"I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies."
Pietro Aretino
"Shit! Why don't you understand it?"
Francis had come to his limit, and he could no more stand to be silent. Watching. Suffering.
"I don't understand what?" Arthur said ferociously, gritting his teeth towards him as he buttoned up his perfectly ironed shirt.
"That he's taking the piss out of you?" Francis replayed, whose self control was so stretching that some of the desperation he was feeling showed through his voice.
And indeed look at him, look at the personification of Franc: pathetic, imploring… Scared.
The only thing that distinguished him from a beggar was the fact that his last shred of pride didn't allow him to throw himself at his feet, spurring him on to face him on his feet, asserting their height difference.
But why was he rushing around so hard, he thought, when he could tower over Arthur without effort?
"How dare you…!" England hissed, turning suddenly towards him, the elegant Italian jacket forgotten on the hotel bed.
He had prepared his best suit, elegant enough to adapt his refined gestures, but modern enough to make him fashionable, no, more: a creature perfect in all his details.
Francis felt angry tear stinging in his eyes remembering the afternoon of endless fitting to which he had subjected Arthur to have that suit done.
"He's using you! Now that he's understood that power plays are here in Europe, America's using you to have a stable point from which start!"
Yes, 'cause it was for America that Arthur was sleeking.
This wouldn't be their first meeting, but it would be the first one with the two alone, when Francis wouldn't be there to remind England of their bond.
The first one where Arthur would be at the mercy of the memories he had loved so much, without France there to protect him from the ghosts of his past.
"Why are you telling me this?" England growled, but the tome that accompanied those venom laced words was low, almost as imploring as France's had been.
"Because I love you, damnit!" Francis' angry admission was followed by a moment of silence, interrupted only by their labored breathing, as if choked by a sort of lucid insanity.
"Why the bloody hell did you have to say it!" Arthur cursed, letting himself fall on a chair, hiding his face in his hands, maybe in shame, maybe in defeat.
Francis stared at him, suddenly aware of that the other had realized Alfred's real aim from the beginning: the American could be subtle, but England hadn't survived centuries of political entangle by chance.
He had always known that the other wanted to use him, but he had done his best to persuade himself that it wasn't like this.
Even if the same… "person" had used him in the past, and then discarded him like a old rag doll.
"I hate you!" Arthur whined, too similar to a sob for Francis' tastes.
Who was the pathetic one, now?
But France approached the suffering Englishman anyway, and he stroked his hair tenderly.
"It's okay." He whispered, casting a kiss on his forehead and exiting the room quietly.
"It's okay."