[Fanfic] Odi Et Amo: Bruise
Odi et Amo
“I hate thee yet I love thee”
---
“Bruise”
Bright and sunny days should be spent well on the outdoors or so the Frenchman thought. He walked along the cobbled pathway of Arthur’s lawn, humming a small tune to himself. Francis’ blonde locks swayed against the gentle breeze as he hopped a bit as he walked up to the door. “Boujour, mon délicieux!” Francis greeted as he busted through the well varnished mahogany doors of the Englishman’s manor. The Frenchman half-expected the bushy-browed Briton to suddenly fling all sorts of objects at him or to shout a string of colourful words at him for disturbing him in his embroidery but somehow none of those even happened. Confused and surprised at the sudden turn of events, Francis hurried along the different rooms where the blonde may obviously at.
After a few minutes of searching he managed to find Arthur in his study, but not sitting in his favourite armchair but on the floor before the fireplace, his back facing him. “Ah Angleterre, there you are!” Francis cheerfully chirruped as he went near the Briton. “Bugger off wine bastard...” Arthur drawled without even facing the blonde man. Somehow the tone that Arthur was giving worried Francis himself. The Englishman’s voice was rather strained, as if he was holding back hiccups and tears. And with that, Francis knew that something wasn’t right with this picture. Carefully, he approached the Briton and placed a gentle hand on the tsundere’s shoulder, “Angléterre, what’s wrong?” but his attempt to comfort the Briton was bushed away, as always. “I told you to bugger off Francis. Now leave me be.”
A scowl now replaced the bright features on Francis’ face. Something was truly amiss. Why was Arthur trying to hide his face from him? His brow furrowed even more, Francis, in one swift motion took the unruly blonde by the shoulders and made the Briton face him.
“Mon dieu Angleterre... What happened?”
Bruises covered the former top world power’s face; scratches on the right, a black eye on the left, his left cheek was swollen to some extent, a cut on his upper lip and, thankfully, not so serious scratches on the remaining part of his face. His right hand was nursed by his left was covered clumsily in bandages, giving Francis the idea that the blonde man’s hand was either broken, twisted or sprained, either of which wasn’t really good news. Francis shook his head as he looked down at the person he once saw as his younger brother; honestly enough, Arthur was more than just a brother to him.
“Angleterre, who did this to you?”
Arthur scowled at the very same man who tried to make him sign a marriage contract with an excuse that he was going to sign a blasted calendar. Hell, who does sign a calendar in the first place?! “There, now you’ve seen me you can leave Francis.” He snarled as he twisted his body a bit, wincing along the way and resumed back to his so-called emo moment before the fireplace. But Francis wasn’t willing to let this go just like that. Once again he took hold of the Briton by the shoulders and made him look at him. Cerulean blue met emerald green as the two stared at each other, one with concern while the other in surprise and stubbornness, before Arthur managed to look away. “Francis, it’s none of your concern.”
“It is my concern Arthur...”
Arthur’s eyes darted back to the Frenchman kneeling before him, his emerald orbs widening. Was it just him or did Francis just call him by his real name and not by the usual Angleterre? “N-not it’s not. Since when did any of my injuries been any of your concern, Francis, hm?” the Englishman snarled, unable to hide the blush that was starting to creep to his cheeks. He wasn’t expecting that the Frenchman himself would be concerned to people such as himself. After all they hated each other’s guts with a passion.
“...Everything about you concerns me Anglettere.”
Arthur sighed inwardly as he heard the Frenchman revert back to the usual term for him. But despite that, he had this fuzzy feeling inside of him when he heard that Francis actually is concerned for him. Managing to keep a straight face Arthur looked back at the Frenchman and replied, “Alright. I’ll tell you. Just promise me not to let yourself get involved in any of my problems.”
“Why so?”
“B-because...because you’re just looking for an excuse to fish in troubled waters again!”
Francis chuckled as the Brit got up from his position on the floor to sit on his favourite armchair then gesturing for him, with his good arm, to sit on the free chair right across it. Of course the Frenchman complied. As he sat, he immediately asked, “So, speak now Angleterre.”
“Fine, fine. Where to start...?” Arthur paused a bit and looked down on his twisted wrist. How can he tell Francis that he was once again bullied by his own brothers? Surely, the man before him would laugh at him and say, ‘Mon dieu Angleterre! You are a grown man, one of the world super powers, yet you still manage to be beaten up by your own brothers?!’ Oh he could hear his laughter alright.
“Well...?”
A mumble replied the Frenchman.
“Excusez-moi?”
Another mumble.
“You know Angleterre I won’t be able to help you if you keep on mumbling like that.” Francis drawled with a brow raised.
Arthur groaned and said, “Alright, it’s like this. Early this morning about one or two in the morning, I can’t remember, I heard someone knocking at my doorstep. I wasn’t expecting to see William, Simon and Garrick at that time, yet they were there.” Somehow, as Arthur mentioned his brother’s names, Francis could feel that this story was more than just the visible bruises he could see on the Briton’s face. Shaking his head to clear the thoughts away for now, he nodded a bit to allow Arthur to go on with his tale. “And they were completely....” Arthur paused a bit hesitant to say the latter bit but he still managed to say it in a small yet audible voice, “...arseholed.”
“Drunk? Your brothers were drunk?!” Francis asked in disbelief, a hand running through his hair. Somehow he knew the ending to this grisly tale but it’s better to hear everything from the Briton himself. “Ah sorry, and what happened next?”
Silence lingered between the two before Arthur concluded his talk with this short sentence, his eyes cast down on the floor, holding back the tears that were threatening to fall down as the events began to flood back in to his mind, “They raped me... They raped me okay?!” Arthur closed his eyes expecting a flood of laughter from the Frenchman himself but somehow it never came. Instead he was caught by surprise by the Frenchman dragging him into a hug. “What the hell Francis?!”
“Damn them to hell!”
“W-what?!” and before he could react, the Frenchman was out of the room and back with an ice pack on one hand the first aid kit in the other in a heartbeat. Arthur raised a brow in bewilderment as the Frenchman proceeded to open the first aid kit to take out the iodine tincture inside and cotton. “Good gracious Angleterre. I thought you had enough common sense to actually treat yourself.”
“W-what...?” A blush flushed on the Briton’s cheeks and as always he would look away with a stubborn look and a sharp reply of, “Belt up Francis.”
---
Francis watched the light rise and fall of Arthur’s chest in a fond manner as the Briton slept, on his orders of course. A small sad smile crept on the Frenchman’s features as memories of yesterday flooded in his mind. He could remember vividly, as he watched the sleeping Brit and brushed lightly the flushed cheek with a finger, a younger Arthur, bright eyed yet miserable, running to him with bruises or running away from his own brothers while being pelted with arrows and stones.
“F-francis!” a young Arthur sobbed as he stumbled into the Frenchman’s place, rubbing an emerald eye as tears streamed down on his face. “Angleterre? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?” he replied as he knelt down abandoning his roses for a moment to take in the crying mini nation. Holding the boy close he stroked the unruly blonde hair ‘til the little one’s sobbing ceased. “Can you tell big brother what’s going on?”
A faint whimper followed as Arthur clung to him more, his grip tightening to the Frenchman’s clothing. “Is it your brothers again...?” he asked with a frown. A nod satisfied his curiosity. Sighing, the country of love scooped up the young British nation in his arms, stood up and took him inside his manor. “Let’s get you tidied up. I’ll have a word with your brothers later, alright Angleterre?”
Another nod answered him along with a small yet grateful, “Thank you Francis”.
Shaking his head, Francis looked back at the now grown up British nation and wondered if Arthur would actually realize why he would go at so many lengths for him. Leaning down, he placed a small kiss on the sleeping man’s forehead before leaving the Englishman’s manor, a hand reaching beneath his trench coat to retrieve a small hand pistol, “I’ll be right back. I need to have a word with those brothers of yours. Rest well my dear Arthur.”
---
The next day Arthur was surprised to find Francis, with a bandaged hand, asleep beside his bed. Sitting up, it did not take him more than a minute to realize what the Frenchman had done. Smiling to himself softly, he reached out gently to stroke the Frenchman’s cheek mumbling a soft thank you underneath his breath. “I love you Francis...”
As much as he wanted to hate him, he will always find himself falling for him over and over again.
----
A/N: Scotland- William, Ireland- Simon, Wales- Garrick
“I hate thee yet I love thee”
---
“Bruise”
Bright and sunny days should be spent well on the outdoors or so the Frenchman thought. He walked along the cobbled pathway of Arthur’s lawn, humming a small tune to himself. Francis’ blonde locks swayed against the gentle breeze as he hopped a bit as he walked up to the door. “Boujour, mon délicieux!” Francis greeted as he busted through the well varnished mahogany doors of the Englishman’s manor. The Frenchman half-expected the bushy-browed Briton to suddenly fling all sorts of objects at him or to shout a string of colourful words at him for disturbing him in his embroidery but somehow none of those even happened. Confused and surprised at the sudden turn of events, Francis hurried along the different rooms where the blonde may obviously at.
After a few minutes of searching he managed to find Arthur in his study, but not sitting in his favourite armchair but on the floor before the fireplace, his back facing him. “Ah Angleterre, there you are!” Francis cheerfully chirruped as he went near the Briton. “Bugger off wine bastard...” Arthur drawled without even facing the blonde man. Somehow the tone that Arthur was giving worried Francis himself. The Englishman’s voice was rather strained, as if he was holding back hiccups and tears. And with that, Francis knew that something wasn’t right with this picture. Carefully, he approached the Briton and placed a gentle hand on the tsundere’s shoulder, “Angléterre, what’s wrong?” but his attempt to comfort the Briton was bushed away, as always. “I told you to bugger off Francis. Now leave me be.”
A scowl now replaced the bright features on Francis’ face. Something was truly amiss. Why was Arthur trying to hide his face from him? His brow furrowed even more, Francis, in one swift motion took the unruly blonde by the shoulders and made the Briton face him.
“Mon dieu Angleterre... What happened?”
Bruises covered the former top world power’s face; scratches on the right, a black eye on the left, his left cheek was swollen to some extent, a cut on his upper lip and, thankfully, not so serious scratches on the remaining part of his face. His right hand was nursed by his left was covered clumsily in bandages, giving Francis the idea that the blonde man’s hand was either broken, twisted or sprained, either of which wasn’t really good news. Francis shook his head as he looked down at the person he once saw as his younger brother; honestly enough, Arthur was more than just a brother to him.
“Angleterre, who did this to you?”
Arthur scowled at the very same man who tried to make him sign a marriage contract with an excuse that he was going to sign a blasted calendar. Hell, who does sign a calendar in the first place?! “There, now you’ve seen me you can leave Francis.” He snarled as he twisted his body a bit, wincing along the way and resumed back to his so-called emo moment before the fireplace. But Francis wasn’t willing to let this go just like that. Once again he took hold of the Briton by the shoulders and made him look at him. Cerulean blue met emerald green as the two stared at each other, one with concern while the other in surprise and stubbornness, before Arthur managed to look away. “Francis, it’s none of your concern.”
“It is my concern Arthur...”
Arthur’s eyes darted back to the Frenchman kneeling before him, his emerald orbs widening. Was it just him or did Francis just call him by his real name and not by the usual Angleterre? “N-not it’s not. Since when did any of my injuries been any of your concern, Francis, hm?” the Englishman snarled, unable to hide the blush that was starting to creep to his cheeks. He wasn’t expecting that the Frenchman himself would be concerned to people such as himself. After all they hated each other’s guts with a passion.
“...Everything about you concerns me Anglettere.”
Arthur sighed inwardly as he heard the Frenchman revert back to the usual term for him. But despite that, he had this fuzzy feeling inside of him when he heard that Francis actually is concerned for him. Managing to keep a straight face Arthur looked back at the Frenchman and replied, “Alright. I’ll tell you. Just promise me not to let yourself get involved in any of my problems.”
“Why so?”
“B-because...because you’re just looking for an excuse to fish in troubled waters again!”
Francis chuckled as the Brit got up from his position on the floor to sit on his favourite armchair then gesturing for him, with his good arm, to sit on the free chair right across it. Of course the Frenchman complied. As he sat, he immediately asked, “So, speak now Angleterre.”
“Fine, fine. Where to start...?” Arthur paused a bit and looked down on his twisted wrist. How can he tell Francis that he was once again bullied by his own brothers? Surely, the man before him would laugh at him and say, ‘Mon dieu Angleterre! You are a grown man, one of the world super powers, yet you still manage to be beaten up by your own brothers?!’ Oh he could hear his laughter alright.
“Well...?”
A mumble replied the Frenchman.
“Excusez-moi?”
Another mumble.
“You know Angleterre I won’t be able to help you if you keep on mumbling like that.” Francis drawled with a brow raised.
Arthur groaned and said, “Alright, it’s like this. Early this morning about one or two in the morning, I can’t remember, I heard someone knocking at my doorstep. I wasn’t expecting to see William, Simon and Garrick at that time, yet they were there.” Somehow, as Arthur mentioned his brother’s names, Francis could feel that this story was more than just the visible bruises he could see on the Briton’s face. Shaking his head to clear the thoughts away for now, he nodded a bit to allow Arthur to go on with his tale. “And they were completely....” Arthur paused a bit hesitant to say the latter bit but he still managed to say it in a small yet audible voice, “...arseholed.”
“Drunk? Your brothers were drunk?!” Francis asked in disbelief, a hand running through his hair. Somehow he knew the ending to this grisly tale but it’s better to hear everything from the Briton himself. “Ah sorry, and what happened next?”
Silence lingered between the two before Arthur concluded his talk with this short sentence, his eyes cast down on the floor, holding back the tears that were threatening to fall down as the events began to flood back in to his mind, “They raped me... They raped me okay?!” Arthur closed his eyes expecting a flood of laughter from the Frenchman himself but somehow it never came. Instead he was caught by surprise by the Frenchman dragging him into a hug. “What the hell Francis?!”
“Damn them to hell!”
“W-what?!” and before he could react, the Frenchman was out of the room and back with an ice pack on one hand the first aid kit in the other in a heartbeat. Arthur raised a brow in bewilderment as the Frenchman proceeded to open the first aid kit to take out the iodine tincture inside and cotton. “Good gracious Angleterre. I thought you had enough common sense to actually treat yourself.”
“W-what...?” A blush flushed on the Briton’s cheeks and as always he would look away with a stubborn look and a sharp reply of, “Belt up Francis.”
---
Francis watched the light rise and fall of Arthur’s chest in a fond manner as the Briton slept, on his orders of course. A small sad smile crept on the Frenchman’s features as memories of yesterday flooded in his mind. He could remember vividly, as he watched the sleeping Brit and brushed lightly the flushed cheek with a finger, a younger Arthur, bright eyed yet miserable, running to him with bruises or running away from his own brothers while being pelted with arrows and stones.
“F-francis!” a young Arthur sobbed as he stumbled into the Frenchman’s place, rubbing an emerald eye as tears streamed down on his face. “Angleterre? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?” he replied as he knelt down abandoning his roses for a moment to take in the crying mini nation. Holding the boy close he stroked the unruly blonde hair ‘til the little one’s sobbing ceased. “Can you tell big brother what’s going on?”
A faint whimper followed as Arthur clung to him more, his grip tightening to the Frenchman’s clothing. “Is it your brothers again...?” he asked with a frown. A nod satisfied his curiosity. Sighing, the country of love scooped up the young British nation in his arms, stood up and took him inside his manor. “Let’s get you tidied up. I’ll have a word with your brothers later, alright Angleterre?”
Another nod answered him along with a small yet grateful, “Thank you Francis”.
Shaking his head, Francis looked back at the now grown up British nation and wondered if Arthur would actually realize why he would go at so many lengths for him. Leaning down, he placed a small kiss on the sleeping man’s forehead before leaving the Englishman’s manor, a hand reaching beneath his trench coat to retrieve a small hand pistol, “I’ll be right back. I need to have a word with those brothers of yours. Rest well my dear Arthur.”
---
The next day Arthur was surprised to find Francis, with a bandaged hand, asleep beside his bed. Sitting up, it did not take him more than a minute to realize what the Frenchman had done. Smiling to himself softly, he reached out gently to stroke the Frenchman’s cheek mumbling a soft thank you underneath his breath. “I love you Francis...”
As much as he wanted to hate him, he will always find himself falling for him over and over again.
----
A/N: Scotland- William, Ireland- Simon, Wales- Garrick