{Break Your Heart}
Matthew can see why Francis is called a heartbreaker.
Others had come to Matthew's land before Francis had. Iceland's people first, led by the very small Nation himself. He had amaranthine eyes brighter, clearer and far more beautiful than his – they glowed in his pale face, set off by the snow. Matthew had been fascinated – Iceland was like a smattering of snow in the wind; fragile and wild. He held a sword like it was an extension of his arm, led men who looked so much older than him like he had been in charge all his life.
Vinland, he called Matthew. He'd liked the sound of that – it was a pretty name, delicate and beautiful with promises of wilderness unseen. Iceland explored his land for a while, and Matthew let him, content to tag along with this fascinating not-a-child who was so much older than his appearance.
But then Iceland left, and Matthew didn't see him again for a while.
Then another Nation-child came, accompanied by men armed with shining swords that flashed silver in the morning light. This one, unlike Iceland, did not immediately appear older than his years – to Matthew, he seemed to be but a real child. He was fine-boned, with wispy brown hair and enormous eyes as dark as the dirt in the riverbanks, and skin the same shade of brown as the wood of an oak tree in spring. He was a curious creature – he smiled all the time and in the short while he was there Matthew never saw him shed a tear.
But the child left before Matthew could even learn his name.
And then there was Spain and Portugal – they had to have been twin brothers like him and his southern counterpart, they looked so alike. Tall, wiry to the point of frailty and excess energy, with thick, curly rich mahogany brown hair and summer-grass green eyes, there were few differences between them – their languages, for one, though even that was similar to the point of almost being the same. They were older than Iceland and the other child – Matthew guessed that they had been Nations for longer and had had much more time to grow.
They left too. Matthew wondered if there was something wrong with him, and that was why no one wanted to stay.
Francis, when he arrived, was different than the others in some unnamable way, and that was why Matthew approached him in the first place.
He was slender, like Spain and Portugal had been, but his was more in the way of being healthy and muscular rather than wiry. He was more elegant, with splashes of bright, cheery colors decorating his uniform and an azure ribbon tying back his wavy golden hair. He was a good cook, and smelled like some sweet delicious scent that came from the lands across the ocean, mysterious and yet somehow homey.
He'd been perfectly happy to have Francis there, even if Francis did kill off all of his beavers to make silly hats for fat rich people. Francis told him about the world beyond the lands Matthew had explored, lands with people with skin so dark it was nearly black, lands where people wore clothes that shimmered like the rainbow. Fascinating tales where anything was possible and the world was one's oyster – Matthew had lapped them up like the delicious wine Francis once brought with him.
But then Francis lost the Seven Years War, and suddenly, he couldn't take care of Matthew anymore. There were tears in his azure eyes – the same color as the ribbon that had tied his hair back all those years ago when they had first met – as he handed Matthew over to a man who smelled like burned goods and salt, tobacco and rainwater, with eyebrows bigger than Matthew's still baby-tiny hand.
And Francis wasn't there any more. Even in the modern day, Francis is always busy with someone other than Matthew – busy talking, laughing, dancing, being. Francis had other colonies after Matthew, other Nations who were surely more talkative and witty and generally better than Matthew.
Francis was the first to really see him, but now, he's one of the last to notice the glaringly obvious fact that he's crushing Matthew's heart in slow motion.
...
{Something Left to Give}
Francis occasionally wonders if the world still has magic.
When he was a young Nation who's view of the world was limited to his shores and the horizon against the waves, so far off, the world had everything in store. There was mystery – why did things fall when you dropped them? Was the world really flat? There was magic – fire bursting up in forests without sparks, him and the other Nations, people who were people without being people.
Over time, as his people built boats and drew maps and learned about concepts such as gravity and heritable traits, the world still seemed endless, wonderful, enchanting. As he explored lands far away, filled with people who spoke in garbled tongues, people who wore no clothes or people who mutilated their bodies in the strangest of ways – the world's wonder lessened slightly. There were explanations for things: people spoke in garbled tongues because they had never heard the purity of French before, they wore no clothes because it was too hot for them, they stretched and mutilated their bodies because of their heritage.
And then he met Matthew.
And the world had magic again.
The boy was sweet, genuine in a way most people were not. Francis was used to the tricks and schemes of the French court – power plays, snide remarks that could make or break someone, bed-hopping and scandals, fakery and lies.
Matthew was different. Angelic, naïve in a way only children could be, he brought the spark of awe and wonderment back to the world. Petite, with big lilac eyes and a gentle smile, he was someone who hadn't yet been corrupted by the messy affairs of politics like Europe was, someone who still believed everything could change for the better in a moment.
Even four hundred years later, Matthew still has that touch, that smile, that brings all Francis's amazement of the world and curiosity back to the foreground. Matthew is peaceful, amiable, with a kind word for anyone and a constant half-smile plastered to his face, always alert and ready to do something.
When he sees Matthew, Francis can remember that yes, the world still has magic and something incredible left to give him.
...
{Another Love Song}
It never fails to astonish Francis how cynical Matthew's views of romance and sweet nothings whispered in ears late at night in front of roaring fires are.
Hormones, he says without a touch of disdain, though his lips curl at the edges like he smells something nasty. Hormones that evolved to make the human race seek out mates so their genes can be passed along to the next generation. Love is a chemical cocktail; nothing more.
He never looks bitter or weary when he says this, like some people do. He merely looks pleasantly amused, light catching at his wavy golden hair and making his dark blue eyes – so dark blue that they appear to be violet – glow. He looks like a polite college student, someone with his whole life ahead of him – someone with time to fall in love, marry, grow old.
Bu Nations don't grow, don't marry, and Matthew doesn't believe in love.
Matthew gets that amused look on his face when he hears a love song blasting out of the radio, lips turning up into a sweet half-smile, but Francis knows that what he is thinking is anything but sweet. Matthew is too bitter for one so young, and this saddens Francis, for someone as gentle, kind and easy-going as Matthew deserves something like the wonderful rush that love brings.
"Don't you want to know what falling so hard and fast that you can't stop yourself feels like?" he asks Matthew one day over a friendly dinner of grilled salmon and fine wine in Francis's country home, the sun sinking low over the horizon and Matthew glowing orange-gold in the gloom, outlined by the dying light.
Matthew's lips quirk as he sips at his white wine, eyes dancing. "You make it sound like suicide in slow motion," he comments, gently placing the glass down with a quiet clink and picking up his fork. "On a completely unrelated subject, the fish is delicious." The sky is darkening to the same shade of indigo as Matthew's eyes, the sun glowing dark orange-red as night suffocates it.
"Don't change the topic," Francis scolds him mildly, shifting his green beans around his plate, hoping Matthew doesn't notice the way he pushes them as far away from his body as possible. "True love is nothing like suicide."
"I thought that love brought the willingness to sacrifice yourself to save the other," Matthew replies as he spears a green bean with a elegant flick of his wrist, rubbing it in a patch of melted butter so it shines dully in the light. "If that isn't suicide, I don't know what is. It's a exercise in madness, falling in love. Even you've got to admit that." He chews slowly, watching Francis with a ancient, omniscient look on his face.
Francis mashes his salmon with the back of his fork, tucking a strand of wavy hair behind his left ear with his other hand. He has that thoughtfully guarded look he always get when they enter topics that make him uncomfortable, make him want to jump to his feet and run run run 'til he can't anymore.
Matthew grins suddenly, and it is a wild one, insanity tugging on the corners of his lips and animalistic in it's ferocity. His eyes are ablaze with something not-Matthew – not humble, not hesitant, not nervous. This is a Matthew who knows he has been underestimated and isn't going to take it any more. Francis edges his chair away from the table. It squeaks against the polished wood, and Matthew whispers, his voice unbelievably gentle considering the harshness of his words, "Love is something stupid, Francis. It leads to betrayal, to anger, to death. Don't bother with it."
He peers down at his plate, eying what remains of his dinner, and the tension is gone, just like that. Francis tries to remember what breathing feels like.
Too late for me, Matthew, he muses as he shoves his green beans away from his fish again, I'm already falling.
Author's Note
Break Your Heart, Something Left to Give and Another Love Song are all songs you can find on YouTube.
Rythme is rhythm in French - this is a sorta companion to Rhythm in that in both these pieces, the titles heading each drabble are the names of the song that inspired that drabble. Really, it was me being lazy and not wanting to write a full one-shot.
In Another Love Song, I mixed Francis with my best friend, who is a female version of him, and she really dislikes green beans, so that's why he's sorta shoving them around his plate.
I have a very twisted view on Matthew - I like to imagine him to be this vaguely bitter guy who just smiles and nods when people tell him something he doesn't agree with.
Anyway, please comment and tell me how this was.