France couldn't even start to count how many times he had stared this exact spot on the wall. It seemed endless, as was the time lost during it. He had hoped he could figure out some answer to all his questions if he simply concentrated hard enough, but the simple spot seemed to be giving no response. It never truly did. Never were any of his questions answered, or at least not in way that truly solved the problem.
He had tried so hard….so very hard. He supposed that was his only saving grace in the long run. He had always supposed the harder he tried, the more likely everything would pan out for him. And for a time, he had tricked himself into believing it had. He had believed that things were slowly changing in his favor. However, he could only blind himself to the truth for so long.
He had loved England for as long as he could remember being able to understand the emotion. For a long time, he had passed it off as the love one gets from being around someone for far too long. However, as time went along, it became more and more obvious that that was not the case. He loved England, though he supposed his idea of love might seem a little odd to those on the outside looking in.
He had tried showing his affection for the man through childish means, but he had tried none the less. He had at one point thought it odd that he, the man who claimed to know so very much about love, could not properly express the emotion to the one person he felt it towards. It was a maddening feeling to have unrequited love, yet he could not rid his heart of the offending emotion. It must have been hope that had kept it alive, he supposed. Hoped that he would one day feel the way he had always dreamed of feeling.
He had, from a distance, watched England's relationship with America bloom into one that he knew, somewhere in the deepest part of his soul, would break his own heart. Time and time again, he had tried ignoring it, sitting in the same position he was sitting in now, trying to conjure up excuses as to why the two seemed to be getting progressively closer. He continued to tease his secret love in some horribly desperate attempt to gain his attention, even if it was out of annoyance. He continued to watch the man reject him time and time again.
He had tried to make him jealous. Be hitting on and molesting the other countries, he had always hoped it would spark something in England that would cause him to show him any form of wanting to be touched himself, but to no avail. It seemed to fall upon blind eyes. Instead, it only gained him a reputation he rather he didn't have. Of course, it was his own fault.
However, through everything, he had managed to cope very well, stealing himself away into a world of fantasy where one day England would love him. But it was nothing more than that. A fantasy. And fantasies had a horrible habit of blowing up in peoples faces when held onto for to long.
He shouldn't have been weak enough to believe that England, when sober, would ever want to have sex with him. He had his heart on another, after all. But, in a moment of weakness, he had allowed his mind to trick him into believing that the alcohol had brought some long buried emotions to the surface. He had been in bliss that night. He had hoped that it would never end. He had even forced himself to stay awake for a few hours after everything was said and done, simply hoping to keep the moment with him.
But the moment ended the moment he had awoken from a rather restless dream. England had been pissed. Not only at France, but at himself as well. He had watched him pace and rant with a blank face. He had been trying to build up another fantasy about why he was acting this way. One that didn't require him to face the fact that he didn't love him the way he had imagined. He had managed to start one up before England said the words that shattered his soul.
"You wouldn't mind keeping this a secret would you?"
He could have taken it anyway, he supposed. He supposed he could have just ignored it as well. But he knew. He knew it meant that he would never living down having slept with him when the one he wanted had yet to give him the affection he wanted. He had watched him leave, still in a state of shock over the whole ordeal. It had taken him a few hours before he had willed himself to move again. He had moved to the living room, where he now sat, and had taken an all too familiar seat.
He had gained nothing from the act however. Nothing could cure the dead feeling he had inside himself. He closed his eyes and chuckled bitterly. The only man he had ever loved wanted nothing to do with him. He hated him, plain and simple. His chuckle slowly turned into a laugh and that to sobs as years of hidden truths poured forth, leaving him even more broken than he had been before.
His mind desperately tried to find a way to force the pain away, but the illusion had been destroyed to completely. He was unloved and likely to stay that way due to his reputation…one that he had gained in an attempt to make England love him. There was one thing that did run through his mind however. Something rather dark, but something that would end the suffering of it all.
He slowly stood, wavering slightly. He shifted to the kitchen and opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. He ran his finger over the back of the blade curiously, wondering silently how long it would take him to bleed out and exactly who would care. Sure, there would be an initial sadness. There was with any death. However, he wondered who would mourn. Who would visit his grave ever so often and leave a flower. Maybe Canada…maybe no one. He supposed time would tell.
He jumped and dropped the knife as he heard a knock on the door. He quickly rubbed at his eyes and walked to the door, silently hoping it was England. Maybe he did care; maybe he just had been surprised by the situation. He opened the door a tad, barely peeking out. He blinked, surprised, at who stood on his doorstep. "Hello, Russia. Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked, opening the door a bit wider. He winced as he realized that his voice sounded rather broken.
Russia smiled at him, seemingly unaffected by the Frenchman's gloomy demeanor. "I was coming to check up on you, da?" he said happily. France stared at him. He would be lying if he said he didn't want the companionship at the moment.
"Why would I need checking up on?" he asked, forcing a smile on his face.
"I heard about a certain…incident." Russia said, still smiling at him. France froze and his smile changed to a frown. How in the world did he know? What had been said? He slowly opened the door enough for Russia to come in, running over different scenarios in his head. Once inside, he silently led the taller man to the living room, not feeling like standing in the doorway all day.
"What did you hear?" he asked taking a seat. Russia shrugged and took a seat next to him, causing France to shift uncomfortably. He wasn't exactly afraid of him…more of what had been said and why he felt the need to comfort him.
"I simply over heard that you and England had a rather…intimate night." Russia said causing France to flinch. Intimate was a word he had often reserved for two people who loved each other. What had happened was far from intimate. More of fucking if he wanted to be crude. He fidgeted nervously, having no idea how it had been spread about or how he had been portrayed. He slowly closed his eyes and sighed. He leaned back and tried to conjure up something to say that didn't sound completely pathetic.
"How do you stand it? Being alone?" he asked quietly, not really thinking of the words before they came out. He opened his eyes, rather surprised by what he had just said. So much for not sounding pathetic… He looked at Russia nervously, just to see he seemed just as shocked as he did.
"I…I don't do it of my own free will, you must understand." Russia said and looked away. "I don't work with others well…people misinterpret my motives though." He said and fidgeted, frowning. France couldn't say he had ever actually seen the Russian truly upset. Normally it was hidden well behind a mask of child like happiness. It had always obviously been a mask, he supposed, but it had held up well over the years making the man seem much more intimidating than he thought he might really be. "It's not easy being alone." Russia said quietly, stirring France from his thoughts rather abruptly.
France let the words sink in for a moment before slowly leaning over and resting his head against his shoulder. He took a hold of one of Russia's hands and smiled a little. "We aren't so different, really." He said, staring at their hands. "Maybe we could be lonely together? It might make it a little more bearable." He said and looked up at him, trying not to look as hopeful as he felt.
Russia blinked in shock at the statement than smiled warmly. He looked much better with a real smile, France mused to himself. He seemed actually human. "Da, that sounds…wonderful." He said and leaned down to kiss France gently, hesitantly. France instantly felt something different. There was a spark there that had not been present with England…something deeper. He smiled at him and kissed him, knowing full well that this was something special. Something to be cherished deeply. This was his Russia and he would never have to be truly lonely again as long as he was with him.
By no means my best work. Not feeling fantastic, ending is not what I had hoped for. *sigh* Suppose it could be much much worse. :/