DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
FORTUNE'S FAVOUR
FIVE
BONNEFOI
Francis awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling refreshed. Typically a late-sleeper, he was surprised to find himself awake before Arthur, whom he was holding. Half-naked beneath the bed-sheet, legs tangled together on the small cot, he hugged Arthur and prepared to fall back to sleep. They had switched places sometime in the night. Francis pillowed his head on Arthur's chest and pressed his lips to his lover's warm, freckled skin, kissing him. Arthur moaned sleepily as he in awoke. His chest rose as he inhaled and he squeezed his eyes before opening them. They looked strikingly green against his flushed skin, awash of butter-yellow in dawn light seeping in from under the curtain. He looked younger than his twenty-two years. He was stunning. Francis gazed up at him in longing, and said:
"Bonjour, chéri."
Arthur hesitated, then his lips curled into a receptive smile. He reached up and finger-combed Francis' hair back, revealing his face. "'Morning," he said quietly. "Alfred and Matthew—?"
"Still sleeping, it's early," Francis replied, quelling Arthur's concern. The Englishman's skin blushed pink and his bright eyes darted to the cell's door and back, but he responded to Francis' touch. Despite his bravado, the English captain was quite sensitive. Francis pushed himself onto his elbows and pressed his lips to Arthur's, provoking a sigh. He let his hands slip down, holding Arthur's slender waist, squeezing him, and felt him shiver in anticipation. Arthur cupped the back of Francis' head and leant forward to deepen the kiss. For the second time in twelve-hours, Francis' heart swelled. He felt so effortlessly happy; he couldn't explain it. I love you, he thought, certain of it as he caressed Arthur's soft skin. Every doubt in his mind—the fear of being fooled and taken advantage of, that Arthur was abusing his position; afraid that it was a mistake to get attached to the captain and boys; afraid of the scaffold and his pending death—had disappeared last night. None of it mattered anymore, because:
"Je t'aime, Arthur."
Arthur opened his mouth to reply—
Then the curtain was pulled forcefully back.
The first-mate's eyes glared down at them in disgust. "I knew it," he said.
Arthur's face paled and he leapt up as if scalded, pushing Francis off of himself. He reached for the cell door, but the first-mate slammed it shut, locking them both inside.
"I knew you were a bent fucking cocksucker," he snarled cruelly.
"Open the door! That's an order!" Arthur demanded, but it was weak. His voice was shaky in panic.
"Oh, you won't be giving orders anymore. I'll make sure of it, since you've broken the law against sodomy." The first-mate nodded curtly at Francis. "I knew there was something wrong with you," he repeated. "When we reach England, I'm going to have you tried beside your filthy French lover. They'll strip you of your rank and, if you're lucky, you might get off with a fine. But if there's any justice in the world you'll hang alongside the fucking frog. And them," he pointed to the bed, where the two boys had roused, woken by the noise. Their heads poked up curiously, sensing danger. "If they're really your sons and they've got your cocksucker blood then I'll throw them overboard right now."
"NO!" Arthur and Francis yelled together. Arthur grabbed the cell's bars. "They're not mine, I swear it! I just found them on the island! I'm just taking them back to England, to an orphanage! Please don't hurt them, they're just innocent children!"
The first-mate folded his arms. He seemed to enjoy watching the lofty captain beg, half-naked and desperate. Francis glared at the man with unadulterated hatred. How did he even get in here? he wondered, then remembered the broken lock. Damn it! He clenched his fists, feeling fury eat his patience. He wanted to hurt this man. If the first-mate, this self-important second-in-command, tried to hurt his boys then nothing would be enough to save him from Francis' wrath. Not the scaffold; not hell itself. He would completely lose control, just like he would if Arthur died. Kill me, he thought carelessly. His fate had been inescapable for months, but the others deserved the chance to live. If you want to punish us, then kill me. Kill me in the most gruesome way possible, I don't care. But don't hurt them.
"Don't touch them!" he snarled as the first-mate neared the bed. The boys shied from him.
"Please, don't do this!" Arthur begged. "They're just children!"
The first-mate smiled in mock-innocence. "What? If you say they're not yours then I have no reason to hurt them," he said, grabbing for Alfred. Alfred dodged him, so the first-mate snatched Mathieu instead. Ignoring Alfred's protests, he carried Mathieu to the cell and, holding his chin, forced him to look at his two surrogate parents. "Take a good look, lad. These are bad men and soon they're going to die."
"Stop it," said Francis, dangerously quiet. His fury was palpable, but he didn't want to frighten little Mathieu.
The first-mate ignored the threat—as well as Alfred, who was beating his fists on his leg. Instead, he brought his face close to Mathieu's, almost cheek-to-cheek, and said: "Tell them you hate them. Tell them how bad they are. Tell them how wrong and fucking disgusting they are. Go on, tell them!" he shouted, shaking the boy. A frightened sob escaped Mathieu, but no words.
Alfred shouted: "Stop it! I hate you! Let Mattie go!" He kicked the man in example. Annoyed, the first-mate grabbed Alfred around the belly and carried them both back to the bed. In panic, Alfred wriggled and cried-out: "No! Daddy! Papa, help!"
The first-mate deposited them on the bed, and when Alfred tried to scramble off he struck him hard across the cheek. Alfred fell back, dazed.
"Motherfucker!" Arthur seethed. "Don't you dare touch him!" He clutched the bars tightly, white-knuckled. His voice shook in rage. "I swear, I'll fucking kill you if you hurt them!"
"Save your breath, Captain. You'll need it for your defense, which reminds me," he said, feigning surprise. "I have to draft a letter to the Admiral to tell him what a lowlife cocksucker our captain turned out to be. This won't take long, don't go anywhere," he mocked, planting himself down at Arthur's desk. He snapped his fingers at the boys, who were trying to sneak off. "Stay!" he growled. Cowed in fear, they sat. (Alfred stuck his tongue out defiantly).
The first-mate dipped a quill in ink and narrated as he wrote:
"...for charges of treason, sodomy, and kidnapping..." He paused, considering the boys huddle on the bed. "I wonder," he mused, "if I can add indecent relations with children..."
"Don't you dare!" Arthur snapped.
The first-mate ignored him, his eyes fixed on Alfred and Mathieu. "They are pretty cute little things. Maybe I won't just leave them in England. I bet I could get a good price for them back South or East. Some people have sicker tastes then you two." He jutted his chin at the cell. "I could auction them both off to the highest brothel bidder and retire on the funds. That doesn't sound like a bad plan." Casually, he turned back and smirked at the appalled looks on Arthur and Francis' faces. "I could make a small fortune on the violet-eyed one alone; people pay big for rarities like that, and the younger the better."
Neither Arthur or Francis deigned to reply, both too angry for words.
The first-mate shrugged and resumed his letter-writing.
Silently, Francis nudged Arthur and nodded to his bloodstained shirt lying haphazardly on the floor beside the cot. Arthur frowned in misunderstanding. Cautious of the first-mate's suspicious gaze, Francis pressed two fingers gently into Arthur's naked side, mimicking a gun. The pistol you gave me is beneath my shirt. I left it there last night.
Arthur's green eyes widened with rekindled hope, then he frowned. Silently, he mouthed: Still jammed?
Francis nodded and Arthur bit his lip in regret. They couldn't fetch the pistol and have enough time to reload it before the first-mate shot them both, not without a distraction. The man would claim the murder as self-defense, and, technically, he would be right. But Francis didn't know what other choice they had. The slightest movement from either of them drew the first-mate's unwanted attention. It was his lawful nature and strict attention to detail, not his people skills, that had earned him his place as second-in-command.
When Arthur kicked the cot in frustration, he snapped:
"Oi! Don't go throwing a tantrum, Captain. I've already got two wee brats to deal with. It'd be a bloody shame if they somehow got hurt because of you."
It was a thinly-veiled threat: If you don't cooperate, I'll punish the boys.
Alfred bristled in insult (he disliked being called names), but Mathieu was staring silently at the cell, where his surrogate parents were imprisoned. He locked eyes with Francis and the Frenchman was once again reminded of a dog awaiting orders. He's such an obedient boy, such a diligent student—
Suddenly a thought struck him. It was risky, but it might be the distraction they needed to retrieve the pistol. Breaking eye-contact to avoid suspicion, Francis began to speak slowly and clearly in French:
"Don't be scared, darling. The captain and I are going to be fine, but there is something I need you to do."
"Oi, be quiet!" the first-mate snapped. Despite his reservoir of talents, he didn't speak a word of French. "I can't stand the sound of your filthy voice when you're rambling on in fucking French."
Francis ignored him. "I need you and your brother to run and hide in your tent, okay? Do you understand? Don't be scared," he repeated. Mathieu's eyes jerked to the first-mate and back, afraid of being hit, and Francis almost told him to forget it. He would hate himself if either boy got hurt because of his plan, but he steeled himself. Mathieu was good at following direction (thank God he paid such close attention when I taught them French!). If Francis told him to do something, he would do it whether he was afraid or not.
"Trust me, darling. Take your brother and run to your tent. Make lots of noise and let him see you do it," he indicated the first-mate subtly. "I won't let him hurt you, I promise."
Arthur frowned. His limited knowledge of French was enough to worry, but not comprehend Francis' orders. Discretely, Francis squeezed his hand in confidence:
Trust me.
KIRKLAND
I said shut the fuck up!" the first-mate glowered at Francis.
Arthur glared, angry at the first-mate and at himself. He felt so stupid. He had been so reckless. In his panic, he began to reconsider every decision he had made since leaving the Caribbean:
I shouldn't have taken the boys. I shouldn't have fallen for Francis. I shouldn't have let Francis fuck me in a cell like bloody prison-inmates. (Even if it had felt so, so good—incomparably the best sex of his life.) I shouldn't have hired that bloody first-mate. This is all my fault. Everything that's happened is my fault. I could've prevented all of it. If the lads get hurt because of me, I'll never forgive myself.
But the boys looked less afraid than Arthur felt. Alfred's cheek was swelling, but he glared at the back of the first-mate's head in angry rebellion. Matthew was statuesque. Arthur didn't know what Francis had said to the boy in French, but he was staring intently at the Frenchman, like a focused sheepdog awaiting a signal.
Just what did you tell him? He looked at Francis in accusation. If he endangers himself because of what you told him—
He felt Francis' hand take his and squeeze gently in confidence. His blue eyes said: Trust me.
And Arthur did.
The instant the first-mate bowed his head to the writing-desk, Francis said: "Now."
Matthew grabbed Alfred's hand and jumped down from the bed. He pulled his twin across the cabin toward the table, kicking over chess piece and scattering bottles and documents. The first-mate whipped around, surprised by the noise blatant disobedience. Alfred snatched a rook and fired it with scary precision, hitting the man's chest as he hollered: "Take that!" The first-mate lunged at the boys, but they disappeared beneath the tablecloth. He knelt down to retrieve them.
Arthur said: "Francis—!"
Francis sunk to his knees, collected the pistol, and shoved it into Arthur's outstretched hand. From there, the Englishman needed no instruction. He worked deftly as he opened the pistol's chamber and quickly reloaded it. He had done it so often that his hands moved habitually—quickly. It only took seconds and then clicked loudly. The first-mate's head emerged from beneath the table, irately dragging a little blonde boy with him. When he saw the pistol's barrel aimed at him he lifted Alfred to use as a shield. But the Arthur's arm didn't lower and his aim didn't waver, not even when Francis shouted in shock: "Wait, you'll hit Alfred!" Arthur's green-eyed gaze locked with Alfred's blue one and he knew that the boy was unafraid. He trusted Arthur to save him.
I'm here. I'll protect you. I won't miss.
He squeezed the trigger and fired the fourth bullet.
BONNEFOI
The bullet flew past Alfred's head and pierced the first-mate's forehead, lodging in the back of his skull. It killed him instantly. The force knocked him backwards and blood exploded from the hole, spraying Alfred as he hit the floor. He scrambled for freedom, kicking the corpse in retaliation. Then he ran to the cell.
"Alfred!" Francis gasped. On his knees, he reached through the bars to inspect the boy's splattered face. "Are you okay?"
Alfred didn't reply. His eyes were plastered to the smoking pistol in Arthur's hand, staring at the Englishman in awe and admiration.
Then the door flew open. "Captain, I heard a gunshot!" gasped the cabin-boy. "Is everything okay—Oh, uh... Captain?"
He stopped short when he saw the scene: the half-naked captain trapped inside a cell with an equally naked Frenchman, two little boys cowering in front, and the dead first-mate lying in a pool of blood. His eyebrows shot into his hairline in surprise and he stared, slack-jawed in disbelief.
Arthur dropped the empty pistol. "Oh, thank God it's you, lad!" The older, prejudice sailors might have been suspicious of him, but the fifteen-year-old youth idolized the Englishman like an older brother. "Don't just stand there gawking!" Arthur urged. "Get the key and open the bloody cell! It's in my desk drawer," he pointed.
"Oh! Yes, sir—Captain, sir!"
The boys backed away as the cabin-boy unlocked the cell, releasing the English and Frenchman. In gratitude, Arthur shook the youth's hand: "Smashing work, lad! Thank-you!" Then he knelt in front of Alfred and Matthew and hugged them in relief, apologising repeatedly: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, loves. You're safe now, I promise."
Francis said: "Thank-you!" to the cabin-boy as he hurried past. "Are you okay, chéris? Don't be afraid, that horrible man is gone."
As Francis fussed over the boys, the cabin-boy blinked. "Uh, Captain?" he ventured. "Sir, what's going on?"
Arthur hesitated. "Uh, yes... that's a valid question."
He stood and faced the expectant youth. It was unwise to involve more people than necessary, the less people who knew the details the better, but Francis realized as much as Arthur did that they would need the cabin-boy's help convincing the crew of the first-mate's betrayal. It wouldn't be good for he or the boys if Arthur was suspected of cold-blooded murder and executed. He only hoped that the cabin-boy was as subtle as he was kind-hearted. Francis let Arthur do the explaining while he focused on the boys, cleaning the blood off of Alfred's face and then smothering them both in affection to chase away any lingering fears. They had recovered quickly from the excitement, but Francis was unconvinced of their well-being. I really hope all this violence doesn't permanently traumatise them. He rocked them gently as he listened to Arthur tell an edited version of the truth. The cabin-boy looked curiously between he and Francis, speculating the details Arthur omitted, but he listened intently and nodded eagerly, ready to prove himself a trustworthy confidant.
"Yes, sir!" he said, promising to keep Arthur's secret. "I'll tell everyone of the first-mate's attempted mutiny. I'll tell them he tried to murder the little ones, and that you were only defending your sons, sir. That's why you shot him," he recited.
"Good man," Arthur nodded in praise.
The cabin-boy left, chest puffed-out proudly, and Arthur sighed. He smiled wearily and sank into his desk chair. "Alright, lads?"
Meekly, Matthew nodded. Alfred said: "Yes, Daddy."
Francis saw Arthur instinctively tense and lower his gaze. He sympathized with the Englishman's situation, of course, but he also felt a stab of envy. He couldn't understand why Arthur shied away every time the boys tried to get close to him and show him affection. He took care of them, taught them, played with them, and protected them. He had rescued them several times now, swooping in like a fairytale hero when they needed him, but when Alfred verbally confessed his feelings, Arthur never acknowledged it.
They love you, why won't you accept that? Francis wondered. And it's obvious that you love them too, so why deny it?
The silence stretched, growing heavy as the boys watched Arthur, waiting for a reply. Alfred's big, blue eyes stared expectantly at the Englishman, who pretended not to notice.
Finally, Francis' heart couldn't take it anymore and he prompted: "Arthur—? Alfred is speaking to you."
Arthur swallowed and shook his head. He didn't look at the boys. He said: "No, Alfred. I'm not your—" Then he stopped.
Changing the topic, he gestured to the first-mate's corpse. "Francis, help me move the body."
