[fanfic] Tu seras dans mon coeur (You'll be in my Heart) (1/2)
Title: Tu seras dans mon coeur (You'll be in my Heart) (1/2)
Author: silentside
Characters: Post-Seven Years War!France and England/bitty!Canada/and some annoying bitty!America and later on, Canada totally kicking ass in Normandy.
Rating: PG (Oneshot - 2 parts.)
Warning: Uncalled for mind-dribble written for nearly 6 hours straight. (It's my weakness if bitty!Canada is brought into the equation orz) Tweaked and re-worded, now with more descriptive heartbreak (but still expect some grammar fail and probably historical inaccuracy due to fluff \o\)
Summary: Taking place in the aftermath of the Seven Year's War, Matthieu starts to wonder at the sudden change in his Papa's behavior as the nation with horrid brows known as 'Angleterre' starts to show constantly by their doorstep.
Also a probable beta-teaser for fallenangelkat 's next year upcoming FACEbook anthology (haha. FACEbook.../bricked)
---
Title derived from a wonderful disney song (You'll be in my Heart - Phil Collins, Tarzan OST)
Also I recommend listening to this on repeat while you read this.
"Papa?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, as it's always was, and thus Francis Bonnefoy didn't notice the small bob of blond head peeking in, behind the door that he didn't notice he have left partially ajar.
It's not like he is expecting Matthieu to be awake past his bedtime.
The young colony tiptoed slightly, craning his neck forward as he strained himself to listen at what is going on inside his Papa's private study room, but not so much for the fear of getting possibly seen. He does not want to irk his Papa's wrath if he catches him awake. Not that he actually did snap up on him for it, but for the past few weeks he is starting to notice that something is amiss. His Papa had gone to wars, long ones. He have seen him jubilant in every successful campaign and despite the exhaustion, he will raise him up and shower him with adoring kisses. When he suffered heavy losses, he will be quiet and withdrawn---usually lasting for about a month's time the most, and afterward he will be back to being 'himself' once again.
This time it was different, his Papa's latest campaign took him seven long years. When he came back, his mood is indiscernible--he was neither happy nor was he distressed when he greeted him; if there is any hint of uncertainty, it clearly didn't show in his clear blue depths, as he lifted Matthieu into his arms. If anything, he became even stricter--no, even more aloof in his approach towards him.
Matthieu does not like the sudden change.
--
[ A/N: "/" <- conversation in French and since I don’t know French, you will get this slash marks instead.]
Few days ago,
/Papa! Papa! Pa--/
He came barging in in his study room unannounced, holding a handful of fragile blue and green material of what seems to be iridescent tattered pieces of fabrics. Matthieu realized he should have known better than to come in first without knocking: His father nation looks very displeased with the interruption and he is not alone. He is in the middle of a deep conversation with a tall man in front of him, an individual with sun-kissed complexion and surprised green eyes, wearing a battered explorer's outfit. Words died from the boy's lips. It was his Papa's close comrade: Monsieur Fernandez-Carriedo.
"Oh--hola." Antonio finally spoke, stealing a quick uneasy glance from Francis. "What is it...uhm.."
Among his Papa's visitors, he has taken a liking to Monsieur Fernandez-Carriedo, a nation as powerful as his Papa and is known to the world as the well-traveled L'Espagne. The man is known to have a lot of 'children' spanning from Europe to Asia. He seems to be always busy and exploring the world, discovering new islands, new colonies and yet he always seems to be full of sunshine, always bringing nice things and sweets if he visits, bragging how he have a little colony of his own that is adorable as he. His Papa never lets him near him though and he seems to be always keeps forgetting his name.
"It's Matthieu." Francis answered, sounding visibly exasperated. "I have told you like for a hundredth time."
L'Espagne's expression was already dour and even as he greeted the boy by trying to smile, it was forced and it did not reach his eyes. He must have really interrupted something.
Matthieu sniffed.
"What is that you have in your hands, Matthieu?"
It could have been L'Espagne's warm voice that the tattered 'fabric' fluttered lightly back to life even if its for a few seconds before dropping lifelessly once more in the young colony's trembling hands. It was then Matthieu started to cry.
/Stop that!/ His Papa raised his voice, pounding his fist on the table. He refused to stand up from where he is sitting. /Stop, that this instant! You are embarrassing me!/
His wails grew louder and its too much for the other empire to resist, Antonio approached him and knelt down with one knee to inspect what it is so precious in his tiny fists that Francis is scolding him.
In his trembling hands are withered and dead butterflies. Morphos. Blue menelaus morphos to be exact, the most breathtaking of the Morphos genus.
/But P-papa...the butterflies! They're...they're....!/ Matthieu sputtered in between sobs, holding them out for his Papa to see, expecting him to be up to his feet, reach tenderly to his hands and comfort him...
But he just sat there, glaring at his tiny colony disapprovingly.
/They're dead, my dear heart./ He said in a calculating voice, dismissing the matter like it's nothing, before reaching for a bottle near his desk
and filling his tall slim glass with it's golden amber colored fluid. /There is nothing you can do about it. What would you want me to do?/
Hurtful words.
It was like somebody took his Papa and replaced it with someone else, somebody like...
That empire with hairy eyebrows.
The young blond crinkled his nose; the smell of the liquor stung his eyes. He is aware his Papa behaves funny when he had too much to drink (However, when it comes to his precious wine, it's a whole different matter)
He wants him to stop drinking, he wants him to come over and see the butterflies in his hands. There is only one thing that Matthieu can do to catch his attention and he continued to cry louder.
/Stop crying! Didn't I tell you before not to keep them too long outside? This is what will happen if you are not listening to me!/
"Francia..."
"What?"
"This is the present I gave your mijo! No wonder he is upset!"
"You know how cold it gets here, mon ami." he drawled, taking a sip once more. "I appreciate the fine gesture and all, but give him sweets or clothes next time. What does a child know about taking care of exotic faunas?"
His wails are starting to grow more persistent.
"You like them too." Antonio answered quietly, he wanted to comfort the crying child, but he knew the rule. "And he is such a nice and adorable child, he even has your hair!"
"You say that a lot to all your children."
"Oh no! They’re all adorable, yes! But if this is my Romano, ay dios mio, he could have flung this to your face!"
He didn’t pay attention to Antonio’s ramblings. Knowing once he gets started talking about his favorite ‘child’, there is no stopping him. Francis leaned his back against his chair and tilted his head slightly on his right, he can see how his comrade wants badly to comfort the child who just continues to cry louder with the dead butterflies in his palms.
Matthieu is never the one to throw tantrums.
He does not need this now.
He leaned forward and stood up, slamming both hands on the table shouting loud enough to catch the boy’s attention, /MATTHIEU!/
Matthieu raised his head up and quickly stiffened up like an unused plank.
/You need to learn the consequences of your actions!/
/B-but Papa, I didn't mean to! I…I…/ he tried to explain, his hands trembling. /I'm sorry, I don't know! I will not do it again next time! I promise!/
/Grow up, Matthieu/
He paused, confused wide amethyst eyes looking up and clashing against stern blue ones.
/Stop getting attached on such little things. You need to learn how to let go!/
/Papa?/
Stop looking at me like that…just…
Francis pushed himself away from his chair and stood up, without saying a single word, grabbed the handful of the dead creatures from his boy’s hands and threw them at the burning hearth. He shut his eyes and turned away at Matthieu’s horrified screams, when his tiny fists balled up and starts hitting him on his leg, before he finally lets out a loud whimpering sound and eventually ran outside.
They were both watching the fire burn brightly in the hearth in an unsettling atmosphere, and as Matthieu’s cries slowly fade away did Antonio break the silence.
“You don’t have to be that harsh, mi amigo.” He said softly. “He will be scarred for life, he will hate you.”
“And this is coming from whom?” he replied sarcastically, “Weren’t you the one who gave the advice?”
“W-well” he shifted his gaze uncomfortably, “Yes I did, but still you don’t have to burn them.”
“If you are worried about the gift-“ he strode towards his table, reaching for his glass to finish his drink, “Then I’ll find a way to replace it.”
“Oh no need,” Antonio shrugged, before briskly pacing towards his comrade’s direction. He grabbed the bottle before the blond can fill another.
“You have been taking too much drink, Francis. Por favor, just stop.”
“Why not? This is a gift from my dear Ecosse.” He twirled around, quickly catching Antonio’s grip, his eyes going heavily-lidded as he slides his hand up and down the bottle. The brunette twitched slightly, as their fingers made contact.
“We might as well drink to it, oui?”
“You are drunk…”
“For a good reason~” he smirked, pulling the bottle near him with Antonio’s grip still locked on his. He frowned slightly at his comrade’s uneasy expression; Francis almost forgot the Spaniard’s attraction is geared towards younger individuals.
“What good reason?”
“We are celebrating your re-acquisition and your newly acquired …children~”
“That’s…ah, mierda!” he bristled, as the blond staggered forward. For someone tipsy, he has the strength to push him against the wall. “Let go of the damn bottle!”
“Quoi?” he slurred, “I’m being happy for your sake, L’Espagne~ surely you lost some, but not as much I did…”
“This is about your mijo, isn’t it? If he can only manage on his own, you could still have him along with your children in the Caribbean.”
“If…” he starts chuckling, his tone bitter. “if only…I…am I being selfish?”
“Francia…”
--
"Papa?"
The flames from the hearth is flickering ever so brightly, casting shadows against the wall. Squinting his eyes, he realized that his Papa is not alone. Matthieu hears more voices, distinctly foreign yet familiar.
"And that is not so hard isn't it?" Came a gruff if somewhat, exasperated voice. English. “At least you get to keep the sugar plantations.”
Arthur? Monsieur Angleterre?
Angleterre's words are quite foreign to his ears, he vaguely remembers the nation because of his horribly prominent eyebrows and that he always seems to be in a foul mood when he sees Papa, and Matthieu knew this because he gets to witness it in every chance his Papa gets to take him along in his exploits. It went to the point that he was exposed long enough to learn a few words, not knowing what they meant, and Francis was not pleased when the first english phrase that rolled from his mouth was, "You perverted frog!" in all the glee he can muster. It was then he solemnly swore that his boy wouldn't speak in any other language but that of his own.
Matthieu pouted, making an impatient sound as he pressed his weight against the door. If he only had a better understanding of the English language, he can pick up the conversation the two nations are having.
"This is boring! I want to go out and play!" Piped up a younger if somewhat, impatient voice. "I want to go outside!"
"No, Alfred! Stay!"
"Playyyyy!" the boy bawled.
They speak in the same language, but the boy's accent seems to a little off from the older one. Matthieu wondered, is he someone like him too?
"NO!"
He can hear restless scuffling against the room's carpeted floor.
"I'm going to scream!"
"Fine!" Arthur snapped, glancing over his shoulder, shooting the impatient lad with a glare that could wither flowers. "Go out then! But don't get far away and at least let one of the men watch you!"
Alfred?
Before Matthieu can even say 'Maple', he saw a small figure with similar blond hair shoot up from a nearby chair and quickly darted outside as fast as the wind.
"See ya, Arthur!"
"It's--it's...!" Matthieu almost snorted when he saw the tall nation slowly become red in the same shade as his coat, "You inconsiderate upstart!"
"That's some fine set of manners our young Amerique have there."
Matthieu tilted his head to the left, hoping to get a clearer view. There is his Papa, his luxurious blond hair pulled back and tied neatly with a silk ribbon, dressed lavishly as always in his opulent turquoise-blue finery that matches his eyes, making Monsieur Angleterre look like a commoner in his red millitary coat. Despite his regal appearance, Matthieu have noticed how much it have worn, some of the laces on his sleeve looked like they have frayed and the area by his elbows are starting to tear. He knew how much presentation and appearance is important to his Father, so it alarmed the young colony how he let something like this pass. In front of this scary loud man no less!
If they have fallen on the hard times, Matthieu hardly felt it. He is too young to even know.
There is his Papa, sitting behind the desk looking equally as worn out as his rival standing before him, whose brows have furrowed together at his comment.
"He is mine."
"Ahh...well of course mon cher, that will also explain his temper and lack of taste!"
"D-don’t call me that! I suppose you could do better?"
"Definitely. My Matthieu is very well-behaved, you see. He is a very sweet child and..." a soft malicious smile curved his lips, as he leaned forward, his voice in a low teasing whisper "...he knows when to use the bathroom."
Matthieu wished he can see the expression of the other man's face, it must have been, in his Papa's words: 'tres magnifique!'
"Oh, bugger off!" Arthur bristled, "Alfred is still a growing child! You have such nerve to question my child-rearing capabilities when you are just about to los--"
Francis sighed and pushed the paper works forward. "You don't have to say it twice. The quicker we will be done with this the better."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Surely you jest, Angleterre? You know I have no choice on the matter and this is the only way I can retain my rights to the rest of them. And still you ask me if this is the right decision? At least give this empire his dignity."
"I...don't mean to make it sound that way."
There was a momentary pause. Are they talking about him? He heard them mention his name, why?
Matthieu can see Angleterre bend over slightly by the table. He is signing some papers. Adult things. "Matthieu...to Matthew...how about that? At least he still retains his name."
Vaguely, he saw his Papa lazily stretch his arm to reach for a wine glass. Holding it by the stem, he idly swished it with his hand. "Oui...and it will remain that way, as you promised."
"Yes. Then it's settled then."
"W..wait"
He reached for the bottle at the far end of the table and filled his glass once again. Matthieu blinked, he didn't even realize he finished a whole glass that quick. His Papa is never the one to take and drink his precious wine in one swish; he will usually sip it slowly, savoring the taste in his mouth.
"Do you need to do that, right now, really?”
His amethyst eyes widened in horror as he watches his Papa took to his glass once more and swallowed the contents quickly, if not, carelessly enough to spill some of the liquid down the floor. Inhaling when he shouldn't have been, Francis fell into a gagging fit and dropped the glass--nearly spilling the liquor and all, on the documents in front of him.
"Watch it you soddering fool! Don’t make me write this all over again!"
Matthieu didn't giggle this time when Monsieur Angleterre reacted again. The smell of the spilled fluid quickly offended his senses, stinging his nostrils. He finds himself rubbing his eyes from tears and he sniffed.
It's not wine.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong---for Papa to start drinking that awful smelling liquor again. He remembered how he was like under its influence, when he scolded him for crying on something as useless as dead butterflies. Even Monsieur L'Espagne was helpless to watch when he tossed the butterflies into the flames.
"Non!" he squealed, "Nooon!"
To hell on being grounded and not having pancakes for a week, Matthieu bursts out from his hiding, dragging his polar bear toy with him as he zeroed in at the man making his Papa upset.
--
Arthur nearly jumped as a small ball of white and pale yellow unexpectedly rushed in and nearly tackled him off his feet.
"What the bloody hell?"
A small figure emerged, with a puffed face and a pair of large angry amethyst eyes glowering back at him, spouting in furious rapid French.
Matthew?
He quickly jumped to its feet and threw himself over Francis's arm before the older blond can reach for the bottle of scotch.
Never have Arthur saw Matthieu move that fast. Wait, the boy is awake? Was he listening all this time?
He opened his mouth for a moment, ready to reprimand him for his manners (although it feel so damn wrong to do so in a young colony). But the thought was quickly forgotten as he bare witness to what is slowly unfurling in front of him.
"Mon cher, let go of my arm..."
"Noon! Papa!"
"Matthieu..."
The boy shook his head violently.
It is heartbreaking.
He reluctantly watched as Francis slowly released the bottle from his hand before tenderly lifting the young boy from his knees. Stroking Matthieu's hair, he starts murmuring words of re-assurance in his native tongue, asking him questions, on which the colony replied by shaking his head.
Unfortunately being within earshot, Arthur heard (and understood) it all:
/'Matthieu, did you understand what England is saying?'/
/'No, Papa.'/
/'Do you know why he is here?'/
/'No Papa, but I heard my name'/
Francis laughed, it’s his usual irritating laugh, but this time it sounded so bittersweet.
/'Then it's nothing...That's a good boy...'/ he murmured, before glancing over the boy's shoulder. Arthur looks displeased.
"You idiot!" He looked up, his cheeks flushed and his green eyes widening. "Y-you haven't told him yet!"
With a heavy sigh, Francis stood up and slowly prodded little Matthieu forward. The boy, still in his nightgown and padding the floor in his bare feet, reluctantly moved forward. He is standing just a foot away from the thick-browed man and the look that Arthur is sending towards his direction is giving him the chills.
"Pa.../he is scaring me/" he whimpered, clutching his toy and then looking up at the bushy browed man, before coiling back to the comfort that is Francis's coat. The father nation simply chuckled and pushed him gently once more towards to Arthur's direction once more.
"/Nonsense! You are going with England now...you will all go out and have fun!/"
"/F-fun?/"
"/Yes, you silly little man!/ he chuckled, kneeling once more and poking a digit playfully on his nose. "/And you know what's even better? You are going to have a brother too!/"
He stared back at him, confused. "/Why...would I want a brother?/"
Tired and pained blue eyes betrayed the easy going tone and the beatific smile that is gracing Francis's face. He responded by chuckling softly, lifting the young boy in his arms and settling him on top of his study desk.
/"But don't you want a family? A big one?"/ He crouched slightly, leveling his eyes to Matthieu’s.
/"But we already have a big family!"/ He frowned, tucking the toy bear under his chin, swinging his legs. /"But does Monsieur monster eyebrows have to be in it tooo?"/
Arthur twitched at the mention of his brows, feeling very insulted, despite the words being said without malice.
Bloody children saying the darndest things, he grumbled silently.
"Don’t you just stand there, Angleterre,” Francis spoke, without breaking his gaze at his boy who is staring up at him, trying to reach for a loose lock of hair as he swings his legs impatiently by the table. “You can at least make yourself useful and get him his shoes..."
Arthur starts sputtering. "W-what? Now?!"
Francis turned around and pouted, which made the other nation realize he is trying to put an act in front of the young boy. "Just because he came from the great white north does not mean he can't get frost bite!" He directed him to a neatly folded stack of clothes and other packed items placed on a long john table near the shelves. "I prepared them already, now bring it over here."
Of course he prepared it already. They’re leaving tonight.
[ TO BE CONTINUED IN A FEW HOURS. IT WOULDN'T FIT HERE. DAMN LJ LIMIT.]
A/N:
Ecosse - French for Scotland. I have been reading up about the scotland x france alliance (and osm fics...one which I have to read purely because of food pr0n reference for shootingstar's fic.../shot) so just a random mention haha XD
Menelaus Blue Morpho - is an iridescent (blue-green) tropical butterfly of Central and South America. Morpho butterflies are Neotropical butterflies found mostly in Central America as well as Mexico and South America including Brazil, Costa Rica and Venezuela. Naturally they are not native of the Northern region (and they're so damn pretty ;A; and their meaning have a deep significance to Kat's anthology) and may I say that's the reason why I placed Spain in this story...aside from the historical timeline..hehe...he...eh...orz
Sad historical fact is sad: The Anglo-French hostilities were ended in 1763 by the Treaty of Paris, which involved a complex series of land exchanges, the most important being France's cession to Spain of Louisiana, and to Great Britain the rest of New France except for the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon. France was given the choice of retrieving either New France or its Caribbean island colonies of Guadeloupe and Martinique, and chose the latter to retain these lucrative sources of sugar,[27] writing off New France as an unproductive, costly territory.[28]
TL;DR:
Since it's been ages since I posted/updated anything, here I impart a brain fart I had while conversing with kath about her doujinshi anthology project. We pretty much nailed most of the significant historical story arcs in one day and we have to re-watch bits of WW2 Apocalypse and have historigasms over the Normandy landings (long story). Which reminds me, I need to also concentrate on mine and re-tweak some timelines orz (if there will be a hetalia day 2011, I have a feeling we will most likely launch both of our anthologies almost at the same time....unless I have two more sets of hands for post-processing.)
For short, Yes, I'm still alive orz.
I didn’t attempt to googlize the phrases to French since I will send this file to Geneva for that 8|
Two anthologies…m-my brain orz
Trivia: Because I'm spastic, I wrote the original between 12:00 - 5:40 am in the morning 8D I tweaked it later after having some much needed sleep OTL and look at it now.
Author: silentside
Characters: Post-Seven Years War!France and England/bitty!Canada/and some annoying bitty!America and later on, Canada totally kicking ass in Normandy.
Rating: PG (Oneshot - 2 parts.)
Warning: Uncalled for mind-dribble written for nearly 6 hours straight. (It's my weakness if bitty!Canada is brought into the equation orz) Tweaked and re-worded, now with more descriptive heartbreak (but still expect some grammar fail and probably historical inaccuracy due to fluff \o\)
Summary: Taking place in the aftermath of the Seven Year's War, Matthieu starts to wonder at the sudden change in his Papa's behavior as the nation with horrid brows known as 'Angleterre' starts to show constantly by their doorstep.
Also a probable beta-teaser for fallenangelkat 's next year upcoming FACEbook anthology (haha. FACEbook.../bricked)
---
Title derived from a wonderful disney song (You'll be in my Heart - Phil Collins, Tarzan OST)
Also I recommend listening to this on repeat while you read this.
"Papa?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, as it's always was, and thus Francis Bonnefoy didn't notice the small bob of blond head peeking in, behind the door that he didn't notice he have left partially ajar.
It's not like he is expecting Matthieu to be awake past his bedtime.
The young colony tiptoed slightly, craning his neck forward as he strained himself to listen at what is going on inside his Papa's private study room, but not so much for the fear of getting possibly seen. He does not want to irk his Papa's wrath if he catches him awake. Not that he actually did snap up on him for it, but for the past few weeks he is starting to notice that something is amiss. His Papa had gone to wars, long ones. He have seen him jubilant in every successful campaign and despite the exhaustion, he will raise him up and shower him with adoring kisses. When he suffered heavy losses, he will be quiet and withdrawn---usually lasting for about a month's time the most, and afterward he will be back to being 'himself' once again.
This time it was different, his Papa's latest campaign took him seven long years. When he came back, his mood is indiscernible--he was neither happy nor was he distressed when he greeted him; if there is any hint of uncertainty, it clearly didn't show in his clear blue depths, as he lifted Matthieu into his arms. If anything, he became even stricter--no, even more aloof in his approach towards him.
Matthieu does not like the sudden change.
--
[ A/N: "/" <- conversation in French and since I don’t know French, you will get this slash marks instead.]
Few days ago,
/Papa! Papa! Pa--/
He came barging in in his study room unannounced, holding a handful of fragile blue and green material of what seems to be iridescent tattered pieces of fabrics. Matthieu realized he should have known better than to come in first without knocking: His father nation looks very displeased with the interruption and he is not alone. He is in the middle of a deep conversation with a tall man in front of him, an individual with sun-kissed complexion and surprised green eyes, wearing a battered explorer's outfit. Words died from the boy's lips. It was his Papa's close comrade: Monsieur Fernandez-Carriedo.
"Oh--hola." Antonio finally spoke, stealing a quick uneasy glance from Francis. "What is it...uhm.."
Among his Papa's visitors, he has taken a liking to Monsieur Fernandez-Carriedo, a nation as powerful as his Papa and is known to the world as the well-traveled L'Espagne. The man is known to have a lot of 'children' spanning from Europe to Asia. He seems to be always busy and exploring the world, discovering new islands, new colonies and yet he always seems to be full of sunshine, always bringing nice things and sweets if he visits, bragging how he have a little colony of his own that is adorable as he. His Papa never lets him near him though and he seems to be always keeps forgetting his name.
"It's Matthieu." Francis answered, sounding visibly exasperated. "I have told you like for a hundredth time."
L'Espagne's expression was already dour and even as he greeted the boy by trying to smile, it was forced and it did not reach his eyes. He must have really interrupted something.
Matthieu sniffed.
"What is that you have in your hands, Matthieu?"
It could have been L'Espagne's warm voice that the tattered 'fabric' fluttered lightly back to life even if its for a few seconds before dropping lifelessly once more in the young colony's trembling hands. It was then Matthieu started to cry.
/Stop that!/ His Papa raised his voice, pounding his fist on the table. He refused to stand up from where he is sitting. /Stop, that this instant! You are embarrassing me!/
His wails grew louder and its too much for the other empire to resist, Antonio approached him and knelt down with one knee to inspect what it is so precious in his tiny fists that Francis is scolding him.
In his trembling hands are withered and dead butterflies. Morphos. Blue menelaus morphos to be exact, the most breathtaking of the Morphos genus.
/But P-papa...the butterflies! They're...they're....!/ Matthieu sputtered in between sobs, holding them out for his Papa to see, expecting him to be up to his feet, reach tenderly to his hands and comfort him...
But he just sat there, glaring at his tiny colony disapprovingly.
/They're dead, my dear heart./ He said in a calculating voice, dismissing the matter like it's nothing, before reaching for a bottle near his desk
and filling his tall slim glass with it's golden amber colored fluid. /There is nothing you can do about it. What would you want me to do?/
Hurtful words.
It was like somebody took his Papa and replaced it with someone else, somebody like...
That empire with hairy eyebrows.
The young blond crinkled his nose; the smell of the liquor stung his eyes. He is aware his Papa behaves funny when he had too much to drink (However, when it comes to his precious wine, it's a whole different matter)
He wants him to stop drinking, he wants him to come over and see the butterflies in his hands. There is only one thing that Matthieu can do to catch his attention and he continued to cry louder.
/Stop crying! Didn't I tell you before not to keep them too long outside? This is what will happen if you are not listening to me!/
"Francia..."
"What?"
"This is the present I gave your mijo! No wonder he is upset!"
"You know how cold it gets here, mon ami." he drawled, taking a sip once more. "I appreciate the fine gesture and all, but give him sweets or clothes next time. What does a child know about taking care of exotic faunas?"
His wails are starting to grow more persistent.
"You like them too." Antonio answered quietly, he wanted to comfort the crying child, but he knew the rule. "And he is such a nice and adorable child, he even has your hair!"
"You say that a lot to all your children."
"Oh no! They’re all adorable, yes! But if this is my Romano, ay dios mio, he could have flung this to your face!"
He didn’t pay attention to Antonio’s ramblings. Knowing once he gets started talking about his favorite ‘child’, there is no stopping him. Francis leaned his back against his chair and tilted his head slightly on his right, he can see how his comrade wants badly to comfort the child who just continues to cry louder with the dead butterflies in his palms.
Matthieu is never the one to throw tantrums.
He does not need this now.
He leaned forward and stood up, slamming both hands on the table shouting loud enough to catch the boy’s attention, /MATTHIEU!/
Matthieu raised his head up and quickly stiffened up like an unused plank.
/You need to learn the consequences of your actions!/
/B-but Papa, I didn't mean to! I…I…/ he tried to explain, his hands trembling. /I'm sorry, I don't know! I will not do it again next time! I promise!/
/Grow up, Matthieu/
He paused, confused wide amethyst eyes looking up and clashing against stern blue ones.
/Stop getting attached on such little things. You need to learn how to let go!/
/Papa?/
Stop looking at me like that…just…
Francis pushed himself away from his chair and stood up, without saying a single word, grabbed the handful of the dead creatures from his boy’s hands and threw them at the burning hearth. He shut his eyes and turned away at Matthieu’s horrified screams, when his tiny fists balled up and starts hitting him on his leg, before he finally lets out a loud whimpering sound and eventually ran outside.
They were both watching the fire burn brightly in the hearth in an unsettling atmosphere, and as Matthieu’s cries slowly fade away did Antonio break the silence.
“You don’t have to be that harsh, mi amigo.” He said softly. “He will be scarred for life, he will hate you.”
“And this is coming from whom?” he replied sarcastically, “Weren’t you the one who gave the advice?”
“W-well” he shifted his gaze uncomfortably, “Yes I did, but still you don’t have to burn them.”
“If you are worried about the gift-“ he strode towards his table, reaching for his glass to finish his drink, “Then I’ll find a way to replace it.”
“Oh no need,” Antonio shrugged, before briskly pacing towards his comrade’s direction. He grabbed the bottle before the blond can fill another.
“You have been taking too much drink, Francis. Por favor, just stop.”
“Why not? This is a gift from my dear Ecosse.” He twirled around, quickly catching Antonio’s grip, his eyes going heavily-lidded as he slides his hand up and down the bottle. The brunette twitched slightly, as their fingers made contact.
“We might as well drink to it, oui?”
“You are drunk…”
“For a good reason~” he smirked, pulling the bottle near him with Antonio’s grip still locked on his. He frowned slightly at his comrade’s uneasy expression; Francis almost forgot the Spaniard’s attraction is geared towards younger individuals.
“What good reason?”
“We are celebrating your re-acquisition and your newly acquired …children~”
“That’s…ah, mierda!” he bristled, as the blond staggered forward. For someone tipsy, he has the strength to push him against the wall. “Let go of the damn bottle!”
“Quoi?” he slurred, “I’m being happy for your sake, L’Espagne~ surely you lost some, but not as much I did…”
“This is about your mijo, isn’t it? If he can only manage on his own, you could still have him along with your children in the Caribbean.”
“If…” he starts chuckling, his tone bitter. “if only…I…am I being selfish?”
“Francia…”
--
"Papa?"
The flames from the hearth is flickering ever so brightly, casting shadows against the wall. Squinting his eyes, he realized that his Papa is not alone. Matthieu hears more voices, distinctly foreign yet familiar.
"And that is not so hard isn't it?" Came a gruff if somewhat, exasperated voice. English. “At least you get to keep the sugar plantations.”
Arthur? Monsieur Angleterre?
Angleterre's words are quite foreign to his ears, he vaguely remembers the nation because of his horribly prominent eyebrows and that he always seems to be in a foul mood when he sees Papa, and Matthieu knew this because he gets to witness it in every chance his Papa gets to take him along in his exploits. It went to the point that he was exposed long enough to learn a few words, not knowing what they meant, and Francis was not pleased when the first english phrase that rolled from his mouth was, "You perverted frog!" in all the glee he can muster. It was then he solemnly swore that his boy wouldn't speak in any other language but that of his own.
Matthieu pouted, making an impatient sound as he pressed his weight against the door. If he only had a better understanding of the English language, he can pick up the conversation the two nations are having.
"This is boring! I want to go out and play!" Piped up a younger if somewhat, impatient voice. "I want to go outside!"
"No, Alfred! Stay!"
"Playyyyy!" the boy bawled.
They speak in the same language, but the boy's accent seems to a little off from the older one. Matthieu wondered, is he someone like him too?
"NO!"
He can hear restless scuffling against the room's carpeted floor.
"I'm going to scream!"
"Fine!" Arthur snapped, glancing over his shoulder, shooting the impatient lad with a glare that could wither flowers. "Go out then! But don't get far away and at least let one of the men watch you!"
Alfred?
Before Matthieu can even say 'Maple', he saw a small figure with similar blond hair shoot up from a nearby chair and quickly darted outside as fast as the wind.
"See ya, Arthur!"
"It's--it's...!" Matthieu almost snorted when he saw the tall nation slowly become red in the same shade as his coat, "You inconsiderate upstart!"
"That's some fine set of manners our young Amerique have there."
Matthieu tilted his head to the left, hoping to get a clearer view. There is his Papa, his luxurious blond hair pulled back and tied neatly with a silk ribbon, dressed lavishly as always in his opulent turquoise-blue finery that matches his eyes, making Monsieur Angleterre look like a commoner in his red millitary coat. Despite his regal appearance, Matthieu have noticed how much it have worn, some of the laces on his sleeve looked like they have frayed and the area by his elbows are starting to tear. He knew how much presentation and appearance is important to his Father, so it alarmed the young colony how he let something like this pass. In front of this scary loud man no less!
If they have fallen on the hard times, Matthieu hardly felt it. He is too young to even know.
There is his Papa, sitting behind the desk looking equally as worn out as his rival standing before him, whose brows have furrowed together at his comment.
"He is mine."
"Ahh...well of course mon cher, that will also explain his temper and lack of taste!"
"D-don’t call me that! I suppose you could do better?"
"Definitely. My Matthieu is very well-behaved, you see. He is a very sweet child and..." a soft malicious smile curved his lips, as he leaned forward, his voice in a low teasing whisper "...he knows when to use the bathroom."
Matthieu wished he can see the expression of the other man's face, it must have been, in his Papa's words: 'tres magnifique!'
"Oh, bugger off!" Arthur bristled, "Alfred is still a growing child! You have such nerve to question my child-rearing capabilities when you are just about to los--"
Francis sighed and pushed the paper works forward. "You don't have to say it twice. The quicker we will be done with this the better."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Surely you jest, Angleterre? You know I have no choice on the matter and this is the only way I can retain my rights to the rest of them. And still you ask me if this is the right decision? At least give this empire his dignity."
"I...don't mean to make it sound that way."
There was a momentary pause. Are they talking about him? He heard them mention his name, why?
Matthieu can see Angleterre bend over slightly by the table. He is signing some papers. Adult things. "Matthieu...to Matthew...how about that? At least he still retains his name."
Vaguely, he saw his Papa lazily stretch his arm to reach for a wine glass. Holding it by the stem, he idly swished it with his hand. "Oui...and it will remain that way, as you promised."
"Yes. Then it's settled then."
"W..wait"
He reached for the bottle at the far end of the table and filled his glass once again. Matthieu blinked, he didn't even realize he finished a whole glass that quick. His Papa is never the one to take and drink his precious wine in one swish; he will usually sip it slowly, savoring the taste in his mouth.
"Do you need to do that, right now, really?”
His amethyst eyes widened in horror as he watches his Papa took to his glass once more and swallowed the contents quickly, if not, carelessly enough to spill some of the liquid down the floor. Inhaling when he shouldn't have been, Francis fell into a gagging fit and dropped the glass--nearly spilling the liquor and all, on the documents in front of him.
"Watch it you soddering fool! Don’t make me write this all over again!"
Matthieu didn't giggle this time when Monsieur Angleterre reacted again. The smell of the spilled fluid quickly offended his senses, stinging his nostrils. He finds himself rubbing his eyes from tears and he sniffed.
It's not wine.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong---for Papa to start drinking that awful smelling liquor again. He remembered how he was like under its influence, when he scolded him for crying on something as useless as dead butterflies. Even Monsieur L'Espagne was helpless to watch when he tossed the butterflies into the flames.
"Non!" he squealed, "Nooon!"
To hell on being grounded and not having pancakes for a week, Matthieu bursts out from his hiding, dragging his polar bear toy with him as he zeroed in at the man making his Papa upset.
--
Arthur nearly jumped as a small ball of white and pale yellow unexpectedly rushed in and nearly tackled him off his feet.
"What the bloody hell?"
A small figure emerged, with a puffed face and a pair of large angry amethyst eyes glowering back at him, spouting in furious rapid French.
Matthew?
He quickly jumped to its feet and threw himself over Francis's arm before the older blond can reach for the bottle of scotch.
Never have Arthur saw Matthieu move that fast. Wait, the boy is awake? Was he listening all this time?
He opened his mouth for a moment, ready to reprimand him for his manners (although it feel so damn wrong to do so in a young colony). But the thought was quickly forgotten as he bare witness to what is slowly unfurling in front of him.
"Mon cher, let go of my arm..."
"Noon! Papa!"
"Matthieu..."
The boy shook his head violently.
It is heartbreaking.
He reluctantly watched as Francis slowly released the bottle from his hand before tenderly lifting the young boy from his knees. Stroking Matthieu's hair, he starts murmuring words of re-assurance in his native tongue, asking him questions, on which the colony replied by shaking his head.
Unfortunately being within earshot, Arthur heard (and understood) it all:
/'Matthieu, did you understand what England is saying?'/
/'No, Papa.'/
/'Do you know why he is here?'/
/'No Papa, but I heard my name'/
Francis laughed, it’s his usual irritating laugh, but this time it sounded so bittersweet.
/'Then it's nothing...That's a good boy...'/ he murmured, before glancing over the boy's shoulder. Arthur looks displeased.
"You idiot!" He looked up, his cheeks flushed and his green eyes widening. "Y-you haven't told him yet!"
With a heavy sigh, Francis stood up and slowly prodded little Matthieu forward. The boy, still in his nightgown and padding the floor in his bare feet, reluctantly moved forward. He is standing just a foot away from the thick-browed man and the look that Arthur is sending towards his direction is giving him the chills.
"Pa.../he is scaring me/" he whimpered, clutching his toy and then looking up at the bushy browed man, before coiling back to the comfort that is Francis's coat. The father nation simply chuckled and pushed him gently once more towards to Arthur's direction once more.
"/Nonsense! You are going with England now...you will all go out and have fun!/"
"/F-fun?/"
"/Yes, you silly little man!/ he chuckled, kneeling once more and poking a digit playfully on his nose. "/And you know what's even better? You are going to have a brother too!/"
He stared back at him, confused. "/Why...would I want a brother?/"
Tired and pained blue eyes betrayed the easy going tone and the beatific smile that is gracing Francis's face. He responded by chuckling softly, lifting the young boy in his arms and settling him on top of his study desk.
/"But don't you want a family? A big one?"/ He crouched slightly, leveling his eyes to Matthieu’s.
/"But we already have a big family!"/ He frowned, tucking the toy bear under his chin, swinging his legs. /"But does Monsieur monster eyebrows have to be in it tooo?"/
Arthur twitched at the mention of his brows, feeling very insulted, despite the words being said without malice.
Bloody children saying the darndest things, he grumbled silently.
"Don’t you just stand there, Angleterre,” Francis spoke, without breaking his gaze at his boy who is staring up at him, trying to reach for a loose lock of hair as he swings his legs impatiently by the table. “You can at least make yourself useful and get him his shoes..."
Arthur starts sputtering. "W-what? Now?!"
Francis turned around and pouted, which made the other nation realize he is trying to put an act in front of the young boy. "Just because he came from the great white north does not mean he can't get frost bite!" He directed him to a neatly folded stack of clothes and other packed items placed on a long john table near the shelves. "I prepared them already, now bring it over here."
Of course he prepared it already. They’re leaving tonight.
[ TO BE CONTINUED IN A FEW HOURS. IT WOULDN'T FIT HERE. DAMN LJ LIMIT.]
A/N:
Ecosse - French for Scotland. I have been reading up about the scotland x france alliance (and osm fics...one which I have to read purely because of food pr0n reference for shootingstar's fic.../shot) so just a random mention haha XD
Menelaus Blue Morpho - is an iridescent (blue-green) tropical butterfly of Central and South America. Morpho butterflies are Neotropical butterflies found mostly in Central America as well as Mexico and South America including Brazil, Costa Rica and Venezuela. Naturally they are not native of the Northern region (and they're so damn pretty ;A; and their meaning have a deep significance to Kat's anthology) and may I say that's the reason why I placed Spain in this story...aside from the historical timeline..hehe...he...eh...orz
Sad historical fact is sad: The Anglo-French hostilities were ended in 1763 by the Treaty of Paris, which involved a complex series of land exchanges, the most important being France's cession to Spain of Louisiana, and to Great Britain the rest of New France except for the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon. France was given the choice of retrieving either New France or its Caribbean island colonies of Guadeloupe and Martinique, and chose the latter to retain these lucrative sources of sugar,[27] writing off New France as an unproductive, costly territory.[28]
TL;DR:
Since it's been ages since I posted/updated anything, here I impart a brain fart I had while conversing with kath about her doujinshi anthology project. We pretty much nailed most of the significant historical story arcs in one day and we have to re-watch bits of WW2 Apocalypse and have historigasms over the Normandy landings (long story). Which reminds me, I need to also concentrate on mine and re-tweak some timelines orz (if there will be a hetalia day 2011, I have a feeling we will most likely launch both of our anthologies almost at the same time....unless I have two more sets of hands for post-processing.)
For short, Yes, I'm still alive orz.
I didn’t attempt to googlize the phrases to French since I will send this file to Geneva for that 8|
Two anthologies…m-my brain orz
Trivia: Because I'm spastic, I wrote the original between 12:00 - 5:40 am in the morning 8D I tweaked it later after having some much needed sleep OTL and look at it now.