❝time is a fickle mistress❞
title; A Merchant of Concord
series; Axis Powers Hetalia
words; 1800
characters; France ; America ; England ; Spain ; Canada (America/England, Spain/Canada, France/Spain)
rating; PG
warnings; allusions to adult themes
summary; Written for tanya_tsuki's birthday! As nations gather in Paris to end the Spanish-American Wars, they reflect on how much things have changed.
A Merchant of Concord
Paris is quickly becoming the city of peace, Francis muses with a smug smile as he looks out the window, over the sweeping view of his capital. For someone who once loved war too much, he is doing quite well as a merchant of concord.
He is dressed well, in a finely tailored blue suit, but he can’t bring himself to wear a tie, so he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, giving him a deliciously rumpled look. His hair has been recently combed, but it falls casually over his eyes with a grace that cannot be imitated. Turning from the window, he faces the mirror and gives himself a once-over. Seeing nothing out of place, he flashes his reflection a wink and that lazy, self-assured smile.
“No doubt Arthur and Alfred have forgotten times they were here as enemies, not allies,” he says loosely, to no one in particular. For the room is empty, and so Francis lifts the heavy treaty from his desk and prepares to go down to one of the diplomacy chambers. “And, assuredly, I have given Antonio one more reason to hate Paris.”
As he walks down the hallways, unsigned treaty tucked under his arm, Francis cannot help but think that being a third-party observer in war is at once the best and worse place to be. There is no damage to one’s health or reputation, and yet one is viewed as being the fairest and most civil of nations. But on the other hand, the observer is forever tainted by a conflict that they had no part in.
“But still, it’s better than fighting yourself,” Francis decides. He slowly opens the door to the diplomacy room, and walks forward, setting the treaty on the table. He takes his seat at its head, steeples his fingers together, and waits.
◊◊◊
“For god’s sake, do you have to make us late to everything?”
“I said you could leave without me! And, anyway, I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, first!”
“You’ve seen it a million times! You’re in this damn city every other day, you stupid git!”
“So are you! ‘Eternal enemies’, my ass! You love spending time here, don’t you?”
“Shut up!”
“You started it!”
Arthur lets out a noise that is halfway between a groan and a scream. Alfred, running behind him, finally catches up, out of breath.
“You know, for an old dude, you can run pretty fast.”
“I’m-not-old-!” Arthur sputters. “And why the hell are you running when your leg’s broken?”
“To catch up with you,” Alfred replies blandly, but then he winces, and clutches his leg.
“You idiot,” Arthur sighs. “Some conquering hero you’ll make, limping in to sign a treaty.”
“It’s ok,” Alfred replies with a laugh. “I think I’ve more than proved that I’m the winner, don’t you?”
“Only because you had my help,” the other nation reminds him smugly. “You’d still be caught up in the Philippines if I hadn’t helped you out.”
Alfred’s chuckles grown deeper. “I guess you’re right,” he says good-naturedly. “I never did thank you for that, did I?”
“No,” Arthur says stiffly, “you didn’t.”
“Well, thanks.” Quite forgetting that they’re already late for a very important appointment, Alfred leans down to peck Arthur quickly on the cheek. The other nation sputters for a moment, turning violently red.
“You still have no idea how to be an empire,” he complains didactically. “Have a little dignity, for god’s sake!”
Alfred grimaces. “In my mind, ‘dignified’ means ‘boring.’ And who really wants to be that?”
“Are you calling me boring?”
“Either that, or you’re undignified.”
◊◊◊
Antonio cannot bare the feeling of defeat, and yet it is being thrust upon him more and more, lately. There are many who would mistake his good nature and honest smiles for weakness, but his more prudent enemies know of the fierce warrior, one without mercy, who lurks beneath the surface of his jade eyes.
“Dios mio,” he sighs, and runs one hand through his curly chestnut hair. “Even warriors can be defeated, por supueste. I was foolish to push so hard.”
He has tried to make himself presentable for this day, but it is hard to look decorous with one hand in a sling and still-bleeding wound by his temple. His dark pants are fine enough, but his white collared shirt is crumpled, the first few buttons undone. In Francis, such an appearance would be the evidence of style; in Antonio, it is a measure of his defeat.
He tilts his head back, against the soft pillows the Francis keeps on all the couches in his house. Antonio was supposed to have left for the meeting already, but he finds himself closing his eyes.
“Um...Spain?” A soft voice wakens him, and Antonio blinks open his eyes to see the bespectacled, concerned face of Matthew Williams.
“Matt,” Antonio replies, making his way back to consciousness. When he does, he smiles warmly. “How many times have I told you to call me by my name?”
Matthew blushes and averts his gaze. “W-well, I mean, I was just...I was just walking by, and I thought you might need some help getting downstairs?”
Antonio’s smile turns rueful. “Gracias. That’s very kind of you.”
Matthew turns bright red. “Well, I just came here with Al and Arthur...I thought I’d visit Francis, and you were here, so I thought I’d come see you...”
The elder man laughs and rises to his feet. He offers Matthew a belated hug in greeting, and then whispers in the other nation’s ear, “Thank you, Matt. You’ve greatly lifted my spirits.”
◊◊◊
“It’s about time you all got here,” Francis whines as the door opens and Alfred and Arthur shuffle in. Alfred is leaning heavily against Arthur so as not to further aggravate his injured leg. Following close behind them is Antonio, who had left Matthew out in the hallway. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want to sign the beautiful treaty I made you.”
“If you’re expecting someone to sop your ego just because you say that, you’ve got another thing coming,” Arthur mutters darkly beneath his breath.
“Oh, Angleterre. No one told me you were coming. Were you even fighting this war, or has treaty signing suddenly become a spectator sport?”
“I fought in the war, you stupid bastard! And you know that damn well!”
“Do I?” Francis asks lazily, releasing his breath in a huff.
“Of course you do!” Arthur opens his mouth to say more, but Alfred places a restraining hand on his shoulder and offers the others in the room a careful smile.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
Antonio heaves a heavy sigh and sits down to Francis’ right; Arthur and Alfred take the seats to his left. As Francis unfurls the heavy treaty and begins to read, Antonio’s eyes grow dim and unfocused and Alfred begins to doze off.
“So,” Francis says expertly, “those are the terms. Any objections?”
Arthur has to jab Alfred in the chest with his elbow to wake him up. Alfred jolts and says, “Finally. Can we just sign the thing, already?”
Francis, sensing that no one listened to his painstakingly crafted language, sighs. “Of course, mon petite.” He holds out a pen, and Alfred signs his name, followed by Antonio.
“No hard feelings, right, Spain?” the youngest nation asks jovially.
Antonio does not dignify such a question with a response. He gets up and leaves the room.
◊◊◊
“He’s just a child, Antonio. He knows not what he says, half the time.” Francis is reclining on one of the many beds in his home, Antonio laying beside him.
“I wish that was still true,” the Spaniard murmurs in his dark, rich voice. Francis cradles his head against Antonio’s throat so that he can hear the rumble of his words. “But he’s not a child anymore, Francis, especially not if he’s butting into other nations’ affairs.”
Francis, who had been preparing to gently kiss the knot of Antonio’s throat, stops suddenly. “You can’t think that Alfred would be a danger to us?”
“Not to you, maybe, and perhaps not right now. But someday, when we become threats to him? Definitely, amigo. Definitely.”
This is a sobering thought to Francis, who still sees Alfred as a little boy. He rolls away from Antonio and lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“He doesn’t know his own strength,” Francis whispers. “He wouldn’t do anything harmful on purpose.”
“Purposeful or not, harm is harm,” Antonio reminds him. Then he sighs. “Lo siento, Francis, I didn’t mean to ruin this, what with you being so gracious. Let’s just forget it, alright?”
Francis flashes Antonio that winning smile and chuckles. “Of course. It is already forgotten.”
But as he leans in close and buries his head in Antonio’s chest, the dark thought lingers in the back of his mind. Alfred is no longer a child. Alfred might one day be a threat. Alfred does not know how to control himself.
◊◊◊
Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew stand on the edge of the Eiffel Tower, looking down at Paris as the sun sets. Lights begin to flicker on, brining the city to life. The three brothers have opened a bottle of champagne, and Alfred eagerly chugs down his glass as Matthew and Arthur sip delicately at theirs.
“Things are going to be really busy at my house, now,” Alfred says with a smug grin. “What with Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines moving in.”
“Al, if they’re going to be living with you, shouldn’t you learn their names?” Matthew asks quietly.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Alfred says with a casual wave of his hand. Arthur grimaces.
“From colony to colonizer,” he comments dryly. “You’ve certainly come full circle.”
“Hey, I was helping them! Spain’s held onto his empire too long. If I hadn’t done anything, it would have fallen apart beneath him, and then where would we be?”
“It wouldn’t really have been our problem,” Arthur says.
“Yes, it would have! Well, maybe not for you, but James made me promise to protect my half of the world, and that’s what I’m going to do!”
“...‘your’ side of the world, Al?” Matt replies tentatively. “You act like you own the whole thing.”
Alfred releases a huffy sigh. “You guys just don’t get it,” he says.
Arthur mutters under his breath to Matthew, “I’m not sure that we want to.”
But the time for talking of politics and uncertain futures is passing, so the three brothers simply make another toast. For one war is over, and that is something to celebrate. There is nothing more that they can do except take each day as it comes, and hope for the best.
---
footnotes;
* The Treaty of Paris (1898) brought an end to the Spanish-American War.
series; Axis Powers Hetalia
words; 1800
characters; France ; America ; England ; Spain ; Canada (America/England, Spain/Canada, France/Spain)
rating; PG
warnings; allusions to adult themes
summary; Written for tanya_tsuki's birthday! As nations gather in Paris to end the Spanish-American Wars, they reflect on how much things have changed.
A Merchant of Concord
Paris is quickly becoming the city of peace, Francis muses with a smug smile as he looks out the window, over the sweeping view of his capital. For someone who once loved war too much, he is doing quite well as a merchant of concord.
He is dressed well, in a finely tailored blue suit, but he can’t bring himself to wear a tie, so he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, giving him a deliciously rumpled look. His hair has been recently combed, but it falls casually over his eyes with a grace that cannot be imitated. Turning from the window, he faces the mirror and gives himself a once-over. Seeing nothing out of place, he flashes his reflection a wink and that lazy, self-assured smile.
“No doubt Arthur and Alfred have forgotten times they were here as enemies, not allies,” he says loosely, to no one in particular. For the room is empty, and so Francis lifts the heavy treaty from his desk and prepares to go down to one of the diplomacy chambers. “And, assuredly, I have given Antonio one more reason to hate Paris.”
As he walks down the hallways, unsigned treaty tucked under his arm, Francis cannot help but think that being a third-party observer in war is at once the best and worse place to be. There is no damage to one’s health or reputation, and yet one is viewed as being the fairest and most civil of nations. But on the other hand, the observer is forever tainted by a conflict that they had no part in.
“But still, it’s better than fighting yourself,” Francis decides. He slowly opens the door to the diplomacy room, and walks forward, setting the treaty on the table. He takes his seat at its head, steeples his fingers together, and waits.
◊◊◊
“For god’s sake, do you have to make us late to everything?”
“I said you could leave without me! And, anyway, I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, first!”
“You’ve seen it a million times! You’re in this damn city every other day, you stupid git!”
“So are you! ‘Eternal enemies’, my ass! You love spending time here, don’t you?”
“Shut up!”
“You started it!”
Arthur lets out a noise that is halfway between a groan and a scream. Alfred, running behind him, finally catches up, out of breath.
“You know, for an old dude, you can run pretty fast.”
“I’m-not-old-!” Arthur sputters. “And why the hell are you running when your leg’s broken?”
“To catch up with you,” Alfred replies blandly, but then he winces, and clutches his leg.
“You idiot,” Arthur sighs. “Some conquering hero you’ll make, limping in to sign a treaty.”
“It’s ok,” Alfred replies with a laugh. “I think I’ve more than proved that I’m the winner, don’t you?”
“Only because you had my help,” the other nation reminds him smugly. “You’d still be caught up in the Philippines if I hadn’t helped you out.”
Alfred’s chuckles grown deeper. “I guess you’re right,” he says good-naturedly. “I never did thank you for that, did I?”
“No,” Arthur says stiffly, “you didn’t.”
“Well, thanks.” Quite forgetting that they’re already late for a very important appointment, Alfred leans down to peck Arthur quickly on the cheek. The other nation sputters for a moment, turning violently red.
“You still have no idea how to be an empire,” he complains didactically. “Have a little dignity, for god’s sake!”
Alfred grimaces. “In my mind, ‘dignified’ means ‘boring.’ And who really wants to be that?”
“Are you calling me boring?”
“Either that, or you’re undignified.”
◊◊◊
Antonio cannot bare the feeling of defeat, and yet it is being thrust upon him more and more, lately. There are many who would mistake his good nature and honest smiles for weakness, but his more prudent enemies know of the fierce warrior, one without mercy, who lurks beneath the surface of his jade eyes.
“Dios mio,” he sighs, and runs one hand through his curly chestnut hair. “Even warriors can be defeated, por supueste. I was foolish to push so hard.”
He has tried to make himself presentable for this day, but it is hard to look decorous with one hand in a sling and still-bleeding wound by his temple. His dark pants are fine enough, but his white collared shirt is crumpled, the first few buttons undone. In Francis, such an appearance would be the evidence of style; in Antonio, it is a measure of his defeat.
He tilts his head back, against the soft pillows the Francis keeps on all the couches in his house. Antonio was supposed to have left for the meeting already, but he finds himself closing his eyes.
“Um...Spain?” A soft voice wakens him, and Antonio blinks open his eyes to see the bespectacled, concerned face of Matthew Williams.
“Matt,” Antonio replies, making his way back to consciousness. When he does, he smiles warmly. “How many times have I told you to call me by my name?”
Matthew blushes and averts his gaze. “W-well, I mean, I was just...I was just walking by, and I thought you might need some help getting downstairs?”
Antonio’s smile turns rueful. “Gracias. That’s very kind of you.”
Matthew turns bright red. “Well, I just came here with Al and Arthur...I thought I’d visit Francis, and you were here, so I thought I’d come see you...”
The elder man laughs and rises to his feet. He offers Matthew a belated hug in greeting, and then whispers in the other nation’s ear, “Thank you, Matt. You’ve greatly lifted my spirits.”
◊◊◊
“It’s about time you all got here,” Francis whines as the door opens and Alfred and Arthur shuffle in. Alfred is leaning heavily against Arthur so as not to further aggravate his injured leg. Following close behind them is Antonio, who had left Matthew out in the hallway. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want to sign the beautiful treaty I made you.”
“If you’re expecting someone to sop your ego just because you say that, you’ve got another thing coming,” Arthur mutters darkly beneath his breath.
“Oh, Angleterre. No one told me you were coming. Were you even fighting this war, or has treaty signing suddenly become a spectator sport?”
“I fought in the war, you stupid bastard! And you know that damn well!”
“Do I?” Francis asks lazily, releasing his breath in a huff.
“Of course you do!” Arthur opens his mouth to say more, but Alfred places a restraining hand on his shoulder and offers the others in the room a careful smile.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
Antonio heaves a heavy sigh and sits down to Francis’ right; Arthur and Alfred take the seats to his left. As Francis unfurls the heavy treaty and begins to read, Antonio’s eyes grow dim and unfocused and Alfred begins to doze off.
“So,” Francis says expertly, “those are the terms. Any objections?”
Arthur has to jab Alfred in the chest with his elbow to wake him up. Alfred jolts and says, “Finally. Can we just sign the thing, already?”
Francis, sensing that no one listened to his painstakingly crafted language, sighs. “Of course, mon petite.” He holds out a pen, and Alfred signs his name, followed by Antonio.
“No hard feelings, right, Spain?” the youngest nation asks jovially.
Antonio does not dignify such a question with a response. He gets up and leaves the room.
◊◊◊
“He’s just a child, Antonio. He knows not what he says, half the time.” Francis is reclining on one of the many beds in his home, Antonio laying beside him.
“I wish that was still true,” the Spaniard murmurs in his dark, rich voice. Francis cradles his head against Antonio’s throat so that he can hear the rumble of his words. “But he’s not a child anymore, Francis, especially not if he’s butting into other nations’ affairs.”
Francis, who had been preparing to gently kiss the knot of Antonio’s throat, stops suddenly. “You can’t think that Alfred would be a danger to us?”
“Not to you, maybe, and perhaps not right now. But someday, when we become threats to him? Definitely, amigo. Definitely.”
This is a sobering thought to Francis, who still sees Alfred as a little boy. He rolls away from Antonio and lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“He doesn’t know his own strength,” Francis whispers. “He wouldn’t do anything harmful on purpose.”
“Purposeful or not, harm is harm,” Antonio reminds him. Then he sighs. “Lo siento, Francis, I didn’t mean to ruin this, what with you being so gracious. Let’s just forget it, alright?”
Francis flashes Antonio that winning smile and chuckles. “Of course. It is already forgotten.”
But as he leans in close and buries his head in Antonio’s chest, the dark thought lingers in the back of his mind. Alfred is no longer a child. Alfred might one day be a threat. Alfred does not know how to control himself.
◊◊◊
Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew stand on the edge of the Eiffel Tower, looking down at Paris as the sun sets. Lights begin to flicker on, brining the city to life. The three brothers have opened a bottle of champagne, and Alfred eagerly chugs down his glass as Matthew and Arthur sip delicately at theirs.
“Things are going to be really busy at my house, now,” Alfred says with a smug grin. “What with Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines moving in.”
“Al, if they’re going to be living with you, shouldn’t you learn their names?” Matthew asks quietly.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Alfred says with a casual wave of his hand. Arthur grimaces.
“From colony to colonizer,” he comments dryly. “You’ve certainly come full circle.”
“Hey, I was helping them! Spain’s held onto his empire too long. If I hadn’t done anything, it would have fallen apart beneath him, and then where would we be?”
“It wouldn’t really have been our problem,” Arthur says.
“Yes, it would have! Well, maybe not for you, but James made me promise to protect my half of the world, and that’s what I’m going to do!”
“...‘your’ side of the world, Al?” Matt replies tentatively. “You act like you own the whole thing.”
Alfred releases a huffy sigh. “You guys just don’t get it,” he says.
Arthur mutters under his breath to Matthew, “I’m not sure that we want to.”
But the time for talking of politics and uncertain futures is passing, so the three brothers simply make another toast. For one war is over, and that is something to celebrate. There is nothing more that they can do except take each day as it comes, and hope for the best.
---
footnotes;
* The Treaty of Paris (1898) brought an end to the Spanish-American War.