Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.
L'histoire française
Occupation
Ludwig's been sitting in the chair for hours now, just watching Francis; those beautiful blue eyes, so unlike his brother's, are a mixture of softness, anxiety, and disgust as they take in the battered and bloodied occupied nation.
And Francis hates him. He hates him with all the power his military once had, all the passion his country has ever produced. He hates Ludwig like he's never hated anyone in this moment because there will be no tomorrow if the Germans are still making themselves comfortable in his capital, not for Francis.
Fuck you, he wants to scream. Fuck you, and he'd scream it in so many different languages no one would have a doubt as to how much Francis despises, loathes, detests, simply hates Ludwig Beilschmidt and everything he stands for.
The German cocks his head to one side as Francis's rage starts to take over again, consuming him until his vision has gone blurry, hazed with blood red and midnight black around the edges. Then Ludwig sits up a little bit straighter and Francis hates how good he looks in his pristine uniform, hates the way his muscles show even through the layers, hates the beauty his ugly captor possess. Francis used to be the beautiful one, the strong one, the one in control.
And that's why Francis hates him.
But Ludwig doesn't finish at sitting up. Instead he leans forward a little, his hands on the arms of the chair to steady himself, and Francis recoils as much as he can in his position, arms wrapped around legs pulled to his chest. The younger blond closes the short distance between the two chairs, between the two bodies, and does nothing more than press his lips to the French mouth.
For a moment the hate melts away. Ludwig's lips are soft, much softer than he'd expected, but strong as well, and he tastes faintly of chocolate and coffee; German chocolate, but French coffee. The pressure is light, the kiss almost chaste, until Ludwig dares to move a hand to the back of Francis's head.
That's when he snaps, one arm pushing away the hand, the other shoving at Ludwig's chest. Francis tries to shove him to the ground with all his might but all that happens is his captor falls back into his chair with a thump, returning to eyeing the French nation in his tattered clothing. Those German's eyes are no longer soft nor anxious, but they still hold disgust in them.
"This does not have to be so hard," Ludwig whispers in God-awful French. "I could protect you. I-" He stutters for a moment, and Francis realizes he's holding his breath when those eyes become soft once more at Ludwig's thoughts, anxious at what he's trying to say. Then he realizes what the German is getting at: love.
"I hope," Francis starts, teeth grit, in German that he had worked so damn hard to perfect for Gilbert. "I hope that when they defeat you, they burn your land. They kill all your people, one by one, before your eyes. And I hope they leave you chained in the middle of that cemetery to look at the lives that were lost because of you. I hope it eats you up, consuming you until you want nothing more than to die. And you know what? You never will. For the rest of eternity it'll be just you and that consuming self-loathing that will soon be all yours."
There's a momentary pause where Ludwig looks at him, blinking, processing the words. Calmly he replies, "What makes you think I'm not already consumed with hate over who I am?" Then he sneers, standing once more, quicker this time. Both hands pull Francis's head to him, the kiss searing as he tries to push the younger man away. It'd be romantic, if it wasn't absolutely disgusting.
And like that Ludwig leaves the room, Francis the one left chained up to be consumed with his own thoughts of self-loathing for how much he enjoyed that kiss. He hates Germany, but the image of beautiful Ludwig will not leave him be.