AN: I don't fuckin' know man I was thinking about what Himaruya said about humans going crazy if they spend too much time with nations and I've always thought France would be the first European to discover this, but I also imagine he might've sought council from some of the older nations when he started to suspect something fishy.
This takes place sometime in the 1500s
"I don't understand," he said, an expression of dismay on his face as he looked down. His brow furrowed slightly and he didn't speak again.
"She was the fourth one, wasn't she?" Spain said, following France's gaze to the black-haired woman sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, tracing unknowable shapes on the wall with one finger and muttering incoherently under her breath.
"Oui. She just…snapped." France turned to look at him with this look, his eyes big and blue, full of hurt and confusion. He looked so much like the child he had been when Spain first met him. It was disarming. France had this way of looking at people sometimes, with this quality to his face that was a direct throw-back to the child that had limped into Rome on the end of a chain, surrounded by soldiers claiming Rome's newest prize. He was sixteen now, a grown man, but in his eyes was all the wounded befuddlement of a child who couldn't understand why they were suffering.
After the first one, he had been broken-hearted.
After the second one, he asked God what he had done to deserve this.
After the third one, he began to wonder if it was his fault.
And now there was number four.
"But why?" he murmured, watching as a nurse came over and attempted to give the woman some sort of food, which she rejected.
"It's just bad luck, mi hermano," Spain said with a shrug. Rotten, awful luck at that, but no one's fault. It couldn't be.
Francis, however, saw the one common denominator in all his lovers who'd wound up in a mental institution—him. That couldn't be coincidence; there HAD to be something he was missing. Four perfectly fine people lost to insanity wasn't bad luck. It was the result of a formula he couldn't yet read. He was wracked with guilt and it was eating away at him.
"When I met her…" he began, shaking his head. "She was…fine, she was just fine…" Antonio put a hand on his arm, trying to comfort France.
"How long were you with her?" Spain asked. "She looks so young!" France thought about it, counting back the days, months, years he had spent, snatching happiness with this woman, Odette.
"Seven years, I suppose," he concluded. Somewhere around seven, anyway. Apparently too long.
"How old is she?" Spain asked, peering down at the woman.
"She must be…" He had to count up from her birth year; he didn't actually know how old she was. "Forty two."
"She barely looks in her mid-thirties!" Spain exclaimed in surprise.
"Some women barely seem to age at all, marquis," remarked a passing nurse, giving France a knowing nod. "Luck of the draw, I imagine." He attempted to smile at her, but it was nothing like his usual Cheshire grin. She moved on and Spain looked back at France.
"You always end up with the greatest beauties, Francis," Spain sighed. France gave a hollow laugh.
"Yes, don't I?" And so many of them seemed to meet the same fate.
"It was nothing you did, Francia," he said in a quieter tone, regretting turning away from the seriousness of the situation. "Sometimes…sometimes life is just hard." France shook his head again.
"It can't be. It can't just be luck…" He looked down with a sort of glazed, distant look in his eyes and Spain knew it was no more use talking to him. When France got into these pensive moods he might as well be in another world and talking to him was about as effective as talking to a tree. Spain could see the wheels turning in France's mind, slowly processing whatever information he'd gathered up. All of a sudden, Francis pulled himself from it and headed for the door.
"Wait, you're leaving?" Startled, Spain turned to watch him go. "Where are you going?"
"There is an ally I must speak with," he said, a determined note in his voice. If he didn't have the answers, he'd go to someone older, someone who might know. Spain was disapproving.
"You don't mean him do you?" Spain hissed, following quickly after France.
"Yes," was the short reply.
"France! How can you even be allies with him? You know what he did to me, what he is!" Spain objected. Whenever this topic came up, Spain objected. France had heard all his arguments a thousand times and it changed nothing.
"He is my ally and he would be more likely than any of the rest of us to have knowledge on this," France said, a slight edge in his voice.
"How do you know he won't just lie to you?" Spain demanded.
"He wouldn't. Not about this," France said with certainty that he wasn't completely sure of. "He's not that kind of man."
"He's a heathen!" Spain declared.
"Sa—he won't lie to me," France repeated, reassuring himself in light of Spain's constant doubts. He'd nearly used the familiar name and he knew what Spain would do with that. Since when were they on a first-name basis anyway?
"And what if he has nothing for you?" Spain pressed, still following at France's heels as he exited the grim stone building. "Will you go to the Far East next? Demand answers of China? You have responsibilities here, France! You cannot just run off and go gallivanting around the Orient!" Spain never would have brought up France's responsibilities if he hadn't disapproved so heavily of whom France was going to spend time with.
"I will ask you to mind your own business, Spain!" France snapped. He grew weary of these criticisms, though he knew Spain, of all Europeans, had perhaps the most reason to denounce France's choice in allies.
Antonio halted and stared at France.
"You will let him make a toy of you," he muttered, looking away, his jaw set. "I do not trust him, Francia." France sighed and looked to the sky for strength.
"Don't be jealous, Espagne, it is not becoming of you," he said. Spain gaped at him and France gave him a knowing look. "You will always be my right-hand man, mon frère," he said, stepping over and kissing each of Spain's cheeks. "But we must agree to disagree on this front. I will write you when I return." Spain gave him a sulking look, indignation still flaring in his eyes.
"Watch yourself, Francia!" he called at the older kingdom's departing back. "Be careful!"
"You've come a long way without your boss' orders, Fransa," remarked the Ottoman Empire. Lounging on a row of silken pillows, a book open in front of him, he looked, France thought, like a lion, or a tiger. Strong, predatory, but in repose. Beautiful, even.
"I had to talk to you," France replied. He had indeed come of his own initiative and thus the Ottoman Empire had not been expecting to see him suddenly presented in his chambers. He arched a cinnamon-colored eyebrow.
"It must be urgent indeed, young lily. Do sit." He waved his hand to a plush cushion on the floor, onto which France lowered himself in a way that made the Ottoman Empire think he moved far too much like one of the court dancers. The nickname, which came from France's national flower—the lily—and the mocking name for their alliance "The Sacrilegious Union of the Lily and the Crescent"—was somewhat intended to be derogatory. It referred to France's skin, as pale as the flower on his flag, and the tender, soft petals of the plant. The Ottoman Empire sat back and waited for France to speak. He was sure the teenager would; he had an intense look in those ocean-blue eyes that the Ottoman Empire rarely saw.
"I presume you've had human lovers," France began. Sadiq threw back his head and filled the room with the sound of his laughter.
"Fransa, I've had more human lovers than you've had years on this planet!" he boasted to the young kingdom.
"Have any of them been long-lasting relationships?" he asked, subtly avoiding the Ottoman Empire's eye. He might be sly enough to get by in Europe, but Sadiq was old enough to read France more clearly. "More than…five years, perhaps?" Seven had been the number he'd been with Odette, now tearing her hair out in the asylum in Calais.
"Hm…" the Ottoman Empire rubbed his chin thoughtfully, scratching the small beard clinging to his jaw and chin. "Huh. Not for a while now, when I think about it," he said. "But in the past, yes."
"And…how did they end?" France asked, skirting around asking the blunt question. But the Ottoman Empire read the pained flicker in France's eyes and realization dawned on his face. Then his shoulders slumped.
"You've come to it then," he grunted. There was a pause and then: "Follow me." He got up and France, confused, followed him to another room, where Sadiq seated himself in front of a hookah.
"What do you mean?" the blond queried. "Come to what?
"You look troubled, lily. Have a smoke," the Ottoman Empire responded, holding out the pipe.
"I don't smoke," France said, as he always did when the Ottoman Empire offered it.
"But you'll drink yourself red in the face," he returned, poking fun at how France had reacted when Sadiq said he didn't drink.
"Everyone has their vice," France replied, taking a seat once more. He moved too delicately for a European, the Ottoman Empire thought. He probably could've been a court dancer. The thought made him chuckle inwardly.
"So. You want to know about my lovers." He took a long draw from the hookah; he was going to need it for this. "You want to know if they all went bonkers." France looked slightly taken aback, with a slight touch of wariness; he wasn't sure if he'd offended Sadiq. Their alliance, while they both stood by it, did encounter various culture clashes and misunderstandings and to make an enemy of the Ottoman Empire would be a very bad thing indeed. "Don't look so scandalized," he said, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. "It's a fair question. How many have you had now?"
For a moment France was resentfully silent, not appreciating the casual way the Ottoman Empire spoke of this. When it seemed like he wouldn't answer at all, he gave in, the tension going out of his back. "Four," he said quietly. The Ottoman Empire nodded slowly.
"Rome died before he could tell you about this, didn't he?" the Ottoman guessed. Again, France avoided his gaze. He didn't talk about his time in the Roman Empire with anyone but Spain and the Italy brothers, because they understood. "Or maybe he just didn't bother…" Sadiq mused, rubbing his chin again. That might've been something Rome would do, leaving his grandkids to figure out the world's problems after he'd killed off their parents. When France remained silent, he posed a question. "Did anyone ever tell you how we mess with the passage of time for humans?"
"They stop aging," France guessed immediately, remembering his conversation with Spain at the mental institution and the innocuous comment by the nurse. "Or they age slower. Something like that." The Ottoman Empire nodded, like France was a student who'd given him the right answer.
"They do," he said, nodding and taking another puff of his pipe. "It's really because they're so fragile, you know," he sighed. "They can't handle their perception of time being warped like that."
"They go mad," France said quietly, hurt breaking fresh in his eyes. The Ottoman Empire nodded somewhat grimly.
"They're not meant to be like us," he said. "It destroys them."
"Then it was my fault," France realized, guilt hurling itself across his face. "I did this to them." The Ottoman Empire sighed anew and took another long drag of opium. He didn't want to be here, watching France have a meltdown. He'd already experienced it himself; why relive it watching the same thing happen to this kid?
"Have a smoke," he said, offering France the pipe again. He didn't take it.
"Why?" he cried at last, raising those big blue eyes up to the Ottoman Empire's face. He was so young, Sadiq thought. Perhaps he was a work of art, cast down on this Earth by accident, now warped and twisted by centuries of court intrigue, war and suffering. And it was just the beginning. "Why would the universe create beings like us, only to make us live so cruelly? How could anyone wish that on another person?"
"Maybe God has a twisted sense of humor," Sadiq replied, not looking directly at France, as though he could distance himself from this painful emotional outburst.
France hated acting like a baby in front of the Ottoman Empire, who thought him one already, but this was so bitterly unfair and hurt so badly he could barely stop himself from screaming and throwing a temper tantrum as he had when he really was just a child, believing that someone could come along and pick him up and erase whatever had upset him in the first place. His eyes stung badly, but he swallowed hard.
"Then we truly are alone in the world," he whispered, drawing one knee up to his chest.
Sadiq made a grumbling noise, an exasperated breath of something in his own language. "Don't be so dramatic, Fransa," he said. "You're hardly the first nation to realize that. Here, take a puff." Yet again, he offered France the pipe. France looked at it, hesitating a long moment, then took it and breathed deeply. The Ottoman Empire let out another bark of laughter and slapped France on the back, making him nearly choke on the hookah pipe. "I'll be a corrupting influence on you yet!" he said with triumph. "Allying with a Muslim, smoking…what must the other Europeans think of you?"
"That I have the largest army," France said, giving Sadiq a mulish look, a stubborn expression in his eyes, his chest drawn up as if he expected a fight over it. What a cute little kingdom.
A servant passed by and the Ottoman Empire hailed him.
"Bring some wine for my friend, will you? I've been rude." He looked to France. "You're gonna need it," he said to the blond. France didn't protest, just took another little drag from the hookah. The Ottoman Empire gave him wine and let them pass the pipe back and forth until France couldn't take any more and the room was filled with a haze of smoke.
"It's not fair," the Frenchman mumbled from where he lay on the pillows. Sadiq looked down at him. "It's not fair." The pain he had felt before was still lurking under the comforter of opium, but now it seemed duller and more distant, as if he were watching it happen to someone else.
"Life isn't far, lily," he said. "Surely you know that by now." France gave the floor a miserable look. "For example, look at me. I have all this wealth and territory…" He flung his arms out to the side to indicate his palace and vast expanse of his empire, "…and what do you have? A muddy little swamp in what used to be the greatest empire the world had ever seen?"
"I will be strong," France croaked, struggling to sit up. The Ottoman Empire could tell his head was spinning, but he overcame and tried to get to his feet. "I can…I can fight too…" He swayed; he was drunk and high on top of that. Feeling somewhat responsible, Sadiq got up and wrapped a firm arm around the boy's waist, which, he thought, was too narrow for a man's (and something he took far too much pleasure in holding). Then again, France was young. But Sadiq didn't think Francis would ever outgrow the feminine touch to his build and movements.
"Calm down, Charlemagne," he said. "I think you're more suited to have a paintbrush in your hand than a sword." France looked up at the Ottoman Empire and he was doing the thing with his eyes and Sadiq groaned inwardly because it looked like he might start crying and he didn't know what he'd do with a crying Kingdom of France. "I let you drink too much," he lamented, shaking his head.
"I can handle it fine!" He's pouting now, looking at the Ottoman Empire with this petulant look and his lips are a rosy pink color, the upper one a perfect cupid's bow shape, the lower beautifully full.
"Look, I think you just need to go lie down and sleep this off, you'll feel better—" He didn't get to finish his sentence because France's creamy white hands closed around Sadiq's face while he was watching Francis' lips too closely and suddenly those enchanting lips were right against his and the Ottoman Empire knew he should've stopped France drinking earlier. He pulled back. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, straightening up.
"I don't want to be alone," France said, almost pleadingly. His big, round eyes were fixed on the Ottoman Empire's face and he made himself an all too tempting thing. "I don't want to be alone." His hands grasped loosely at Sadiq's chest.
"So what, you want me to fuck you?" he asked. "Will that make you feel better?" When he got an eager nod in response, he gave France a sort of horrified look. "You are one fucked up kid, you know that?" he said. France pulled the Ottoman Empire back down to his level and kissed him again.
"I know," he breathed. "You don't want to be alone either," he added, murmuring the words against Sadiq's lips. He pressed close to the Ottoman and stretched his arms up around his neck.
"Dammit, Fransa," he groaned, trying to peel the Frenchman off. "You're drunk."
"That doesn't change what I want," he said, trying to hang on. "It just makes me more willing to take it." He was making it really hard to resist, the way he was throwing himself at Sadiq and even though the Ottoman knew he'd regret it later, he wanted this prized little flower.
"You want? You want, huh? Fine. Come here." He easily lifted France up off his feet, prompting him to hook his legs around the Ottoman Empire's waist. He kissed France heatedly and the younger nation responded immediately, cupping Sadiq's face in his hands again.
"Being alone is no fun," he whispered. "If I'm lonely, you must be too. All nations are lonely, aren't they?"
"Stop that, either we're philosophizing or we're having sex, you can't do both at the same time," the Ottoman Empire told him as he carried France to his bed. France shut up, though he couldn't tell if it was because he'd asked him to or just because he ran out of depressing things to say. Probably the former.
He laid France out on the bed and good Lord France was a responsive lover and where did he learn to do that? Sadiq hadn't learned that at his age! He pinned Francis' hands over his head to remind him this was his house and he'd be in charge here. When his lovely lily was spread out on the finely woven bedspread, the Ottoman Empire claimed what he had wanted for too long, going at it until France's white face was flushed red and he was gasping and crying out the empire's name in bliss. Triumphant in that success and hazy from the drug, the Ottoman Empire went to sleep afterwards, France already passed out among his many plump pillows.
When he woke in the morning, he was on his stomach, an arm thrown over France, who was still dozing peacefully in his bed. He was somewhat surprised; he half-expected France to be gone when he awoke. He looked over the young body, the golden hair splayed out on the pillow, the fine jawline. It would be so easy to trail his fingers along the curve of France's back, to roll closer and press kisses against the light bruises on France's neck from the day before, to pull his ally firmly into his arms and fully revel in his beauty. But he didn't, because any of that would suggest emotional attachment to this, which Sadiq most certainly did NOT have. Honestly, he was like a painting or a misplaced china doll. The Ottoman Empire stifled a growl in his throat. He turned his head to look at the nearest window and then leaped out of bed. It was late, it was much too late!
"Dammit France!" France woke at the sound of Sadiq's distress and yawned, sitting up, disoriented. It took him a moment to remember the day before and he was hung over. "Do you know what time it is?" the older man demanded as he jerked his shirt on over his head. "I have a meeting with my boss and I'm late and it's your fault!" He hopped around the room, stuffing himself into his pants. France lay back down and burrowed into the nest of blankets and pillows again.
"Close the shutters," he murmured sleepily.
"Close the damn shutters yourself! No—don't touch anything!" he ordered. "And don't talk to the women!" He left the room only for his head to burst back in a second later. "And don't go anywhere!" He repeated the process a few times. "Don't leave this bed! I'll be back! With breakfast!"
He did not want to be leaving France unaccompanied in his private chambers or anywhere in the sultan's palace, but he didn't have much choice at the moment.
Needless to say, France disobeyed the order to stay in bed. He did, however, strange as it may seem, adhere to the rest of Sadiq's demands.
Upon returning to his chambers and finding France gone, the Ottoman Empire was ready to launch his own personal manhunt to make sure France wasn't getting into trouble, like he always did, but then he spied a note on the pillow.
It was just a page, thanking Sadiq for his answers and everything else (the hookah, the wine, the sex, the alliance). It was written in France's trademark curly script and signed at the bottom.
However, you made a good point about the inability to change my fate by falling into your bed. It was improper and I apologize for that.
Privately he regretted having said anything like that when he read that line, but he also wasn't sure that meant France would actually say no if Sadiq welcomed him to his bed again.
I wish you, as always, the best of fortune, until our bosses see fit for us to visit again.
Hm…perhaps that meant no more surprises visits. The Ottoman Empire wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He tossed the letter and left the room, thinking about what France had said about vices. France had two notable ones—wine and sex. And more and more, the Sadiq had hookah, and France. He wondered if perhaps, he had misjudged which of the two was more dangerous to his health.
AN 2: I imagine the nations using their language's name for another nation to be something of a sign of affection. ie: France uses the French term for Spain because they're close. So Turkey's use of the Turkish (correct me if it's wrong) word for France is familiar, but not as familiar as calling him Francis.
And yes France and Turkey's alliance really was called "The Sacrilegious Union of the Lily and the Crescent". Or if you prefer something less of a mouthful, "The Impious Alliance".