Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Goodbye
"If I were to give you an inch, you would demand a mile," Arthur comments. In the distance two boys play quietly, brothers at peace and delighted by it. They do not yet have the resentment, the constant agony, that the European nations feel; Francis prays the two New World nations will never come to know that feeling. "Francis," and Arthur turns his body towards him, speaking in a desperate tone, at the same moment that Francis rises, his head held high.
"Arthur?" he says in a dark tone.
"Yes?" He does give the English nation credit for being so civil, but today Francis doesn't particularly care. That man can never redeem himself for this.
"Shut the fuck up."
The rain pounds against the window as they lounge before it on an old couch. Francis is in his breeches, bare foot, his chemise pulled loose and unbuttoned, cravat forgotten somewhere. Loose hair falls over his shoulders as Matthew snuggles closer in those protective arms of his step-father, the little Canadian dressed much the same as him. French eyes soften as they take in the sleepy child, a hand stroking his cheek.
He wants to be selfish, to keep the boy up all night, to savor every last moment they have together. He wants to run away with him, far away, into the Canadian wilderness. Francis may no longer be the young fur trapper he once was but he could do it again for Matthew, if it meant keeping his little boy with him forever. He would do anything for Matthew.
Anything.
The little one shifts, his eyes opening and his mouth grinning innocently as he takes in the older man. "Francis?"
He strokes the boy's cheek again. "Oui Mathieu?" He kisses his forehead.
"Where are you going Francis?" The boy blinks up at him in anticipation.
It takes a few seconds to think of how he wants to phrase his answer, to best deliver to the boy news he had told Arthur to not speak of until after he left. Because Alfred has matured enough to understand but Matthew, he was always too protected, too sheltered, has yet to figure out what the end of the last war means for him and his father.
"Home," Francis sighs, trying to smile. "Arthur will watch you, while I'm gone. Promise me you will be a very good boy and show the Englishman what a good little French boy you are?"
"Of course!" Matthew says excitedly, sitting and throwing his arms around the older man's neck. He pulls the boy close, rubbing his back, before standing and carrying him to bed. Francis wants to be selfish but can't.
Lightning flashes on the other side of his closed eyelids, Francis just on the verge of finally falling asleep after having watched Matthew for hours. That's when two small hands slam down on his chest, a Canadian head burrowing under his chin as the boy shifts to lay on his chest. Instinctively he wraps his arms around Matthew, pulling him flat to the French chest, and at that the little one stills; Matthew was always afraid of storms, of lightning and thunder.
Arthur will never love Matthew as much as Francis does: the thought keeps his heart racing as the boy sighs peacefully, going back into his world of dreams. Arthur will never love Matthew, appreciate Matthew, care for Matthew and about Matthew, the way Francis does. Leaving will mean letting his boy be ruined and Francis can't stop that goodbye, can no longer put off letting go. Instead he cries.