Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
something better than love
The sun spits fire into Feliciano's eyes - or perhaps the fire was always there. It is always hard to tell with Feliciano; he's a dancer and it's written in every line of his body, the set of his mouth and the slender embonpoint of his ankles. And he cannot see into Feliciano, but he knows that his heart is drawn much the same way - quick and agile and ready to change in the flutter of a hummingbird's wings.
He dances across the plaza, laughing and beautiful but Francis does not dwell on the soft curves of his smile, for he can think only of who Feliciano loved before him.
Ludwig is a sore point between them - or, rather, he would be, if they spoke of him. Francis does not want to talk about the nation who tortured him and Feliciano does not want to talk about the nation who tortured him and whom he loves.
They don't talk about him, but Francis finds himself thinking about him often while watching Feliciano sleep in his bed. Feliciano looks like an angel, swathed in nothing but his own loveliness and he hates Ludwig sometimes, with almost all of his heart (because the rest belongs to Feliciano), wonders what he and Feliciano would be like without Ludwig.
It's a pity that he thinks of Ludwig when Feliciano is naked in his bed.
And he wonders if Feliciano will leave him when Ludwig comes crawling back, begging his forgiveness. He can imagine Feliciano's quirked lip and his words as he breaks his heart smoothly: "I'm seeing Ludwig again," he says in his imagination and he shouldn't imagine it, but even Francis not impervious to heartbreak and maybe that is why much of his heart is tucked away into hating Ludwig and not in Feliciano's hands. Because Ludwig will come crawling back and to Feliciano, Ludwig is perfection and beauty and Francis is simply what came after.
He knows best, of all people, that he has not correctly determined the root of his fears. But the truth hurts somuchfuckingmore and consequently he likes to tell himself that Ludwig is what fucked it all up.
It was fucked up to begin with. Feliciano came in with a half-heart and Francis never had one.
That's easy to forget when Francis is kissing Feliciano's eyelids and his other fingers are grazing his lips, when Feliciano laughs, when Francis purrs, when Feliciano declares he loves him. Ludwig does not exist then, even though he has become everything between them. It's so easy to believe that this is perfect, that they are star-crossed.
But it isn't perfect and both of them know that this is not true love. Each of them knows it as surely as they know the body of the other and nothing they do will hide that from plain view. This is not the love poets vie for, the perfection the philosophers died for.
But it is easy, and after centuries of entanglement and war, that is all they can ask for.
Author's Note: I seem to enjoy angsty FraIta. I don't believe they're necessarily soul mates, not in the sense I consider Feliciano and Ludwig to be, and I don't think Francis and Feliciano will ever be madly in love with each other, but I believe that they could at least be comfortable together and having someone you are comfortable with is, to me, almost as romantic as having your soul mate. Almost.
Feedback is, as always, appreciated, and certainly not required.
loveliness decays