"Francis."
"You know, a 'how are you' or 'good morning' would be nice, every once in a while, instead of just barking a name into the telephone, cher," Francis said. He had no idea what this call could be about, but by Arthur's tone of voice, it couldn't be good. It never was anymore.
When was the last time he'd gotten a call from someone with good news?
Something of a muffled groan came through on the other line. "This is hardly the time, Francis-"
"Angleterre, if you don't make time, there never is."
"Would you just-" Arthur paused for a second, probably running an exasperated hand through his hair. Francis smiled at the thought. He liked the Brit a lot of ways, but one of the most fun was exasperated. Especially if Francis needed to let off some steam too. "Listen, Chamberlain's got that mad hatter in Germany to calm down- for now."
"Oh?" Francis' eyebrows raised in surprise, and he leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin in his hands. "And how did you manage that? Not easily, I assume." Oh please, just talk with me, he wanted to say. Can't we just ignore the world for fifteen minutes and just talk, and maybe laugh, or even argue over nothing for the sake of arguing over something that doesn't matter?
Arthur didn't answer his question, and continued with his earlier sentence as if Francis had never spoken. "But he promised that you all were going to accept the results of a plebiscite in Czechoslovakia. They vote Germany's way, we don't retaliate."
That hit him like a punch to the gut, shattering his mood. "We do nothing? They're allies!"
"Francis..." Arthur warned. "Don't start."
"What do you mean, 'don't start?' Petra and Silas are counting on us-"
"I'm not allied with them, Francis."
"Why are you interfering, then?" Francis demanded, fear churning in his stomach, hot rushes of indignance boiling it into anger, which lashed through the phone at Arthur.
Over in London, Arthur made a noise of disbelief. "Oh, forgive me for trying my best to salvage what I could from a Chancellor who was ready to smash the whole bloody country!"
"Well I-"
"Damn it, and I really thought this was going to take less than ten minutes."
"Really?" Francis snapped. "Dieu, Arthur, what did you think I was going to do when you come and tell me that we're abandoning Petra and Silas? Nothing?"
"You're quite good at that, though, aren't you?"
That stung, and Francis thought Arthur knew exactly what buttons he was pressing. He might as well press them right back. "Ha! At least I don't have to meddle in other nations' affairs because I have people that want to see me outside of business!"
"You insufferable prick!" Arthur seethed. He was very obviously angry, but knowing that didn't give Francis any of the cool satisfaction it sometimes did when they were arguing. "Don't go attacking me because I'm cleaning up a mess you got yourself into!"
"What mess?" Francis demanded.
"Oh, the one where you told a tiny country in Germany's backyard you'd help them out if they got into a spat, only to realize you have absolutely nothing material- or in terms of political support, might I add- to back that promise up with!"
"So it doesn't involve you; you shouldn't have interfered-"
"Shouldn't I have? You've been going at it long enough, and have you made any progress? No-"
"It's not your concern, though, is it? It's mine and we are working on-"
"Germany didn't want to talk to you!"
Oh, how Francis knew that was true. Daladier had tried to arrange a meeting between the two nations to try and sort out the whole Austria fiasco, but his efforts had been quickly shot down. It became very clear that Germany was not interested in anything but necessary tense diplomacy with France. Frankly, he didn't want to talk to Germany either. From the very few times he'd seen Ludwig, Francis felt that he wasn't the same as he'd been at the turn of the century, or even in the 20's. He was mechanical, quiet, and did little outside of what his superiors asked him to.
Something had changed, and Francis had every conviction that it had everything to do with who was in charge. Ultra-nationalistic leadership that wanted nothing to do with people they thought had wronged their country twenty years ago.
But why hadn't he been there? Why hadn't he pressed harder for a meeting? He could have done something more, gotten a better deal for Czechoslovakia than England had, instead of just abandoning the siblings. He'd made a promise, hadn't he? That he'd protect them in the event that Germany got hostile.
Now Germany was being aggressive, and Francis was unprepared. Petra expected his help, which he had promised, but if he stepped in, at what cost would that be? He wasn't ready for another bout of armed conflict, not after the Great War. Even two decades later, his beloved country was still in the process of being repaired, and though their frequency had much decreased, a nightmare would come around once in a while to remind him just why he wasn't keen on fighting again.
All of a sudden, Francis felt like he was being strangled. He couldn't breathe right, and for one horrible moment, everything went out of focus. Getting up, he started to make his way towards the window, the balcony, the airs of Paris, but was stopped by the phone's cord going taut, a gentle reminder of things still unfinished and yet unsolved.
Outside, Paris bustled as it always had, carefree and busy. It was back to the life that had imbued it prior to the Great War: shop doors swinging open and closed, music floating from radios out of open windows and cars, people strolling and enjoying the Seine, the gardens, the thousand different things that made Paris Francis' heart, in more than one sense.
Briefly, his attention returned to where he was for long enough to catch Arthur saying something. "-cis. Are you still there?"
It took Francis longer than it should have to locate the source of Arthur's voice; he wasn't in the room, where was he? Ah, the phone held limply in his hand. Right.
Shakily, he raised it to his ear again. The cord wouldn't stretch more, and he had to sit down again, rescuing the base from its precarious position, half over the ledge of the desk. "Oui."
Silence from Arthur's end, for so long Francis began to think the line must have cut out.
"Are you-" He stopped, before continuing, more quietly. "Are you okay?"
Was he?
I'm angry at you for not doing what I needed you to, and Germany for not staying put. I feel like I might throw up and my hands are shaking because I'm so scared about what this might turn into if I do what I feel like I need to, which is refuse to amend my position. I feel like I've let Petra down even though a hundred thousand other things have happened that aren't my fault but don't matter. I feel like I can't do anything, which puts me in a dizzying spiral of helplessness that just goes down and down and I can't breathe or see or speak and I want to be able to do something-
And I want you to be here.
Taking a deep breath, Francis clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking and answered, "I'm alright, cher. Just… surprised."
There was something on Arthur's end of the line that the receiver half-caught, but it was barely enough to register that it had happened. Francis remained silent, trying to gauge his pulse by counting the number of beats. He must have been miscounting, but dieu, it seemed high.
"On the topic of surprise…" Arthur began unsteadily, as if he wasn't quite sure where his voice was going. "Do you know what happened the other day?" Francis' end of the line was silent, so Arthur continued. "I was in a bookstore and about to pay for my things, and along comes this bloke and what must have been a friend of his. Now, they get into this argument in the fantasy section that gets so loud we can hear every word, the cashier and I.
Now, you know I don't enjoy eavesdropping, but this was simply being broadcast, and that's a bloody different case. So the bloke is telling his lady friend that she simply cannot read fantasy; something about it being 'unladylike' and 'too violent.' In any case, she said something I won't repeat, but it made him absolutely livid. He told her that fantasy novels could induce bouts of female hysteria, and too much of the stuff could turn them into vindictive, violent sadists."
She told him- quite coolly- that if it did, he'd be the first person she'd murder, and proceeded to tell him just quite how she'd go about it, then asked if he knew any fantasy novels that might help her to further that particular ambition. I have no idea what his reaction looked like, but he didn't say anything after that."
You'll never guess who it was, though! Stella Gibbons!"
Francis laughed without thinking. It felt wonderful. It didn't matter that he didn't know who on earth Stella Gibbons was, or why Arthur had thought he could tell a funny story (he couldn't, being prone to run off into tangents and generally unaccustomed to even telling jokes, besides sarcastic or sardonic remarks), it just felt absolutely wonderful to hear him sound excited and happy, and the absurdity of the anecdote didn't hurt anything.
If Francis' mind had been a boat being tossed around a dark and mercilessly rough sea, at that moment, some miracle occured, some god held his hand out over the waters, and everything calmed. The sea still rolled, but it was gentler, almost relaxing. Francis jumped at the chance to talk about something mundane, without consequences, to speak without thinking for once.
"Cher, that sounds absolutely marvelous," he purred, their earlier argument eagerly forgotten.
"You should have been there; Alfred could not have made more of a scene."
"I would have loved to be." And though that wasn't completely true, there was some element of heartfelt honesty to it.. He didn't have any particular love for the city of London, but certain other aspects of his visits there usually made up for it.
"Liar," Arthur said amiably.
"You would know, Eyebrows," Francis retorted. "You continue to insist on liking that horrid place when I've proved to you that it is impossible for any rational person to enjoy England."
"Is that so?"
Francis shrugged, spinning in his chair, which resulted in the cord tangling around his arm. "I never said I was rational, mon amour."
It was a moment before the Englishman processed what Francis had said. "Right, well." Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, and there was a pause as something rustled near the microphone. "Chamberlain wants you and Deladier and Bonnet to come to London now to figure out what to do."
"Am I dreaming, or are you actually inviting me out?" Francis tried to salvage the relaxed conversation from before with a teasing tone, a fun jab at Arthur, but it felt fake, at least to him. His spirits had come plummeting back to earth as soon as they'd turned to state business again.
At least it seemed like Arthur didn't pick up on the artificial tone. "It's a diplomatic invitation, Frog, and quite an urgent one at that, don't blow it out of proportion." Any other time, Francis might have laughed, but his mind was still racing too quickly and spread too thin over twenty different things that needed his attention to react.
Ludwig and Petra and Germany and Deladier and Arthur and London and Paris and the phone and the sky and sea and and and and… everything, dim and hazy and gone as soon as it came, melded into one big fuzzy static that engulfed his mind and focus.
"Well, when exactly is now, then?" Francis spun his chair to face the desk, tried to find a pen, but nothing would come into focus. On the other line, Arthur said something that didn't quite register. Francis nodded, before he realized Arthur couldn't see him. "Right," he said, not sure what exactly he was affirming.
He traced shadows the latticework of the windows cast onto the surface of the desk absently while Arthur's voice buzzed incomprehensibly in his ear. He couldn't be bothered to listen.
In Francis' mind, he was wandering the streets of Paris, for once with nothing at all to do, the shadow of a person by his side. Passing the Louvre at dusk, under the tour Eiffel, maybe even sneaking into the cathedral after hours and stealing away up into the bell tower to watch the lights of the city go out, one by one, at dawn. The more hidden gems of Paris were also paid their respects: the old École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures, now empty and lonely but still open to instruct those who enter; the Hôtel Dieu, nestled in the comfortable shadow of Notre Dame, it's blue door beckoning entry to those brave enough to intrude on its secluded peace; to climb the winding rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève and visit the little patroness of the city, in Saint-Étienne-du-Mont church, overlooked by its flashier neighbors; and the gardens on the Rue d'Assas to visit the little beekeeping school in its 18th century pavilion, tens of artificial hives housing millions of bees, and maybe he and his shadow could stop by the mausoleums in Montmartre-
It registered vaguely that Arthur had stopped speaking.
"Arthur, I-" Francis stopped short. What did he want to say? Everything at once and then nothing at all. There was something that he couldn't put into words, French, English, or otherwise.
"Francis, are you still on?" Arthur asked when he didn't finish his sentence.
"I think so," Francis barely whispered, looking out the window. He could see the midafternoon sun glinting off of the tour Eiffel, and hear the unique harmony of Paris' people and art, and he could absolutely feel the cocktail of emotions all vying for his attention: fear, longing, helplessness, hope contrasting despair, a desperate want to do something to fix things, and protect everything close to him from the wanton destruction of another conflict.
"I'll see you in London, then," Arthur prompted, probably in an effort to end the conversation and get back to whatever it was he had to do.
"Oui," Francis said absentmindedly. "London." The window was getting closer, and Francis knew it was because he was moving towards it, but couldn't recognize the fact consciously. Sunshine warmed his face as he stepped onto the balcony, and he looked over his city, suddenly intensely in love with it all over again, and wanting nothing more than to protect it with everything he had. Paris, and the rest of France, and Arthur and Gilbert and Marie Helene and Antonio and Lucille and he couldn't do that if they went to pieces over another war again.
"Francis? Have you- you idiot are you listeni-" The phone's cord stretched taut and pulled the base off of the desk, onto the floor. The handset fell from Francis' hand soon after, clattering onto the hardwood as he stepped outside.
Neither end of the call hung up for another 39 minutes, and London's line was the first to end. The phone in Paris was unreachable, that is to say, the phone was not put back in its cradle, for the next 632 minutes, and 17 seconds.
