They'd been close once. 'Friends' would have been stretching it, perhaps, but having grown up next door to one another, they had become frequent childhood playmates. As the elder of the pair, Francis had always taken it upon himself to tease and torment Arthur to a degree. It was usually all meant in fun, though the smaller boy never quite seemed to see it that way. There were occasions, however, when Francis went too far. There was one act of unspeakable cruelty, in particular, he would have rather taken back …
It had been spring, and he'd come upon the smaller nation playing outdoors. Arthur never seemed to mind entertaining himself, making up games and imaginary stories. Francis preferred company – usually Arthur's company – and had perhaps always been a little jealous that England seemed to need him less than he needed England.
"'Allo Angleterre," he greeted the island nation brightly, tousling the other blond's perpetually unruly hair. Nothing like his own long, perfectly maintained golden locks, though the look suited him. Unsurprisingly, Arthur didn't seem particularly thrilled to see him. The smaller boy turned around, scowling with annoyance the interruption/intrusion. "What do you want, frog-face git?" he challenged.
"Oh! You wound me, mon cher. I had come to give you un cadeau, mais, if you'd rather not have it ..." Francis turned his back, giving a slightly overdramatic 'swish' of his cape to emphasize his indignation. England regarded him skeptically, dark green eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. "Liar," he retorted. Although the idea of a present and piqued his interest and curiosity, he assumed there must be some sort of trick involved. France was always trying to trick him, to make him appear childish and foolish.
"Non, I have it here, petit. I wonder though, if you deserve it now. I should hate to reward your rudeness. Des choses douces sont seulement pour la douce, afterall." Ordinarily, Arthur would have shouted at him then, insisting that he speak proper English or not at all when paying a visit, but his attention had been drawn to the small movement in France's pocket.
"What is that?!" England demanded, unsure whether to be fascinated or wary. "Are you being some kind of pervert again?" Francis resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the accusation.
"Croyez-moi. Close your eyes, hold out both hands, and be very gentle." Another skeptical look from the little island nation, those heavy eyebrows furrowing adorably, though after a moment's deliberation Arthur did as he was told. France reached into his pocket and produced a ball of brown fluff, setting it down carefully on England's outstretched palms.
At the sensation of something fuzzy against his hands, England opened his eyes. Immediately, jade green orbs lit up with sheer delight, and his typical serious expression melted away as his mouth opened into an 'O' of surprise. "He's marvelous! Is he really, really for me?" Arthur exclaimed, already shifting the rabbit into the crook of one arm, in order to gently run the fingers of his other hand over the animal's floppy, impossibly soft ears. Though often accused of being 'prickly' at best with other people, the little island nation had always had something of a soft spot for animals.
"Oui, I thought you might like him," Francis favoured the other boy with a grin, pleased that his present had been so well received. He could call in a favour later, if he felt so inclined, but for the time being he was satisfied to watch the delight on Arthur's face as he proceeded to cuddle and play with his new pet.
"Thank you, thank you Francis," England remembered his proper manners. He was grateful enough for this unexpected treat to even try some of France's 'silly frog-talk'. "Merci beaucoup," he managed awkwardly, stumbling only slightly over the strange, croaky words.
From that day on, Arthur absolutely doted upon his lovely and much beloved bunny. The rabbit accompanied him almost everywhere, and the little island nation would spend hours playing chase-tag with it across the meadows, or searching through thickets to collect treats of clover, dandelions, flowering blackberry, and his pet's particular favourite, wild strawberries. The bunny slept in his bed with him each night, on his pillow, where England would often fall asleep while stroking its ears and confiding all of his secrets to his twitchy-nosed constant companion as gentle fingers moved over thick, white fur.
Though at first he was pleased that his cadeau had been so well-received, France eventually found himself frustrated and resentful. He'd given England a gift because he wanted Arthur to pay attention to him, to play and spend time with him, not the animal itself. His plan seemed to have backfired, as the smaller boy seemed to have less need of Francis's friendship than ever before. Logically, France knew it was ridiculous to feel jealousy towards an animal, mais, why could Arthur not show him just a fraction of the affection he gave to his long-eared lapin.
One day, France decided he'd had enough. Looking back, he couldn't recall what had provoked his particularly childish, spiteful mood, though it was certainly regrettable. Again, he'd come upon England sprawled across the grass, feeding leaves to his pet while gently scratching its ears. "Bonjour, Angleterre! Monsieur Lapin!" he greeted the pair, and was, to his disgust, thoroughly ignored. "England, Hello!" he tried again in the other's native tongue, and again, received no reply. Finally, he proceeded to wrap his arms around Arthur's waist from behind, scooping him up into a tight hug. Now England had no choice but to pay attention!
"Put me down! What's wrong with you, you stupid git!" Arthur immediately protested, kicking and struggling until Francis was forced to put him down again. The older nation earned himself a glower as the smaller nation peevishly set about straightening his clothes. "What is it that you want?" the irascible little English boy demanded, scooping his rabbit back into his arms and holding it against his narrow chest in a gesture that seemed, to Francis, almost defensive.
"Ungrateful brat!" he snapped at Arthur, straightening his back and shoulders to emphasize his height over the island nation. "Is this how you treat everyone, you hateful little connard?! How do you expect to make proper friends, petit idiot?!"
"I already have a proper friend, so why don't you bugger off, cheese-breath!" England retorted hotly, clutching his bunny closer. This only seemed to exacerbate Francis's frustration as he proceeded to snatch the animal away, holding it aloft by the scruff of its neck, out of Arthur's reach. "You bully! Give him back! You'll hurt him!" the smaller boy protested, desperately trying to reach for his pet.
"You forget, Angleterre – I gave him to you, and I can take him back just as quick," France sneered. Callously, cruelly, he took the rabbit's head and twisted it sharply, instantly breaking the poor creature's neck before dropping it unceremoniously to the ground. Immediately, he wished he had not – even before Arthur let out a desperate, piteous wail.
After the first cry of shock, the smaller boy didn't make a sound. Large green eyes glared up at Francis with baleful hatred, wet and shining with unshed tears that England's stubborn pride refused to let fall. "Get out. Get out and go away. I never want you back here again," Arthur ground out, as he proceeded to pick up the broken, furry body from the grass and cradle it gently, fingers moving to delicately run over the animal's nose and ears as it lay still in his arms.
Francis felt guilty and ashamed, and also found himself on the verge of tears. He wanted to apologize, but something in England's face told him it would do no good. He'd never forget the look in Arthur's eyes that day … something deep and dark beyond any hope of repair. He wouldn't know a similar loss until a few hundred years later, when England would kill his own treasured pet, his Maid of Orléans, by burning her at the stake. Arthur kept petting the dead rabbit, whispering to it in words France couldn't hear. 'Sorry' was pointless now, so Francis took his leave.
It wasn't long after that England started to let slip the occasional comment about his 'friends' – in particular, a 'Flying Mint Bunny'. The others all seemed happy to tease him, coming to the conclusion that Arthur was slightly mad – eccentric, but probably harmless. Francis knew the truth, understood his former playmate's connection to this particular 'ghost'. Nonetheless, he held his tongue, refusing to ever bring up a story that painted him in such a terrible light. England, likewise, had never spoken of the incident since, though the damage had already been done.
Though he took a perverse sort of pride in his 'Splendid Isolation', Francis could see the extent of Arthur's loneliness. He kept invisible friends, rather than real ones, because of the lessons France had taught him: anyone who is kind will ultimately betray you, and anything you love will be taken away. The closest he'd seen England come to truly caring for anyone since had been his little brother America … and even then, his inability to trust the younger nation had led him to sabotage their relationship with rules and laws and taxes, until Alfred, too, had left a scar on England's heart.
France realized now, that was what had unsettled him so much about the look in Arthur's eyes all those years ago. It wasn't just the rabbit that had died … England's capacity for trust had expired, because Francis had killed it. He'd hurt Angleterre more than Spain's cannons and Germany's bombs and America's tantrums ever would. Instead, he'd condemned the other nation to endless lifetimes of solitude and loneliness, and for that, he would never truly forgive himself …