Title: D-Day
Characters/Pairings: Canada, France, United Kingdom, United States, others; F/A/C/E
Warnings: history!kink, 14+ sexuality makes this nsfw
Disclaimer:Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz, I'm just borrowing them.
Summary: France/Francis from 1942 to 1944. Kink meme de-anon.
Sometimes, France thought he was back in his Revolution. Once his boss had signed the armistice with Germany's boss, he felt himself being pulled apart. He was Vichy and Free, rebel and collaborator. He tried to work as his boss directed, really, but his Free France self interrupted at awkward times, fudging orders and losing important documents. Nothing catastrophic, because he wasn't allowed near the most sensitive information, but annoying.
Within months, Germany had shown him to a luxurious basement apartment, and locked him inside. "You're too unpredictable," Germany said. "We can't take the chance that you will interfere."
Vichy nodded, and submitted. By the time Free settled back into control, Germany was gone.
It wasn't so bad, most days. Germany made sure he was healthy, bringing fresh groceries and books and art supplies. Italy visited, on occasion, and they talked while cooking dinner, carefully avoiding anything relating to the war or the state of their people. Japan had sent a rosebush, but it couldn't thrive without sunlight; France gave it to Italy, who brought him cuttings with the tomato sauce. He refused to think about the parallels.
His days were spent quietly, trying to ignore the ache in his bones as his people were kept under watch, were sent out of the country to Germany's work camps. The German soldiers were numb spots on his skin, setting up fortifications and airbases, waiting for their chance to cross the water to England.
One August, he felt Canada – beautiful, precious Canada, who shouldn't be pulled into a war that wasn't his – reach out a hand. France could feel him just off the coast of Dieppe, the blood of his people staining the water and the shores as they were ground down by Germany's gun emplacements. Then the hand was gone, retreating, as the losses grew too great.
France cried, and no matter how many times he showered he couldn't wash the blood from his skin. Vichy mourned Canada's involvement, his losses; Free the lost chance at freedom.
When Italy next visited, Germany came with; the meal was subdued, both careful not to talk about their victory. France pretended that he didn't notice the way Germany watched him, or hovered over Italy protectively. He didn't blame Germany for the caution - under the table his hands clenched with thoughts of closing over both of their throats, relaxed when discussion turned to economic reform. He heard whispers that Canada and the United States had put their wilderness experience to use, terrorising South Italy until he slept with his gun beneath his pillow; that the Allies were driving wedges between the Italian brothers. That the Soviets were turning the Eastern Front into a brutal and bloody retreat for Germany.
So when he felt the Alliance on his shores again, he wouldn't, couldn't respond. The United Kingdom's troops were like a hand on his shoulder, the United States' like fingers ruffling his hair, Canada's a hug and a face buried in his neck. We're back, they said, let us help you.
No, his land told them, soaking in their blood and their lives. You'll leave, just like last time.
We've learned, was the response. We won't leave you alone again.
Over the next three months, Vichy and Free France fought within his head while nations fought over his land. The battles were hot flashes on his skin, the deaths of his soldiers on both sides pinpricks of loss. Germany wouldn't let Italy visit alone anymore, and the visits were shorter every time. Vichy was scared, and Free smiled when he saw the wear on their faces. Where the Allies were gentle with him, each advance paired with a hand stroking a tree in reassurance, or a soldier celebrating with France's people, they were vicious with Italy. The numb spots of German and Italian soldiers were replaced with warmth, getting closer and closer to his vital regions.
As the Allies approached Paris, the visits from Germany and Italy stopped completely; groceries were handled by a secretary, who apologised at the quality – food stores were running low. Free France smiled, laughed when he felt a resistance member bomb another communications line, and told the man not to worry.
When the Free French entered the suburbs, he could feel the church bells ringing in his bones, even penetrating through the concrete to reach his ears. He could feel the Germans melting away through the night, or waiting for capture; and celebrated with his people with his last bottle of wine. He felt the rumble as the French paraded through the streets the next morning, didn't even mind as de Gaulle made another speech because the Germans had refused the orders to burn down his beautiful city.
Three days later, during the military parade rumbling overhead, he heard someone at the door. An argument, keys jangling, then a loud and determined "Fuck this!" before the door was smashed off its hinges. He could only watch as Alfred sauntered into view, and Arthur and Matthew piled in after him.
Alfred grinned. "Guess you didn't need a hero after all, did ya?"
Matthew snorted, and threw himself into Francis' arms. "Don't be an idiot, Al," he muttered into Francis' hair.
"Why are you all-?"
Arthur punched his shoulder. "Couldn't let you rot in this dump, now, could we?"
"Don't be like that, Arthur." Alfred gathered them all together in a hug, nuzzled Arthur's hair. "You were worried too."
"I was not worried, you stupid git. Didn't you see the crowds out there?"
He luxuriated in the warmth, in his precious ones, but reality insisted on breaking in on him. "Shouldn't you be with your armies?"
"They'll survive just fine without us for a few days," Matthew said, before pulling him into a kiss.
They made love to him there, in that quiet apartment, on a bed built for two but usually inhabited by one. They waited while Vichy protested, resumed when Free told Arthur to move now, dammit. He didn't question the odd light in Matthew's eyes (he could feel the mopping up at Falaise), or Alfred's random twinges (something was going on at the Pacific front).
When they had finished, and the others fallen asleep – Matthew on one side, Arthur the other, and Alfred sprawled across all three of them – Francis let himself be swept up by his people, the excitement around him. Free France let his heart celebrate; and Vichy recognised the end of an era, even if his boss didn't, the beginning of a slow slide into France's past. His body slept while his heart drifted, caught in the celebrations. Tomorrow was soon enough for the battles and the dying; today he was content to be with his lovers and his people.
Even if Matthew still drooled in his sleep.
Notes:
In 1940, France surrendered to the Axis and signed an armistice agreement, becoming known as Vichy France (after the seat of government). Many French disagreed and served with the Allies during the rest of WWII, including D-Day and the liberation of Paris, where they were known as the Free French.
August 1942: Dieppe. A massive failure for the Allies, with over 50% casualties and none of the objectives accomplished. 5/6 of the Allied troops were Canadian, so it's included in Canadian high school history courses. Ironically, most credit the lessons learned at the Dieppe raid with the success of D-Day.
The 1st Special Services Brigade was a joint special-ops team from Canada and the US during WWII. According to wikipedia, the nickname came from a German officer's diary which referred to them as "the Black Devils."
June to August 1944: The battle of Normandy. Aside from the UK, the US, and Canada, the Free French, Norway, and Poland took part.
Between the Free French advancing and rebellion within Paris, the Axis retreated August 1944. There were parades, and speeches, and general rejoicing.