Sunlight peeked through the drawn curtains in Francis's room, a ray of light resting upon his face and coaxed him out of his dream. For some strange reason, Francis was having a dream of his former colony; Matthieu. Oh, and it was a pleasant dream to! The little boy was sitting in the backyard, picking dandelions or trying to catch the butterflies. Of course, the soft-spoken boy would realize the colourful insects after a few minutes; not having the heart to keep them trapped in a jar. It was oddly peaceful, almost surreal, to have such a dream at such a time. That happened years ago, he remembered, when Matthieu was his colony. So, it was a memory of sorts, but why would that re-surface now? The Frenchman slowly sat up in his large bed, the day just not seeming right. When Francis got out of bed, the first thing he did was walk down the long corridor to his kitchen and decided to cook something. Usually that would raise his spirits, but everything he did, from grabbing ingredients to actually flipping them in his skillet, was lethargic. Mornings for Francis weren't usually so dead or quiet, no, usually he'd have some company - a lover perhaps? - or a massive hangover from the night before. This was much different.

Breakfast was actually quite helpful, though, perhaps that's what was wrong; he was merely hungry. The Frenchman found himself humming a small tune as he washed his dishes and cleared to table. Hmm, he didn't have anything scheduled for the day and his boss had given him some time off; seeing as there was currently no strife, famine, or other disasters taking place. So, Francis had decided to wonder around absentmindedly until he came upon the doors which housed his library. Hmmm… Gently, the man pushes the glass French doors open and stepped inside the massive room. Well, it had been years since Francis had set foot in here, and he found himself in slight awe as he took everything in. Over the years, the Frenchman had collected many books and was an avid reader, much like the other nations, who enjoyed to read fine literature from older decades. Many books, scrolls, and whatever else there was in there, were actually from the renaissance era which he found to be quite enjoyable; even if at the time it wasn't his main focus. Something else caught his eye though…

Sitting in the corner, sitting neatly along the wall of books, was something one may find out of place. Francis, however, found it fit in his mind. There, slightly obscured by the dust that had collected on the fine polished mahogany, was a trophy case; of sorts. Originally, Francis had purchased it because it went so well with the décor and was well-crafted, although he didn't use it for it's originally purpose. No, it did not hold a literal trophy, or a badge from war, or any other superficial item, but something much more precious and something he treasured dearly. In the mahogany case sat a small picture of him and Canada, or otherwise known as Matthew Williams these days, with writing on the back. It had been a gift from his petite colonie. In French, it read :

"Dear Papa, I am sorry my gift is so small, you usually give me the greatest presents and I wanted to do the same." The Frenchman could practically hear the pout in the small boy's writing as he read through with his own lower lip sticking out; in a similar fashion to what Matthieu must have worn while writing it. "I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I love you, Papa, and that I promise your next gift will be the bestest present you ever get!"

Francis finished reading the note, his eyes getting glossy as they started to water. Oh, if only you knew, mon petite… The hand that held the picture was brought to his chest as a painful memory, one which he tried burying in his subconscious, flashed through his mind. He remembered the look on the boy's face, how excited he was, as well as coy and nervous, for Francis to read the letter…

The Frenchman had a soft smile as he kneeled in front of Matthieu, keeping the small photo close to his heart as he gingerly ran a hand through the Canadian's golden locks in a fatherly way; ruffling it playfully. "My next gift?" he asked with a cock of the head, not expecting the boy at such a young age to be so focused on giving. "But, mon petite, it is not my birthday…" he said slowly, to which the smaller blonde giggled and shook his head.

"Non, but I thought you should have more than one present every year…"

The Frenchman smiled, his cerulean eyes bright and soft as he looked over his little colony. Just earlier that week Francis was dealing with England, otherwise known as Arthur Kirkland, and had been going through some tough times. This was so sweet, so caring that he had let all his guards down. Around Matthieu, the softest, sweetest boy there was, there was no need for shields or walls. That being said, Francis was sure to never involve him in war or ever show that he was in pain. War, shameful war that he found to be unnecessarily brutal, was something he wished Matthieu would never have to experience. He, of course, knew that eventually the colony would become something bigger and would eventually have to deal with war but not now! He was un enfant for God's sake! Unfortunately for Francis, that was his last peaceful day with Matthieu. The next day all happened to fast.

Francis was on his knees in that muddy field, many men lying dead before him, as his arm was clutched around his torso. The once bright and flashy uniform he wore was war-torn, like he was, and was covered with blood, some his but most wasn't, and coated with mud. Slowly, he fell onto his hands and knees, breath laboured as his frame shook violently with exhaustion and loss of blood. Would he die? No, he was a nation, and this war wasn't about him which is what only made it worse. The sound of footsteps approaching caused him to go tense, but he didn't look up to see who it was. He knew; all too well. A long, shiny blade was pointed down to him, threatening to kill him if he so much as moved, and he heard a rather cruel laugh. A voice rung out, sickening him to the core, as the Englishman in front of him decided to taunt him. "Oh, Francis~" he sighed smugly, moving the blade to rest flesh against the Frenchman's chest. "I knew you were weak, but this? This is pathetic!"

Francis stayed silent, his head bowed, as he accepted the petty jabs at his ego. It was true enough, wasn't it? The Frenchman was weak, near death for a human, and couldn't do a thing to defend himself. If Arthur really wanted, he could've killed Francis; beheading him right there. Of course, that would be useless considering the long-haired male would be fine after a few days, maybe a week recovery. But that wasn't why Arthur was here, now, with a blade pressing against Francis's throat. He wanted something else, something that would crush Francis more than any physical blow would do.

"And here I was, expecting more of a fight from you… How disappointing" Arthur said, his smirk never leaving his face as he looked to the broken man in front of him and dragged the blade across his cheek, creating a small cut. Francis did nothing. "I know you can't defend yourself, frog, everyone knows that but… I was hoping if little Matthew was involved…" That earned him quite the response.

Francis's head snapped up, his eyes pained as he remembered what the winner of this war received. "No." he whispered, his voice hoarse and rough. Arthur's emerald eyes lit up as he nodded in response. "No, Angleterre, please-"

"Ah," Arthur interrupted, bring a finger up to silence Francis. "I believe we both know how this is going to end… You lost, Francis."

The Frenchman, who was currently standing in the library being hit by painful memories over and over again, took a few steps backwards until his back was pressed against the wall. The words 'You lost, Francis' echoing around his head as a single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. It wasn't even Arthur who made him feel as helpless as he did, but himself. An image of Matthieu popped in his mind, reminding him of just how dear the boy was to him. It also reminded him of how he failed that precious boy. I failed him…

The next few hours on that battlefield were the worst in all of Francis's life. He thought he would at least have a day to spend with Matthieu before he was gone, but no, Arthur was already two steps ahead. He originally thought losing was the hard part, being submissive in front of Arthur, a man he hated to the core, but it truly wasn't. The man sat back on his heels, weakly glaring at the other before the helplessness set in. Francis bowed his head, long blonde locks covering his eyes as he was shock his head from side to side. He failed Matthieu, his little boy, sa petite colonie! What snapped him from his thoughts and made his heart sink was a small noise, a small familiar noise; a choked sob.

"Papa!" the boy exclaimed, trying to rush over but was being held back by Arthur. "Papa! You're hurt! Let me go! I need to see papa!" Matthieu, who was just barely over knee-high on Arthur at the time, looked up to the 'bad man' and tried to squirm out of his grasp. "No, let me go!"

"Matthieu?" Francis looked up to see his little colony in Arthur's hold, the Brit smirking victoriously at the pained look that crossed Francis's face.

"Papa!" he cried, reaching his hand out towards the Frenchman. Arthur tugged at Matthieu, pulling him away from the battlefield, and from his 'papa.' Matthew -Arthur changed his name to that since he hated the 'language of the frogs'- would now be residing with Arthur and Alfred; under English rule. At the time, of course, how would you expect a child to understand the politics of all this. The boy was crying, screaming, and struggling against Arthur and trying to get away. "Papa! Please! Help me! Papa!"

Francis never forgave himself. Even now, in this empty library, Francis found himself haunted by the little boy's pleas. He felt guilty, helpless but mostly pathetic as his legs fell out from under him. The Frenchman slid down the wall, sprawling his legs out on the floor and bowing his head as he held the letter right against his heart. Memory after memory flooded his mind; images of the boy he held so dear to his heart, haunting him. It was his fault! He failed! An image of Matthieu smiling and laughing crossed his mind; that's when he was teaching the other the basics of cooking. Another memory surfaced of little Matthieu being afraid of a thunderstorm and needing to sleep in Francis's bed to feel safe. Old memories, most calm and sweet and happy, came to mind as some more recent ones flooded in as well. It was all too much! With his head bowed, much like that day on the battlefield with his long hair covering his eyes, Francis felt cold tears running down his face. Oh mon petite…

"I miss you."

Alright! And that was my second Prompt/Challenge! A library, a trophy case and "I miss you." I hope you guys enjoyed it and the writing wasn't too derp xD I apologize if any of the French is wrong, of course, since Google isn't always the most accurate. Ahaha. So, yeah, a little Franada with feels? I hope it was full of feels, I mean, I was literally drowning in feels as I wrote this; so I hope it was okay xD

So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading and have an awesome day! :)