Incoherent
Arthur Kirkland had found himself on the battlefield reduced to a pale, sobbing, quivering wreck. He grasped at his war clothes and pulled at the material, not liking how it stuck to his body in the rain, how it made his wounds sting as the material teased at the splits in his skin tissue. His ribs heaved as he took shuddered breaths, he didn't blame his former inferior for attempting physical combat with him, however, he didn't know how the younger nation thought he'd be able to fight back. Instead, he let Alfred hit him, let him get it all off his chest and hoped this was just some sort of adolescent rebellion.
But it was so much more.
America had screamed at him, as if daring him to retaliate. The English man had attempted to make a statement by making a show of pointing his gun and yelling, his heavy brow furrowing and his thin lips pursing, making the American recoil slightly until Arthur burst out crying and fell to his knees, resembling a child that had been spited by a hierarchy. His underling had shook his head remorsefully and stared down at his mentor with genuine pity in his eyes. …That was something Arthur had found the hardest to stomach. The… Sympathy emanating from the crowd that surrounded them made his insides twinge and a familiar feeling of pressure fall upon his chest as he ignored the saddening comment Alfred had made in an attempt to put both parties minds at ease. As the rain fell and hit at them hard, the American bowed his head and gave a small and wry smile, trying to make the situation seem less sad. Damn it, the other country's government and leaders treated Alfred's people like crap, taxing them and making it generally harder for ordinary people to continue with ordinary lives, but it didn't break the bond the two nations held and it had been daunting for Alfred in the past weeks leading up to this moment. Even then, when it was there staring them straight in the face, as clear and as real as ever, it made the American's chest tighten. Turning sharply on his heel, he lead his men away, leaving the other nation to himself.
Or not. Francis nodded as soldiers passed him and gave small smiles humbly as they patted him on the shoulder, congratulating and thanking him on his and his men's involvement. When the area was cleared of all American and French soldiers, he gulped and strode over to the broken man. The French man tried not to laugh bitterly; he had been in this situation before, seen features contorted with the same sorrow. He was faced, again, with the task of explaining himself and he didn't like it especially since now it was to a person he had been close with ever since they were young. Now here they were, fully bloomed men. Arthur with his broad shoulders and drawl of a voice, Francis with his stubble and chiseled jaw but now it was as if Arthur was the same reproachful child hidden behind a cloak and Francis the arrogant teen flamboyantly pouncing on anything that moved. The Frenchman sunk to his knees so he was leveled with the English one, his blue eyes searched the scratched and broken face, hoping that he'd see even a small trace of the carefree Arthur he had grown to know and love. When there was no light on his face, France choked back an aggravating sob threatening to come up from his throat. He brought his hand shakily towards the man's face and let his fingers gently dance on the smooth surface of his cheek that, even when it had been dirtied by war, felt sweetly boyish and free of any manly facial hair. Forest green eyes snapped up to glare into aqua ones as two firm hands pushed on France's chest, all kindness had been drained from the boys face.
"Damn it, Frog, don't you dare touch me!" he managed to stammer out, his warm tears he had been crying for America's departure slowly turned cold and into ones of loathing for the man in front of him. His face felt hot and his ribs ached as he took ragged breaths, France analyzed Britain's face and ran a hand through his companion's unruly blond hair, his brow furrowed as Arthur cringed and pulled away, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.
"Angleterre…"
"Don't. You. Bloody. Angleterre. Me." Each word was precise, punctuated with a punch to the French man's chest, though the impact weakened with each word, "You helped him! Why? What did it have to do with you, idiot? W-we would have gotten by… I could've…" His body shook as he tried to finish what he had begun to say, but truth was that Arthur didn't know what he would have done. The French man grabbed the weakly punching fists and softly watched, he brought his lips close to the English man's ear, his breath tickling on the lobe and the crook of his neck.
"I'm sorry."
And yet again, forest green met aqua blue. Arthur's lip trembled as he croaked out, "Apologies will do nothing, Frog. Get away from here."
"But please…"
"I said, get away!"
Francis felt a lump rise in his throat, he slowly but surely got to his feet as incoherent mumbles from Britain danced around teasingly in the air. The rain drummed against his skin with a steady rhythm, there was mud on the knees of his formerly immaculate trousers and his long hair stuck to his face uncomfortably. However, he held his head up high and walked away.
At least 'leaving' was something he was good at.