A/N: Done for a music meme. This was written to the song "The Girl Who Falls Downstairs" by Tom McRae.
France had had several experiences in the dabbling of love.
He would like to tell you that each and every one of them had been simply for the sake of playing around; that each time he would look into his partner's eyes (partners, so many of them, dozens of them, taking up his bed just because he liked to keep warm at night), he would see simply a singular night of fun, a good time, someone to help him forget the things he would – bluntly put – rather not remember.
But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? And Francis Bonnefoy preferred to avoid lying, when he could.
In truth, there had been precisely three instances in which he could recall feeling… perhaps a bit too close to the object of his affections. Well, that was the point, wasn't it? "Affections." That meant he had grown too attached.
The first instance was one that still replays itself in his dreams again and again. When it had felt as though the entirety of the world would collapse in on itself, and he would put on a brave face for fear of losing this precious, precious man in the torrent of upset that had become his life. England – oh, his Angleterre, and how easily that fell from his lips – he was everything France had always dreamed of having. A strong fighter, a skillful lover, and…
Didn't really love him after all, or else France had just made too big a mistake to forgive. England would leave, sometimes for so long that the ache of loneliness would grow far too strong in his chest, and it became too difficult to deny the urge for comfort.
So one day, while his Angleterre was at sea… out pirating on his waves, loving the ocean far more than he could ever love France himself…France found comfort in Spain. It was rushed, and painful, and tragic, nothing like what he would get with England. And when England came back – when England found out – he left for good, and France realized then how very stupid it was to become involved with other nations and try to make it last "forever," because there really wasn't such a thing, was there? Not for countries. Countries lasted eternity; therefore, their relationships couldn't.
Just when he had promised to himself to no longer become involved that way, the second instance occurred. Jeanne d'Arc… oh, what a beautiful woman she had been. Knew him better than anyone, better than he knew himself, and paid such close close attention to him. Fought for him, swore her service to his safety, promised him everything he could ever hope to get.
Except her love. No, he couldn't win that much from her.
But it was okay. She knew him, and that was good enough for him, at that point. "I will fight for you, Monsieur Bonnefoy," she told him. She hadn't known she would die for him at that time. She also hadn't known that it would be at England's jealous hand.
Angleterre must have known that he loved her – there was no way even England would set someone on fire just for a political cause. That was too personal.
(He had tried to love a human; that love had lasted only three years, unrequited.)
The third instance. He had barely begun in his violent grief for Jeanne when he had found someone else. That "someone else" had been just a boy at the time – a boy with floppy hair and wide blue-violet eyes, looking up to him in complete awe. (Jeanne had called him an angel, more than once; this boy called him "Papa," and it felt more like Heaven than Jeanne ever did.)
Matthieu had been his and his alone, someone he could take and love and put all of his lost affections into. Matthieu made up for his past losses by eating his food and praising his cooking and trying to imitate him in every waking moment; Matthieu was good, and brilliant, and strong, and loyal, and would never leave him, not like the others had.
Would never grow to hate him like America had to England, would never rebel, would never… revolt.
Would he?
In that panic, he had looked upon this boy, such a small boy despite having reached his preteens by now, and saw not his Matthieu, but… he saw America in that boy, saw a rebel, saw someone who would only leave him if he didn't leave first.
So he grew paranoid, and in that paranoia, he signed Canada off to England.
Matthieu became Matthew, a fine British-controlled nation, and never revolted once. Just looked to him with wide sad eyes and that question on his lips – "Pourquoi?"
Francis hated himself for leaving sometimes. But he didn't have any choice.
Three instances in which Francis Bonnefoy had sworn off love and closeness; three instances in which he had broken hearts, and had his broken in return.
People asked him sometimes if he had ever fallen in love. He answered the same each time:
"Not once."
Maybe lying, sometimes, was better for everyone. Including himself.