Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Fate
Antonio has been quiet for over an hour now; Francis knows this is from more than silent prayers.
"Antoine?" The man's ears perk at that, the Spaniard turning slowly. Francis waits at the door into the small chapel, noticing how his friend refuses to meet his eyes. "Say something Antoine." A cool command to a warm friend.
"I do not know yet," the man begins in slow Latin, the language of their youth, "if what I have gained in this war is worth what I have lost." As he speaks the French nation moves towards him slowly, soaking in the words that hurt his heart though his pain is no where near as great as what Antonio feels. "Gilberto, who never looked down on me, always treated me as an equal. Ruy, the husband that I loved for so long and would have done anything for, just as he would have done anything for me. Lovino-" At that the man's voice cracks, his eyes wide as he stares at some spot off in the distance that Francis just can't find. He kneels beside his neighbor at the rail, rosary beads still in the Spaniard's hands. Antonio takes several deep breaths, blinking only once, before swallowing and saying, "Lovino, my beloved, dearest Lovino, whom I have loved and still love more than anyone else, whom I promised I would always protect, always be there for, whom I told I would never let go of for another to control….
"I am a failure," Antonio finally pronounces and Francis, for once, is at a lost for words to comfort the man with.
Roderich had put it best about his once-husband when he said that while Antonio was not the most intelligent of the nation incarnates, he was the most likable. And now, to see him embroiled in a war that neither of them has control over, is heartbreaking.
Sliding in under the sheets the French nation lets his body sag into the mattress, Antonio rolling his head to the right to look at him before rolling it back to look out the window once more.
"I am sorry, Antoine," Francis says before closing his eyes, ready for bed. That's when the Spaniard shifts, their chests now facing each other.
"No, Francisco," Antonio whispers, "this is not your fault. This was fate, this was inevitable that I fall. All you did was stand beside me." A hand finds its way to Francis's shoulder. "I thank you for that, my oldest friend."
"I am not worthy of your thanks." Francis doesn't know that he's ever been worthy of anything. His companion smiles.
"And I am not worthy of you."
Antonio is not the smartest nation, nor the funniest. He rarely understands a joke without it being explained to him, and fails to ever see what is so obvious to the rest of the world. Antonio, Francis would often tell Gilbert, is special.
Yet Gil did never treat the man differently, just explained for him what he had to and laughed along with the Spaniard when the delayed reaction finally came. Francis always felt they got along in a way he never did with them: he's both Germanic and Roman, but he has never had that something they have.
And Roderich, not known for his kind and gentle way, was truly enamored with his husband. They would dance joyfully at galas, sit at royal banquets with hands joined under the table. Sometimes Francis would follow them as they snuck off to steal kisses, hands parting clothing to just feel the skin beneath.
Lovino, though, was special: he was what Antonio lived for and now the man has nothing but broken promises and a failed love. For that Francis cries, Spaniard in his arms. Fate was ever the cruelest of mistresses.