Title: Juste un Petit Peu (Just a Little Bit in French)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort
Rating: PG-16 (Warning: Suicidal thoughts, asphyxiation, angst, read at your own caution.)
Summery: "Everyone hates me, but I love me... so why isn't that enough?"
Start Time: 12:08
End Time: 12:45
Total Time: 37 minutes
Song: http :/ www. youtube. com/watch?v=wS3r_kYqAlc (Delete the spaces.)
A/N: I love France because to me, he is special. He is wonderful, he is great. So France, I love you. I don't see how anyone can hate you, Papa. This is for you. Also, to the readers, I apologize for the fail and the OOCness, I'm working on that. :D
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words... wait, I don't even own that. Well, at least I still have my stuffed fox-plushie. :U
Everyone hates me.
"France! That's disgusting, what the hell are you doing?" cried out a high-pitched squeak as a messy-haired American leaped away. Face twisted in disgust, America waved his arm up and down, shouting wildly in an array of creative curse words. The Frenchman chuckled to himself, a mischievous grin at his face as a strong yet slender hand flipped those long blond locks.
"Honhonhonhon, oh, Amerique, come on," came France, blue eyes gleaming with something dark and something lustful, "I didn't have any bad intentions towards zee~"
"Yeah right!" slammed back Alfred with a furious pout, turning away from the Frenchman and deciding that now was the perfect time to bother 'Iggy'. The cocky grin that was pasted on that angled French face stayed, an eyebrow raised, even as America stormed from the room with loud, childish stomps. And then, as those footsteps became silence, that smile wilted and dropped. France flopped back onto the bed, curled around himself as if to rid himself of the empty hole he felt, halo of golden hair around him. A hole, an ache, a pain.
There was a knock, a timid rap.
"France? Est-ce que je peux entrer? Can I come in?" whispered a voice, the door creaking as it was opened slightly. A familiar face popped in with nervous violet eyes and a slight blush. "Papa? Is everything okay?"
The Frenchman smiled and groaned slightly as he quickly sat up from his fetal position. Hiding, hiding, stuffing the evidence, the weakness, in the closet and locking it up. Gesturing lecherously for the young boy to come sit by him, Francis replied with a chuckle, "It's nothing, mon cher Matthieu, come here."
France patted the white blanket-clad mattress. With weary violet eyes that didn't seem to affect Francis in the least, the Canadian named Matthew sat. There was an awkward silence as a bony hand reached up to touch and stroke the Canadian's soft hair. "P-Papa, my hair is s-sensitive," stuttered the blond, trying to escape that grasp and failing. Matthew let out a groan as that experienced hand gently brushed the little curl, followed by a sharp slap that resonated through the room.
But I love me.
Canadian stood, dominant hand cradled in his arms as a pained and shocked expression imprinted itself on his face. The Frenchman was staring at the wall from the impact of the hit, cheek a flaming red and blue eyes dead yet heart still beating. "I-I'm sorry," stammered a panicked Matthew, rushing out the door and leaving Francis sitting.
So why...
The Frenchman let out a soft bitter laugh, clenching his sides. It was just so funny, yet at the same time, it killed him inside. Ah, he just had to do that. Searching for love, something to hold on to... searching for a pulse, for something to take and to make him feel more. Something to hold, something to kiss. Something that would take him and make him warm. A feeling, a person, just anything. So where had he gone wrong? Where had he lost all of that?
Why? Why did everyone run from him when he was just trying? Why did they leave him hanging, why did they push him away? Why did they hurt him? He was trying. He was trying, he was trying, he was trying... so why couldn't they see it? Could they hear his heart beating...? Or was it just a ticking that everyone wanted to snuff? Eyes staring at him, he wanted it. He wanted the attention; he didn't want to be forgotten. He...
Sometimes, he was fascinated with death. Would people simply move on, or would he be noticed more? Would they love him if he died? Simply aroused by the thought, by the feelings that rushed in him and made it seem okay. And hands crept up to his neck, wrapping themselves around the constant beat of his heart. Tightening. The panic that fluttered in his chest intensified as air became rare. He was choking and it felt good. Losing himself to find comfort: somehow, it didn't make sense. But at the moment, everything was clearer as his body fought against itself. A rush of love for himself. The power, the control: it felt wonderful.
And then it was over, hands releasing his neck and lungs trying to take in as much oxygen as possible in strong inhalations. Heart thundering, echoing so he could hear it. So he knew it was there, so he knew he was alive. Curled on the bed again, listening to the repulsive badumps of his own melody, the Frenchman let out quiet sobs that never succeeded in filling the ache he felt.
Alone and he deserved to be. So why, just why...
...isn't that enough?