Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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“What do you want me to say, Arthur? You fought more than enough to know sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and when you win you take and when you lose you pay, and that’s what’s happening, I’m paying for my defeat. Now, I’m terribly sorry you had to see that, but-”
“You’re sorry?” Arthur’s voice is a scream in reverse, lower as he gets angrier “You’re sorry? That’s the best you have to offer? Germany is taking over Europe and I’m the only one, the only one still standing and you say you’re sorry?”
Francis’ voice also becomes a whisper, wavering with -something, hate, maybe, hate for Ludwig and Arthur and this stupid war and certainly for himself:
“What do you want me to do? France, France doesn’t exist anymore, you saw it, that’s France now, and I’m sorry you haven’t fell yet, my friend, I’m sorry you had to see it but at least you can take your comfort knowing I’m exactly where you always wanted me! At least you can point and laugh!
Arthur raises his hand. Francis braces himself, arms still crossed over his chest, but the blow he’s expecting never comes.
Not in his face, anyway. Arthur is burning red, hand lowering in what’s clearly a huge effort to keep control:
“Laugh, yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m laughing my bloody head off. I was counting on you, you stupid frog, I’m still counting on you and, hell, Francis, this war isn’t over yet! As long as I’m standing, as long as Britain stands, the war isn’t over and every one, do you hear me, every single one of the occupied countries, they are all contributing with something, they haven’t surrendered yet, did you know that? Did you know Belgium is resisting? Hell, Poland is resisting, and he has Russia on his bloody house! And Holland and Norway and- shit, all of them, they haven’t given up yet, but you, you- you’re just too important, aren’t you? Too full of himself, proud and haughty France, too humiliated to react, is that right? What should I say to Matthew, Francis? Should I tell him now France is our enemy? That he’ll have to shoot his papa or whatever the hell he’s calling you know, because you won’t defend your country and you won’t risk your neck, that you’ll rather stay here licking Ludwig’s boot and eating your food from the floor like a dog? Is that what you've become?”
Francis doesn’t answer him.
He doesn’t even breathe. His eyes are closed and wet and he feels the tears threatening to spill over his face:
“Francis?”
“I think-” his voice wavers, breaks, but he forces himself to finish “I think, my friend. I think maybe, maybe I should get used to hear that. It’s what- what everyone will say, isn’t it? That I am- what I am, isn’t?”
He won’t cry, he won’t cry, he won’t cry. His eyes are closed tight and that’s why Arthur’s hand on his face is a surprise. Arthur holds him, gloved fingers pushing into his skin:
“Francis! Francis - please. Look, I- your anthem, do you remember? Do you still remember the old lyrics, the ones- the ones you used to sing back then? Frenchmen, for us, oh! what an insult! What emotions that must excite…
His accent is awful. Francis bites his lip so hard that he can taste blood on his tongue. Yes, that song, his song. He holds Arthur’s wrists, tight, and whispers:
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I can- give you something, not much, but I can come here, once in a while but- Francis, you have to fight by my side, not against me, you’re my- you’re my ally, aren’t you?
“But what can I do now, Arthur? You saw how-“
“If Feliks can fight against Ludwig and bloody Russia, so can you, you are- you’re clever and resourceful when you want to be, you- please, Francis. I’ll- I’ll keep on fighting, but you- don’t leave me alone in this. You’re still with me, we still have our alliance, don’t we? Don’t we have an alliance?
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