"Angleterre-"
"NO!"
"Arthur-"
"LET ME GO!"
France pursed his lips as England clumsily lashed out at him, slim fingers grabbing fistfuls of France's hair and harshly tugging. This was oh...the fifth? time that evening that England had tried to rush past him and get his next opium fix, and had been thwarted at every turn. France was determined not to let him escape out that door and ruin all of his hard work.
"Stop it, Arthur," France coached as he pried England's fingers loose from his hair and lightly shoved him backward.
"Don't call me that," England bristled, growling as he reared his arm back and managed to land a blow to the side of France's face. France hesitated as his cheek stung, briefly considering smacking the other nation into next Tuesday. Ultimately he decided against it-the other man was sick, after all.
"Fine," France conceded through grit teeth, "But sit down,"
"Don't tell me what to do," England warned, glaring at him through fierce, sickly eyes. It had been a few hours since he had woken up, and the craving for opium was strong. It had been all France could do to subdue him so far-the withdrawal was making England ferocious. He had succeeded in tearing the sleeve of France's shirt, kicking him in the stomach (which still hurt, France noted with a snarl), and upending just about every article of furniture in the spare bedroom in his frenzy.
"You're sick, Angleterre," France explained for the umpteenth time that evening, leaning against the door tiredly. England's eyes darted from France's eyes, to the doorknob clutched in France's left hand, and back up at his face, frowning.
"Why the hell are you here, anyway?" England demanded, "Hoping to cop a feel while I'm passed out? Bloody PERVERT," he spat, reaching for France's hand in an attempt to free the doorknob.
"Despite your incredibly low opinion of me, Angleterre, I do care about your well-being," France snapped, frowning as he swatted England's hand away, "Which right now is not good,"
"Which right now is not goooood, blah blah, le cheese and le wine-SHUT UP, FRANCE," England mocked as he shook his fists angrily. France glared at him as England stalked to the other end of the room in a huff, arms folded tightly in front of him. The other nation noted sadly that England was shaking as if with fever, shoulders hunched around his ears as he quaked.
"I'm trying to help, Angleterre-I think you know that," France said flatly.
"Oh yes-just like you were 'trying to help' by sending ammunition and soldiers to help America leave me," England said sarcastically as he turned to glare at France, snarling, "Don't lie-you wanted to hurt me. And that's why you're here now, to hurt me again," he added bitterly, though his voice was soft. He turned away, staring at his reflection in the dark window instead.
France hesitated-he was right. France had been trying to hurt him before. He had never wanted to hurt England so badly as he had back then, and America had given France the golden opportunity to do so. His colonies...his precious Canada-his precious trading industry in the New World, all lost under the hideous banner of the Union Jack. It pained him even now to think of how England had stolen them right out from underneath him, that bastard. And what was worse-he had sided with that lunatic Prussia, effectively destroying any hopes France had in expanding his influence in Europe.
France had vowed revenge, and he had come down hard, giving America every bit of help he could manage. He had poured his meager funds into securing the young nation's independence and had even managed to blockade British reinforcements from arriving at the very end of the conflict, forcing England to surrender.
Oh, that had been delicious-seeing England's surprised face, green eyes wide and bewildered as he looked out at France's navy waiting for him in the bay, daring him to come on out and try to make a break for it. And how he had fallen to his knees in front of America, battered and defeated-he couldn't tell from his telescope on one of his ships, but France had been pretty certain that England had wept. A devastated man, a broken and crippled nation-all thanks to France, and he had reveled in that satisfaction for days.
But that was then.
Now-
France yelped as England suddenly ran at him and shoved him onto the floor. The door freed, England made his escape and darted down the hallway. France swore as he scrambled to his feet and gave chase. England was quite nimble, evading him until he came to a screeching halt at the door where France had first found him. He struggled with the doorknob, finally managing to jiggle it and get the door open as France caught him.
"NO!" he cried hysterically as France clamped his arms around England's waist and dragged him onto the floor in the hall, "LET GO OF ME! LET ME GO! LET ME GOOOO!"
"ENOUGH!" France bellowed as he grabbed England's arms and forced them behind his back. England struggled, bucking his head up and hitting France in the jaw. Temporarily stunned, France let go of him. That instant of him backing off was enough time for England to wiggle free from his grasp and crawl up to the door once again. He threw it open with his hand and sped across the room on all fours to where the opium pipe lay dormant, its contents long since turned to ash. His fingers had just barely slid against the windowsill when France recovered.
France caught up to him, dragging him back out into the hallway by the ankles. England screamed and cursed at him like a petulant child, thrashing about as he tried to escape.
"STOP IT," France demanded angrily as he grabbed England by the shoulders, heaved him to his feet, pushed him into the wall, and clamped his arms at his sides. England struggled furiously, gnashing his teeth and shaking his head as France waited for him to calm down.
"Why are you DOING THIS TO ME?" England demanded as his wide green eyes welled up with tears, "DAMN IT, WHY?"
"Because you're better than this!" France snapped, shaking him. England resumed struggling, but France held him fast, "Look at yourself-this ISN'T you!"
"Just let me go, France, please," England pleaded as his eyes spilled over and he weakly gestured to the open door.
"Non," France said firmly, shaking his head, "Non, Angleterre,"
"But I need it," England insisted as he began shaking again.
"No, you don't," France said, loosening his grip on England's arms a little. He immediately wished he hadn't, as England sprang out of his grip and tried to move past him. England whimpered pathetically as France reached out and pinned him to the wall again, gripping his arms tighter this time.
"France, why?" England spluttered as a new wave of tears burst free and slid down his face, "You've already ruined me...why torture me like this?"
France stared at him, stunned into silence by the harshness of his words. Yes, he had gotten his revenge, but he had never expected England to fall to pieces like this. He had wanted to teach him a lesson, show that smug Brit that France was no weakling, but he hadn't wanted this.
"Angleterre..." he hesitated as England let loose a wracking sob and slid down the wall miserably. France let him go, stepping back and crouching awkwardly in front of him. England drew his knees into his chest as he sobbed, folding his arms over his head. France let him cry for a few moments, uncertain of what to do. He felt sick-this was, at least partly, his fault. England, a great and respected world power, was reduced to a blubbering heap on the floor because of what France had done. Partly-he wasn't responsible for America's decision to come to him, but...still.
"...America hates me, Francis," England muttered into his knees. France could barely hear him.
"Non, mon ami, he does not hate you," France insisted gently.
"Yes he does," England spat, raising his head just enough to glare at France with one teary eye, "I...I can't do it..." he trailed off as his head sank back beneath his arms.
"Can't do what, Angleterre?" France pried. It took several minutes for England to compose himself enough to answer between sobs.
"I...can't...I can't lose him-I can't!" England cried as he tightened his grip around himself and sobbed again. France was about to say something comforting when England continued,
"I can't bear the thought of him hating me like you do!"
That statement absolutely floored France. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Several tense moments of silence followed, broken only by England's soft hiccups as he cried.
"That's why..." England spluttered suddenly, looking forlornly up at the doorway, "That's why I...I had to. T-to make it stop..."
France watched a few more tears slide down England's face for a moment before leaning over and embracing him, drawing him into his chest. England didn't resist, though France could feel that he was feverish and starting to quiver again.
"I am so sorry, Angleterre," he whispered into England's hair as he rocked him gently, "I don't hate you-don't ever think that I hate you,"
"...but...you-"
"I know," France interrupted with a heavy sigh, "You're right-I did want to hurt you before. I longed for your defeat because of our...disagreements," he said hesitantly, searching for the right word. It tore him up that England felt like he hated him, but he wasn't about to be as forgiving about England taking Canada away, "But believe me when I tell you that America did not,"
France felt England tense up at that statement, but he didn't pull away. Perhaps he lacked the strength-France wasn't certain. Either way, he was glad that he didn't.
"He wanted his freedom, Angleterre-it didn't matter who it was," France insisted, "Whether it was you, or me, or...Spain, for that matter. He still wanted to be his own nation," he continued. That might not have been exactly true, considering France's suspicions on America's motives for breaking free from England, but he let it slide for now.
"You didn't see his face, Francis..." England murmured into his chest, "...his eyes,"
"I'm telling you he does not hate you," France repeated, "And neither do I,"
"Hm," England said, going silent. France held him for quite a while, tightening his grip whenever England shook and murmuring soothing words into his hair. He sighed, shaking his head-they must have been a sight. Two of the world's leading superpowers, disheveled and slumped unceremoniously onto the floor. Heh. It was almost laughable.
France did laugh, a soft chuckle, as he shifted and collected England into his arms. He was asleep, curled tiredly against his chest. He murmured something as France stood and walked him back down the hallway to the spare room, cracking an eye open to look up at him questioningly.
"...Francis...?"
"Go to sleep, Arthur," France advised as he walked through the doorway and set England down onto the mattress, "We can talk more tomorrow, non?"
England didn't answer, as he had already done as instructed. Though still pale, he didn't look quite as sickly as he had when France had first arrived. France smoothed England's hair and climbed into bed beside him, curling one arm around him so he'd feel it if England decided to make a dash for the opium again. He smiled; they hadn't been in the same room, let alone the same bed, since they were children. His smile grew as England shifted closer to him, snuggling into his chest and snoring softly.
"It will be all right, mon ami," France reassured him as he closed his eyes.
Author's Notes: Heavy chapter is heavy. France definitely wanted revenge on Britain after the events of the Seven Years' War, which resulted in France losing Canada to England. An alliance between Prussia and Britain in Europe, in the meantime, secured a partnership between the world's largest army and the world's largest navy, respectively, and France's involvement in the war led the nation to massive debt. Seeing the American revolution as a way of getting back at England, France backed the revolutionary effort and helped secure America's independence. In the Hetaliaverse, France probably saw America as England's Achilles' heel and sought to crush him. I'd like to think that he regrets it, though, seeing as England was really hurt by it.
Thanks for taking the time to read! ^_^
