Hey, here's my new update. Rochu is two chapters from now.
A sudden gust of wind boomed across the theatre.
Bodies laid on the ground, twisted, mangled, and snapped.
France had been sifting through these ruins, taking careful steps. Such a task had proven to be difficult, and he almost regretted wearing heeled boots onto the battlefield.
France unsheathed his sword stabbed it into the ground, through the chest of a fallen soldier. Blood erupted from his body like a punctured sewer pipe, and the droplets splattered onto France's newly ironed coat. He rested his hands upon the handle, like it was gentleman's cane.
Though the sulfur in the air stung his eyes, France still managed to gaze yonder. After making sure there was no one alive within a safe radius, he took out his handkerchief and coughed, expelling all the blood that had been flooding his lungs.
A gloved hand tapped the back of his neck, lightly, but dangerously. France turned back to see England standing in front of him, arms crossed.
France wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and looked down condescendingly at the shorter man. "You win this round, old friend," he said.
England, who had been tailing him for the past few hours, could tell that he wasn't in the best of moods. And, of course, it had become England's job, no, his sole purpose of existence, to pester France.
"What, is this just a game to you?" he asked, though he already knew.
"Why of course," France gave his well-rehearsed answer, "While dueling with you back at home was fun, I need to stretch my legs once in awhile too.."
"France, you find war amusing, do you? You don't hesitate to dispose of human lives like this?"
"Why don't humans hesitate to eat meat?" He asked right back, in a sickeningly casual air.
He chuckled at the growing look of repugnance on England's face, his button nose wrinkling cutely.
"We are nations, and what else do we do to entertain ourselves but fight wars?" France reasoned further, his tone like that of an inspired ideologist, "You get to live forever, Arthur, with me. And it is a gift, isn't it?"
France winked, and England swat him away like a fruit fly.
"After all, the best way to quell a temptation is to give into it..."
Arthur grunted ambiguously, neither in agreement nor disagreement. He had already delivered enough blows to Francis' ego today, and didn't need to prove him any more wrong.
Francis raised a curious brow. "You don't agree with me, Arthur." He noted softly, slightly disappointed, "Well, then what do you do to entertain yourself?"
Arthur chuckled and looked downwards, kicking an abandoned bullet to the side. He thought of the most comforting answer he could give—
"What I do to entertain myself, my dear friend," he said, boring deep into his partner's beady blue eyes, "is to go through any means possible to make sure that you don't live forever."
Arthur cracked a playful grin over Francis' growing frown.
The war had taken much too long. But, they were home now, and that was all that mattered.
Much had changed in the colonies. The puddles of close-knit houses had melded with each other, making a long band of bustling, cheerful townships along the St. Lawrence. England and France both wondered which great son of theirs had the spirit to renovate in their absence, and both hoped it was their own. How proud they were, to have raised children who were willing to do what they wouldn't— plow the fields, pave the roads, and harvest the crops.
France had just gotten a manicure, and England was just haughty.
Their chariot finally came to a halt in front of their cabin. Feeling unusually good-natured today, England gave the horseman a huge tip before stepping off. He was happy to be finally home again, even if he had to share it with France.
It was a little dusty inside than usual, as if it hadn't been occupied for months. A good portion of the ceiling had been canopied by cobwebs, and the floor felt sticky under England's feet. France walked into the kitchen, and found that the loaves of bread in the pantry had been left to turn into stone.
England's lips pursed in displeasure.
"I had told that blasted boy to stay at home and do housework!" He growled, throwing the bone-dry water pail at France's feet. "And I bet you my life that the ungrateful little mongrel just took his brother and ran!"
France shrugged. "Well, they're at that age when they just don't listen to us anymore. There's nothing much you can do."
"Yes, well, Alfred's my son, and I do believe I hold the right to reign over him, Francis." England countered, glaring.
France, having decided to not trudge through dangerous waters, put his hands in the air in defeat and said, "Well, look, it's been a long trip, and you're tired. We're both tired. How about we just sit down, and I pour us some wine, and we relax a little, hm?"
Though, there were times when France couldn't help but wonder why England was so easily angered when it came to America. He was so much more calm, collected, and... sociable when they were together, though that still wasn't saying much. But as soon as America came into topic, he became more volatile than Hungarian politics. As much as France cared about America, there were times when he thought of him as a... problem.
France walked to the liquor shelf and took out a bottle, some glasses, and a tray. England dragged his feet to the sofa and did a bodyslam.
England, though displeased with America for having broken the rules, couldn't help but feel a little worried about the child. The world was a big place, and he would rather not have America see much of it. If he knew too much, then he would turn around and stab England in the back, like what England had done to his own siblings many years ago.
He let out a deep breath. Parenting was such a pain...
"I fail to see what you are concerned about," France said, joining him on the sofa. He untied his apron and set it aside. "No matter how many churches we build, this is still their land. We're the guests, and they ought to learn to run it themselves, right?"
England was too tired to lift up a limb and strike him in the face, and only managed to shoot him another death glare.
"Ah," sighed France dreamily, staring at the bottle of wine like it was his long lost love, "You have no idea how long I have waited to crack this open. We have been gone for twenty years, Arthur!" He expertly twisted the screw, popped the cork, and took a swig. "Don't you wish women would age like wine?"
"They age like milk, Francis." England managed to mutter over his growing headache.
The front door opened with a bang, and two teenage-looking boys stumbled into the house. Both had short, sandy-blonde hair, and spoke, in England's opinion, a vulgar version of English. Both were a bit tall for their age, and had similar facial features.
"That was fun, huh?" America asked, punching Canada in the arm.
"Alfred, what were you thinking? They'd send us to jail if they caught us!" Canada yelled, which sounded more like a whisper.
"Psht," America swat his hand dismissively, "They never could. And besides, even if they did, what could they do? Mum and Dad would come kick their ass!"
Canada was going to suggest that, thankfully, Mum and Dad weren't here, or else he and Alfred would be the ones getting their "asses kicked."
And, Canada's worst fears were immediately confirmed when he saw England standing in front of them with a poisonously green glare about his eyes.
England didn't know where to begin. They probably had not been at home for months, though he had told them specifically to not leave the county. By the looks on their faces, they probably had just robbed a bank.
"Mother, I can explain— " Canada's voice squirmed in, but was cut off by England, who turned to America.
"Alfred!" England growled at America, whose handsome, boyish face looked as smug as ever, "You wretched child! I would have expected this behaviour from you, but you have no business endangering Matthew like that!"
America shrugged. "Well, it was his idea," he said coolly, pointing to his quivering brother, "We were all out of money, and like, you expect us to eat tree bark or somethin'?"
England wouldn't have any of it. He and France had given them more than enough money when they left for Europe, and not to mention, he had already taught the children how to sustain a manageable economy— the most fundamental skill of being a nation, so they wouldn't starve when worse came to worst.
No, the fault was not his own.
England took a deep, trembling breath. "Look, America. Don't lie to me. Hell would freeze over before Canada would—"
"Oh shut the hell up, old man!"
"I beg your pardon?" England raised a furry eyebrow.
"It's always about Matthew, isn't it?" America hissed, as Canada whimpered at his name being called, "Matthew this, Matthew that. He's perfect! He never does anything wrong! He's the fucking saint, and I'm just the runt that no one wants, right?"
"Right?" He walked up to the other man and shoved him.
England recovered from the blow and shoved him back even harder, despite that his son had grown much larger than he was. "Damn right, you little wanker!" England barked, "At least Matthew doesn't piss his pants like a dirty wench when the feathered men come to invade him!"
Canada hated that they were arguing about him, and hated even more that he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Instead, he just stood there and watched the two go back and forth like a violent tennis match. His face had been so drained of blood that it was beginning to look translucent.
Behind them, on the couch, France found himself chugging down more alcohol than he had intended.
France wasn't drunk. He loved to pretend to be drunk, because it pulled him out of unnecessary situations like the one playing before him right now.
"Mum, don't you understand? You're strangling me!" America cried. His voice had begun to crack after hours of yelling. "I am not some slave that you chain up and tax to your heart's content!" He grabbed England's collar and shook, "I'm your fucking son!"
Lightning cracked across the room, followed by a roll of thunder, rattling the loosely fit door.
Canada shrieked jumped five feet in the air.
France knew that the boy hated thunderstorms, and if he weren't "drunk", he'd be holding him, petting his head, and singing him to sleep. But, that was a bit of a hassle, and he didn't feel up to it. Instead, France held the wine bottle above his head, and emptied it all into his gaping mouth.
England pushed America off of himself, and slapped him across his face with his ringed hand.
"Little shit, you still remember that you're my fucking son?" He screeched, foaming at the mouth. He had tried to hit America again, but Canada held him back. "If I hadn't saved you, you would have frozen to death, left to be ripped apart by dogs!"
America clutched his cheek, feeling blood beginning to flow out from the side of his face. His jaw dropped to the floor, and so did his knees, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a painful thud.
No one had hit him in his life, ever! It was always he who hit others, and now, it hurt, hurt so much.
France sighed to himself, but not loudly enough so that they could hear. For years, he had been trying to offer England some parenting lessons, but he never agreed to them. So, in the meanwhile, France could only feel sorry for America.
France got up and pretended to stumble over to where everyone else was, hoping to instill some peace.
"What a lovely evening, don't you gentlemen agree?" France slurred, tenderly draping an arm around America and pulled him to the side, effectively stopping him from giving England a concussion. America grew stiff, and looked at him awkwardly.
"Get away, Francis!" England growled, as he tried to fight against Canada's failing grasp, "Tonight, I will show this dirty mutt—"
"Who're you calling a mutt?"
America rolled up his sleeves, and was about to stomp over to him, but was pulled back by France, who snaked his arms around his waist and turned him around.
France reached a hand up and wiped off the blood on the side of America's cheek. "Oh, poor, poor Alfred," Francis purred into his ear,"He's a bastard, isn't he, for having done this to you?" He gave a light nip at his lobe, and swirled a tongue along America's neck, tasting the grains of salt.
England stood there, frozen, not knowing what to say, or how to think.
Francis... was... touching his son...?
America had dropped all of the previous rage, and just stood there. Every part of his body had become stiff, his limbs, his spine.
"Dad... W-What are you doing?" His mighty roars had been reduced to a mere yelp.
"Giving you a chance at redemption," France whispered, loudly enough for England to hear. Smirking, he tipped America's chin, and captured him into a well-practiced, passionate kiss.
England, at that time, couldn't figure out which one of the two he should be mad at.
Canada, by this time, had collapsed onto the floor from hypertension.
When America had finally found the strength, he shoved Francis off of him and wiped his mouth clean. "Alright, I've had it!" He hollered, throwing his arms in the air, "You're all freaks! Freaks! Every one of you!"
He turned his heel, strode to the door, and slammed it shut.
France turned to England, who wasn't looking too pleased, to say the least.
"Sorry, love. I was drunk..."
This house had been peaceful, once upon a time.
Note:
- The American Revolution happened in the latter half of the 18th century, where the Thirteen Colonies of New England joined together to break free from the British Empire. This was due to the pressures that the British Empire had placed upon the colonies, like high taxation outlined in the Stamp and Tea Acts. France helped the Americans, once again, just to piss off the English.
I hope this is a slightly more fair portrayal of the American Revolution than what happened in the episodes. I'm pretty sure that Iggy was being a bit of a dick to Alfred, so it wasn't completely Al's fault that he rebelled.