Paris
The spy had proved a valuable asset after all, performing his duty diligently. No one questioned Roderich after the spy finished laying his trap, allowing the Austrian to move quickly to his target.
The dungeon was dank, little light streaming in from the window level with the road above it. Outside the sound of passing carts echoed through the room, the sound of nobles and tax collectors being wheeled to their doom. Which cart would carry his beloved Marie? Roderich would soon know. The spy closed the door behind Roderich, guarding it to give him time.
Francis made no move at the sound of someone entering. He was chained to the wall, his clothing old and ripped. He wore only a shirt and pants, none of the beautiful clothes of a former, happier day. His shoes looked worn through. His hair was limp and dirty, matted in part, hanging too long around the sunken face. Roderich could see that he had grown a short beard, though it seemed only out of necessity. That once wonderfully milky skin was caked in dirt and bruises and sunburns.
When Roderich stepped down onto the straw covering the floor, Francis's head rolled to one side, those previously glistening, proud blue eyes coming up to see who had entered. He saw the realization of who was before him as those eyes went wide, Francis scooting back against the wall, away from him. Roderich looked on in disgust, disgust at what his once-again enemy had become, disgust at what the carts rolling by outside meant, disgust at what the world had come to. They were all in danger now, Roderich and Gilbert and Arthur and Antonio, all because Francis hadn't been able to keep peace. Because his people had to rise up, to change everything that had worked for so long. They all knew the system was imperfect, but there was stability in the monarchies, a civil way of resolving issues beyond cutting off the heads of enemies like the hands of a clock ticking by. How long would it be until this unrest consumed the country that had bore it? Roderich knew armies were preparing to invade to the east, his armies. They would tear the kingdom apart, bit by bit, until France was no more.
Until Francis was no more.
But there was something in those eyes that made Roderich take one step forward, then another. There was something to those lips that looked too dry, to the chest beneath the ill-fitting shirt, a chest that had once been smooth and strong and flat, that was now pale and weak. He bent down to look at Francis closer, even as the French nation turned his head away, a solitary tear escaping his eye. Roderich reached out a gloved hand to wipe the tear away.
"Let me to die alone," Francis moaned. The voice was small, defeated, raspy. There was something wrong about it.
Roderich knelt down, removing his gloves with his teeth and shoving them into his pocket. His hands grabbed the sickly cheeks, forcing the blue eyes to find the violet ones.
"Leave me!" With all the strength he could muster, Francis tried to lift the chains, to push Roderich away. But they were too heavy, and his arms fell defeated, the chains falling on his legs, leaving new bruises. "I deserve this…"
The first voice in Roderich agreed. But the second one was the one that had made him come here, the one that spoke to him at night, made him climb from his bed and the body beside him to stand by the window, eyes longingly searching to the west for some sign of this capital. The second was the one that made fingers fall over Francis's mouth, shushing him.
Francis shook his head. "They are going to kill her, beautiful Marie Antoinette. I am sorry, I said I would protect her. We did not deserve her, I know you loved her. They are going to kill her; maybe they already have."
"No." Francis took in his face, his eyes blurring and refocusing. "No," Roderich said again. "They have not killed her yet. They are going to kill her today. You are to come with me, and watch."
There it was again, realization, before the internal struggle. Francis tried again to push Roderich away but gave in, collapsing against the now-stronger shoulder. Tears stained his clothing as the spy called for a guard to unchain Francis. Robespierre might have been willing to spare Francis Bonnefoy this, but Roderich would not.
As he walked him out, Francis's legs unstable from lack of use, the spy leading the way, Roderich tried to avoid looking in the other cells. How many of these faces would he recognize? Had he made love to the women, to the men? Would they live, or would they too die like his precious Marie?
They pushed and shoved until they were right before the stage. In the carriage Francis had dutifully changed into the cleaner clothing Roderich had brought, had scarped at his arms and face with the soap and water to remove the grime that had built up. As they jostled along Roderich fought the tangled hair until it could be pulled back presentably. For all the hate Roderich harbored towards Francis, he was going to look every bit the proud nation he had been today.
When Marie Antoinette was escorted up the close-by steps, Francis's body lurched; Roderich never figured out if it was to be closer to her, or to try and move further away. But the Austrian held on tight to the Frenchman's arm, insuring that he watched every moment of this, as she was escorted forward, presented before the crowd. Her clothing was plain; it was awful to see, she deserved so many nicer things. Her hair had gone gray, and Roderich wondered how many years ago had it been since he could swing her in the air with ease. She used to be so small, so pretty. Now she was a shell of former self.
As her name and convictions were read, she saw them. Francis she saw first, he could tell by the look in her eye. He pinched Francis, who tried to smile, tried to muster up courage and strength to send to her. Then her eyes drifted to him, to the nation that had once loved her and held her in his arms. Her face lit up for just a moment at the sight of Roderich, and that alone made this trip worth it. He could not save her, but he could be here for her till the end, as he had promised he would be.
The sound was sickening, the guillotine falling over and over again. The crowd cheered and Francis turned away, only to have Roderich turn him back. They would see this through till the end, as painful as it was, as they had seen it from the beginning. They had done this, made this happen, all the countries, over years and wars and centuries. Everything they had done without care for the consequences, and now this woman had to die. Roderich could have almost been sick, but Francis was much closer to retching. When they returned to the carriage he did vomit, passersby pointing and laughing. He nearly collapsed as he tried to climb up the step into the carriage; Roderich had to reach out and grab him, drag him in. They rode away quickly from what had once been the powerful French monarchy.
It was the most pitiful thing he had ever seen. Francis passed out on the way to the boardinghouse, Roderich left to wipe his mouth. The spy helped him carry the unconscious nation up the steps, to lay him on the bed. The mysterious man left; he would return in the morning to take Roderich with him back to the border, to report on what they had seen.
For a while Francis simply laid still. Then he began to stir, to groan. He rolled about a bit, and Roderich wondered how long it had been since he had slept flat, slept on anything beyond that hard stone floor of the prison, dirty straw scattered over it. Then Francis curled up, his body shaking with each violent sob. Roderich had known this was coming, but it didn't make him feel any better.
When he finished, his body exhausted, he stretched out: arms went over his head, over the far edge of the bed, as if he was trying to reach the open window where a gentle breeze blew in; his legs stretched over the other side, long pants covering what had once been the most amazing legs in all of Europe. The clothes fell softly over the dips and curves of the frail, emaciated body.
That was when he caught Roderich's gaze, a little of the shine returning to those deep blues. Roderich, who had been watching from a chair, stood slowly, and Francis moaned. He moved his legs apart, opening them, even before Roderich reached the bed, scooping one leg up under the knee. He took the leg with him as he rubbed against Francis, his erection growing at the feeling. His hands found the small waist, pushing him farther into the mattress. It lacked the comfort of the one they had last made love on, the ornamental bedroom that now filled Roderich's mind every time he closed his eyes.
And when he opened his eyes, he could almost see Francis as he had looked that night: his hair clean and slightly powdered and pulled back with a lovely blue ribbon that had matched his eyes. He had had just that little bit of stubble that always set him apart, had had hands covered in delicate rings and a clean, bright face. In the dark Roderich could almost imagine that that was how the man beneath him still looked like, his laugh light, his moves graceful. Francis had been stronger, had always been stronger. But not even the night could disguise how that had changed.
Francis searched his face, his hands gently holding Roderich's head. "I don't deserve you," he whispered.
"No, you don't."
Roderich demanded Francis's mouth, demanded entry for his tongue as he ground against his hips. The cock between them grew hard and stiff against his stomach as his own groin pushed at that French ass. His arms went under Francis's torso, picked him up and pushed him to him, one hand twisting through the still-dirty hair.
For once there was nothing graceful to how they moved, to their tongues dueling, to fingers fumbling at shirts that were quickly discarded. The weaker lover ran his hands up and down the chest above him, his turn to revel in the lines and muscles beneath fingertips.
"You were always the most beautiful," Francis managed between swallows as Roderich removed their socks and shoes. His words went straight to his groin, to that secret hope of being the nation of love's favorite lover. He pulled down Francis's pants slowly, the other nation's head lolling back, fingers twisting in the sheets. Roderich paused to admire what it must have been like to watch himself do this, what it must have been like to make Roderich cry out like he was going to make Francis.
But his lover was weak, and if Roderich was going to be the one to give them what they both needed, he was going to have to make some sacrifices of his own. So he stepped out of his pants as well, coming to lean over the man again, rubbing their pulsing cocks together. It felt so good, immediately hardening Roderich so that he was that much closer to where he needed to be, to where he could take Francis and, for once, be the one on top. The one to dominate.
Beneath him the Frenchman quivered and moved, pressing into him, demanding more but giving nothing. Tonight that was alright, tonight he needed to be tended to. So Roderich once more kissed him, deep, passionately, with all he could muster. He could still see her tears, still see Marie take her final breath before being lowered to position, being moved under the dull blade. He bit at Francis's lip as he tried to push away the sight of her readying herself for the inevitable. He had hated Francis so much in that moment, had wanted to hate him for letting this happen. But then he had seen him, had seen how he reacted, how upset he was as well. Saw the tears, the pain, the agony. He hated having to share that understanding of what this was like, hated Francis for feeling the same way he did. For having always felt the same way he did, but for having the strength to show it, to say it.
One hand steadied himself over Francis's shoulder as he held out fingers for the man to suck on. But Francis refused, shaking his head.
"It will hurt if you do not-"
"Let it! I don't care. I deserve it."
"Francis, I will not be able to-"
"It doesn't matter, do what you want and leave me, like you always leave me."
Yet there was something in Roderich that wouldn't let him do that, and so he sat back, wrapping Francis's legs around his waist. With one hand he grabbed the man's penis, stroking up and down until Francis was on the verge of crying out. Those hands twisted, that body convulsed, that back arched. The fingers of the other hand he sucked on himself, unwilling to finally take this man after so many years without something to ease the act. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would do the job.
He shifted his position, letting go of Francis's cock. The man beneath him thrust up to show his displeasure, but did nothing more beyond that. As gently as he could, Roderich inserted one finger. Beneath him Francis cried out in pain, tears rolling down closed eyes, but he could not stop. Maybe it was from what had happened today, maybe those were tears and cries for what had been happening over four years. He inserted the second finger and Francis shouted against, his body protesting the intrusion. It occurred to Roderich that maybe no one had ever done this to him before, that maybe he had always been on top. Once he had caught Francis with his husband; perhaps even then Francis had been on top, Antonio beneath him. The thought made dots appear before his eyes, the anger at watching what was his be taken by someone else. Roughly he thrust in the final finger without care for the pain it caused.
Francis had always taken without asking, in everything he did. He had had all the nations, Roderich knew it. Even his beautiful Elizabeta, waiting at home for his return, even she had been taken by this savage in gentlemen's clothing. And young Alfred, who had only just come of age, and perhaps even his little Matthew. Francis took and took and took, and now it had all been taken away from him.
Through his anger Roderich found that he had begun to cry. He wanted this over with, wanted to forget about the day, to finally take what was his. He removed his fingers and, without warning, thrust deeply into Francis. Hands clawed at his chest, begs to be gentle forgotten as he pulled out and pushed back in. Roderich held his hips fast, pounded him over and over. One hand came to pump Francis between them, the part of Roderich that always ensured he took care of his lover requiring him to do so. But he paid little attention to the feeling of the hard member in his hand, the way he squirmed as Roderich moved up and down, teasing the tip, teasing his balls.
All his attention was turned to his own penis, buried deep inside Francis. The muscles of his walls clenched around him, his own body accepting the challenge and thrusting in further. He tried to adjust their hips so that he could hit that spot that would make Francis cry out, make him for once shout his name when he came. Roderich knew he found it when Francis's back arched up, knew they were getting close. He tightened his grip on the cock in his hand until Francis came, shouting in French: "Mon amour!" My love.
It was the closest he would ever get to hearing his name fall from those lips when Francis came, and in that moment it was enough. The walls around him tightened as he came undone, filling Francis with his hot seed. But as he came he still cried out that name, "Francis!", just as he always did.
Laying on Francis it was sticky, both from the heat of their bodies and the mess Francis had made between them. But Roderich dutifully gathered him up in his arms, held the nation to his chest while they cried. Francis pawed him, pulling him close, feeling the quick Austrian heartbeat through his chest. Roderich held him tight, never wanting to let him go in that moment. So many years had changed them, scarred them, and yet they still existed, still persisted through the struggles. In time the pain of watching the guillotine fall would lessen, and it saddened Roderich to know that that was the truth. There would be other uprisings to distract them, other wars between the two nations.
But just for tonight, under the light of the moon over Paris, there was peace in a small boardinghouse room. After some time they moved to lay under the thin sheets, Francis's head buried in Roderich's chest.
"I missed you." Roderich almost remembers, once long ago, Francis saying those words before lavishing him. Words he never could have repeated in those days.
"I love you." It was the first time Roderich ever told him. He felt a small smile against his collarbone.
"And yet in the morning, you will still be gone. As always."
Something clicked inside Roderich. He held Francis's tired face close. "Come with me. Let's escape, let's run away. Come back to Vienna, stay close to me." Before he had even finished speaking, Francis was already shaking his head.
"In the morning, you will still be gone. If I went with you, you'd be there, physically, but not here like you are now. You could only ever love me in the night. I disgust you, I disgust myself. But we will always have these nights to remember. Remember me when you kill me, remember how I loved you despite yourself, in spite of myself. Remember me."
Roderich held him close. "I will always love you, even when I kill you."
"Thank you."
If he could have stayed, he would have. But there were more wars to wage, more humans to watch come and go. Clothing would change, speech would evolve, but they would still be there. Ever fixed, ever aging as slow as could be, growing and maturing. There would be more pianos to play, more dances to learn, more things to discover. In that moment Francis was enough, but Roderich had always needed more. They both did. Because a country was never satisfied with what it had, always needing more. That was their secret.
But in that moment, Francis was enough.