife clattered to the floor. Francis dropped the gun as Arthur bucked his hips again, loving the friction of their growing arousals as they were pressed together. The heat on their skin grew as Francis kissed Arthur once more, picking him up and wrapping the brit's thighs around his waist. He tasted every corner of that familiar mouth and groped England's firm ass, making said country groan wantonly around their tongues.
As soon as they hit the bed they began to pull at each other's shirts, discarding them quickly along with their pants and shoes. Before Arthur pulled his tie off however, Francis took it and pulled it tightly around the other man's wrists, securing them to the headboard. England glared.
"Fucking frog, untie me!" He growled hoarsely.
"Fucking bastard, I will not." France answered proudly, eyes flaring. He straddled the other, making sure to avoid putting pressure of their groins- he did not want this to be quick. He immediately latched onto Arthur's jaw line, grinning at the instant reaction he got- Arthur arched his back, pressing his clothed erection to Francis' stomach and offering his neck to the Frenchman.
France left open-mouthed kisses along England's collarbone, sucking and licking before biting down, hard, easily drawing blood. Arthur cried out in pained ecstasy as the wound was licked over before more were made across his throat, chest and the sensitive skin under his nipples. Francis then sucked and pinched and blew on them until they were hard and red and raw. England wanted nothing more than to thread his fingers through that long golden hair that fell down and tickled his stomach, to pull them closer if nothing else- it was a stupid weakness he would never admit to having, and he wanted it, just like he always had. As he was dominated, Arthur realised that he wanted this man to possess him, even if it meant pain. Pain, he could deal with.
France dipped his tongue into England's navel teasingly before hooking his fingers in the waistband of his boxers and whipping them off in a frenzy. England hissed at the cold air on his member, still perturbed about being tied up.
"Please, let me touch you." The brit mewled, struggling against his bonds, no doubt bruising his wrists as he strained and tugged. The tie wouldn't budge.
"Non mon cher, not yet." Francis teased, breathing hotly on England's weeping head. England moaned lewdly, almost forgetting why they'd even been fighting as Francis' tongue glided slowly up his length before his whole mouth was around him, sucking and pulling, his head bobbing. England cried out, locking his legs around France's neck, once again longing to grab the man's hair and ram his cock right down that French throat. Suddenly the wet heat was gone, and Arthur growled in protest.
"Bloody fucking tease." He squirmed as Francis shifted over him, ridding himself of the last pesky article of clothing. He climbed even higher, his cock in front of England's face.
"Slick me up." France ordered; his voice deep and husky with lust. England opened his mouth but was yanked back. "If you bite," Francis warned, "I'll beat you senseless."
Arthur stuck out his tongue defiantly, and then put his mouth to work. France let out a slight groan, which made England smirk. I still have power over this bloody frog, even when my hands are tied. He lightly teased the head of Frances cock, suddenly deep-throating him and swirling his tongue with expert grace. He quickly grazed his teeth over the throbbing vein on the underside of France's member, and said nation pulled England's hair in warning. Arthur groaned around the hot flesh, pleasuring Francis all the more. Dieu, he's so good at this. He wanted to thrust into that mouth so badly, but he refused to let his weakness show. He pulled away from England and lowered his body over the other's, grinning deviously. Lifting one of Arthur's legs over his shoulder, he leaned down, kissing the Englishman's bruised lips once more. His cock found England's entrance easily, teasing at the hole.
"Make it good." England cooed hotly in France's ear. "Fuck me like you'd fuck your Jeanne."
Arthur screamed out loud in sheer agony as France rammed three fingers inside his at once, nearly tearing him in half. Fuck, he thought as white hot pain jarred through his bones. Even being a masochist wasn't helping right now. Fuck fuck fuck. He couldn't get any of his obscenities to come out coherently, so he just kept screaming, tears involuntarily spilling from his eyes as France finger-fucked him.
"You fucking bastard." Francis huffed. "You think that's what you are? A surrogate? A replacement? An object?" Francis pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock, hot and throbbing as it was. Arthur, still in immense pain, barely noticed the change.
"Th-that's all I've ever been to you, a-ahn an object." England grunted, impaling himself further on France, rolling his hips while Francis began to steadily thrust. "You-ah, h-ate me but you- oh GOD- use me!" He cried out jaggedly as their movements intensified. Francis suddenly paused, but spoke before England could complain.
"Non." He breathed. "You were never an object." He admitted, as though he was surprised that Arthur believed otherwise. "You were everything to me. You still are."
"But you-" Arthur winced, his whole body aching. "You loved Jeanne."
"By the time I met Jeanne, I thought you'd never care for me as I did you. We'd been at war for nearly one-hundred years, Arthur. I was convinced that hatred was the only kind of bond we'd ever have. And then when you-" France sighed- "when she died, I was sure of it." A single tear slipped from his eye, falling gently on England's face.
"You bloody idiot. Untie me." Arthur demanded softly. Francis obliged, and before he knew it, Arthur's arms were around his sweat slickened shoulders, fingers trapped in his hair and lips against his in a desperate kiss; a kiss so full of tender love and desperate lust, it blew Francis' mind.
"I'm sorry." England suddenly murmured. "God, I am so sorry." Finally, the truth had escaped. Everything had been said. But there was still a lingering bitterness, something that Francis knew would always be there, no matter how many times Arthur said he was sorry, or how many times Francis said 'I forgive you'. But at this very moment, they were as close as they would ever be to peace.
"Arthur…" He breathed, heart swelling in his chest. "I-"
"Jesus Francis, fuck me or I swear-" England groaned, getting back to the situation at hand.
"Of course, mon cher Angleterre." Francis laughed, once again beginning to move inside Arthur. He set a frenzied pace, relishing every single sound leaving his lover's lips; from the curse to the blessings to the numerous cries of 'More! Harder! God Francis, harder!'
It was right about then that France hit England's prostate, making the latter see white and claw at France's shoulders, leaving bright red scratches to rival the bite marks he'd been given earlier. An eye for an eye, the brit thought vaguely, screaming again (this time in pure ecstasy) as his sweet spot was pounded into repeatedly. Francis groaned, swept away by the pulsing heat around him. Back and forth, in and out, harder and deeper each time, driving them both to the edge. France's fingertips ghosted over the head of England's now aching need, and it was enough to make him come- and come hard.
"J'taime Arthur." Francis whispered. Arthur let out one last moan, spilling his seed all over their sweaty, bloody, battle-torn skin. He pulled Francis down, looking into his eyes as his orgasm ripped through him, blinding white across his gaze.
"I love you Francis." He replied breathlessly.
Francis was stunned; hearing an admission of love from Arthur was one thing he honestly thought he'd never hear- it sent shivers down the Frenchman's spine. It wasn't long before he came too, collapsing next to his lover in a flurry of tangled limbs. Both passed out, utterly and completely spent.
"Did you mean what you said?" Francis asked Arthur, watching fondly but with some regret as the Englishman assessed his injuries from their fight. A fat lip, multiple bruises (the worst being on his wrists) and several purpling hickeys adorned his creamy skin.
"Which part?" England hissed, massaging his jaw where the first punch had hit him.
"The part where you said you love me." France clarified.
"Yes." Arthur answered solemnly.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Francis, being who he was and knowing Arthur as well as he did, sensed a tone of regret in his voice.
"You'll never forgive me." Arthur muttered. "You may think you have, you may say you have, but there is nothing I can do to atone for what I've done." He sighed. "We'll always be like this. At war."
"You're right." Francis said plainly. "Part of me will always love her. And part of me may still hate you for what you did." He watched as Arthur's face fall and his shoulders sag.
"But a bigger part of me loves you, has loved you for a thousand years. A bigger part of me knows that no one else could ever be what you are to me. And so I think-" he pulled Arthur into his arms, chuckling as the other gasped, "I think I can safely say that the war is over." He kissed Arthur slowly, sealing his words between their lips as an unspoken promise. Yes, this was still bittersweet. Yes, maybe it always would be. Green and blue eyes met in an intense but (for once) non-violent stare, and both knew that the worst, though not far, was behind them.