Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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Today, Canada is a French colony.
France lifts him up and Canada feels laughter bubbling in his throat.
France laughs as well, coos over him, their noses rubbing I an affectionate gesture; an Eskimo kiss, he says. He brings him down to rest his small head against France’s shoulder as France begins to sing Frere Jacques in a deep sotto voice, lulling Canada to sleep.
“Mon cher,” he whispers. “Never change, mon cher“.
With his tiny hands Canada grabs small fistfuls of France’s shirt. He murmurs something sleepily, an incomprehensible babble of affection that makes France laugh once more. He looks so happy, so young, and, when he strokes Canada’s soft hair, there is a warmth in his eyes that shines brighter than before.
Matthew stands in an empty art gallery. There are no lights but he can see Monet’s Jardin à Sainte-Adresse in front of him. The French flag flies high and the couple by the sea look at each other with tender expressions of love. Matthew feels something locked in his throat, struggling to get out.
“Did you really like me? Did I make you happy?” he asks.
“Oui,” Francis stands besides him, gazing upon the same painting. They do not look each other but at the painted sky which seems to be a truer blue than the real thing. “More than you could ever know,” he whispers.
The empty gallery suddenly feels lonely and barren.
“But I was just a comfort for you because Arthur had Alfred and you were feeling left out. It could have been anybody. It didn’t have to be me,” Matthew mutters with bitterness.
Francis chuckles softly, kindly, like he did when Matthew was still young. “Is anybody else so ridiculously insecure? Mon cher, what makes you think that you are so replaceable?”
Matthew shrugs.
Eyes still fixed upon the painting of his flag and the happy couple by the sea, Francis’ smile widens gently. “Were you not happy, Mathieu?”
“I was happy,” he admits. “I was very, very happy because it was cold but when you visited it felt warm. I felt loved.”
“And you were,” Francis whispers. “You were, mon cher.”
“You couldn’t have liked me that much. You let Arthur have me,” Matthew returns to his pessimistic thoughts.
Francis does not try to account for his actions. There is a contemplative silence in which Matthew feels miserable because he was right; his life is worth absolutely nothing at all. Then Francis takes a breath and asks; “Mathieu, do you know where we are?”
“An art gallery,” Matthew answers the obvious.
Francis grins at the expected answer. “This is my heart,” he turns, tearing his eyes from the painting to sweep a hand over the empty gallery, the lonely pine floors and the rows of unattended paintings.
“It’s awfully…quiet for you,” Matthew observes.
Francis laughs. “That’s because you only see what you want to see.”
He clicks his fingers and the lights burst on. People flow inside, filling the gallery with excited chatter. Mathew whirls around, watching ladies in smart frocks and gentlemen with bowler hats, he sees children in scraggy jeans and peasants in breeches, chic middle aged secretaries and girls with hula-hoop earrings. He can spot nations divided amongst the throng of people but there are so many he easily loses sight of them.
“Mathieu, mon cher, you should have this,” Francis hands him a golden key, simple but for the sparkling crown shaped head.
“I already have one. Britannia Angel gave me one already,” Matthew replies, confused, unsure of where he really is or what is happening. The sudden surge of people dazes him, they make his head spin with happiness and yet the hand clenching his heart squeezes tighter.
“Oui, keep that one safe too. That is the key to my heart. This,” he brandishes the golden key, “is the key to England’s.”
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