HEY IT'S BBS (AGAIN) BACK WITH ANOTHER FANFIC SHE WROTE INSTEAD OF UPDATING THE ONES SHE ALREADY SHOULD HAVE :D *SHOT* Anyways, this is a FrancexU.K fanfiction. Both country and alias names will be used.
No yaoi (sorryyy) but angsty fluff :3 This is also dedicated to my Pop-Pop, Chizo. :D ENJOYYYYYY AND FEEL BETTER POP-POP :')
Arthur shook his head in disbelief as he approached the somber and depraved figure in the shadows. Ash covered part of his face but his green eyes were still just as brilliant in the light of the fire.
"…Francis?"
No answer.
England walked over to the desolate nation and kneeled in front of him, staring into those blank blue eyes.
No emotion.
No hope.
He had never seen the man in this sort of condition. He was always so lively and frivolous. Arthur placed a curved finger under his old rival's chin, forcing him to look him straight in the eye. The nation looked about ready to pass out.
"Francis. You're coming with me alright? Don't worry…you're safe."
Another grenade went off in the distance as the Englishman cursed under his breath. He placed both arms under Francis and carried him to a nearby bomber plane that had been waiting for them.
Originally, Arthur was to board the plane and return to headquarters for further directions. He hadn't a second thought about leaving until he heard that Francis was still out there.
He personally had no idea why he had been such an idiot as to go looking for him, almost risking his own life when shrapnel exploded mid air not too far away from him. But…regardless of whether Francis was a constant nuisance in his life, something wanted him to go back for him.
Their relationship ran too deep to be broken by something as stupid as death.
The plane roared to life as they took into the skies. Hopefully, after Francis received some medical attention, he'd be the same old git as he used to be.
France awoke to a room with light blue walls and open windows. The sound of radios and feet shuffling back and forth had woken him up. His forehead was beaded with sweat from recurring nightmares from the war. War had taken a colossal toll on both Francis' physical as well as mental health. He could barely sleep and he could barely walk by himself. He had been drastically weakened by his enemies.
Even nations that were once so great had to fall to another empire at some point.
When a nation rises, many must fall in its wake.
The "click" of a closing door could be heard,
"Are you up now?" came a voice from across the room.
Arthur walked over to Francis' hospital bed and smiled weakly. France looked horrible. He was an absolute mess. His eyes were dark and opaque, his frame was weak and thin, and his hair was disheveled—deprived of their once glowing health.
"…oui." His voice was small and frail, barely a whisper.
Arthur couldn't bear to see Francis like this. For once, he could honestly say that he missed his idiocy.
"There will be better days...meanwhile; we should discuss your plans of defense against the Nazis. Do you have one at hand?"
"Non." His voice was quiet, withdrawn…
Lifeless.
Arthur's eyes widened. No plans of defense? How was he supposed to fight back?
"I have been defeated. I am beaten, I have lost the battle."
Never was Francis known to be such a lax and weak fighter. He would always have fought to the end. It was just in his nature. But this…this was an unorthodox enemy at hand.
"Francis…you and I both know that the Allies will win this war, you can't possibly give up now. There are many battles to be won, many victories to be seen. You can't give up now. You can't."
France was silent until a small sigh escaped his lips.
"I suppose…we are not the great nations we used to be. Arthur mon cher…do you remember when you used to supposedly rule the seven seas?"
The nation's head tilted to look up at the Englishman with a tragically desolate gaze. Arthur's heart stung.
"Just because we have been taken from our greatness, doesn't mean we can't rise to it once more." He assured soothingly.
A grim smile stretched across Francis' face.
"Non, mon cher. We are doomed to be defeated. Battle after battle, we are defeated. Attack upon attack, we are defeated. Our people slaughtered by the ones that call themselves Nazis. This time, the enemy is too great." Even his voice was monotonous and dejected.
Arthur didn't exactly know why his heart felt like shattering, only that seeing his supposed nemesis in this condition made him want to ram a sword through that Germany's head. No one was to beat up his Francis like that besides him. No one.
This seemed like a totally different person compared to the usually jovial, over animated wine-obsessed ladies' man he once knew. This was a broken person. A conquered nation.
A tear rolled down Francis' face as he stared blankly at the wall. He was a figure representing total defeat.
Quickly, before Arthur could stop himself from reacting so brashly, he let his lips capture the other nation's. The kiss was tender, loving, and full of sorrow. Arthur's fingers weaved into the mess of pure blonde hair, gently stroking it. Francis did nothing but perhaps press his lips a little closer to Arthur's.
It's going to be okay…I'll protect you.
A hand soothingly caressed Francis' cheek, wiping away any tears that threatened to fall. His lips were so soft…so plush. His tongue carefully traced the corners of the Frenchman's perfectly sculpted lips as his own tears began to fall from his eyes. Even if doomsday was tomorrow, England would fight until France and the other repressed nations were liberated.
He'd stop at nothing to free this man.
WOO. A DRABBLE. It's not even 1000 words long, it's 900-and-something. LOL *FAIL* Anyways, this is actually based on something historical (GASP).
It's based on the defeat of France and the start of Nazi-Occupation there. It was right after Germany had captured Paris I believe. France's words in this fic are actually those of French Prime Minister Paul Reynaud the morning of May 15th when he made a phone call to Winston Churchill. Churchill tried to console Reynaud but to no avail.
He flew to Paris on May 16th to survey the damage and provide possible assistance but returned with the strong sense of gravity the situation held. When he asked French General Gamelin what their strategic reserve was, Gamelin simply replied with "There is none". Which thus forth inspired this angsty hurt/comfort drabble 8D
WOO! SEMI-CRAPPY-ATTEMPT-AT-HISTORICAL ACCURACY. :D FEEL BETTER POP-POP…and please review if you have the time :') I'd appreciate that very much.