In God's Country (Fanfiction-Hetalia)
Title: In God's Country
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category:France/England, with Alfred and OC!India, OC!Algeria
Rating: PG-13
Warning: ideologically sensitive material, talk of the WWI, WWII and The Algerian War, brief mention of torture, and portrayal of decolonization from the perspective of the colonizer, mention of sex and some cuteness.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: 1955 Arthur is suffering from a major case of post-colonial guilt and Francis is in denial
Author Note: Not beta'd, sorry guys. I am not a French historian and haven't really studied the Algerian War beyond my college European History, Modern European History and post-colonial theory classes. I am neither a French nor English Historian so please forgive whatever historical errors there might be. Also the closest I've ever gotten to French is Latin and please forgive any of those errors as well.
February 1955
Arthur finishes off the reports on his desk and then just sits there for a long time not really looking at anything in particular. He had known it was bad and in a peripheral kind of way, or at least had a bad feeling about it. He hadn’t really understood until know though. It hits a little too close to home, brought back memories he’d spent the last several years repressing. Memories, which lay like scabs over much older much darker ones. Arthur rubs his hands across his face feeling both tired and old. He needs to talk to Francis, not just a telephone conversation either, no he needs to talk to Francis face to face about this.
“What do you think you’re doing in Algeria?” He meant to have some anger behind the question, maybe some righteous indignation. It just comes out sounding tired though.
Francis’ spoon makes a light clack against the edge of his saucer as he stirs his coffee and then set it aside. “Enforcing Article 2 of the UN charter.” Francis doesn’t even bat an eyelash, and Arthur feels something between his own eyes tighten.
“You know that’s shite. Francis don’t . . .just don’t.”
Francis sets down his coffee cup. He isn’t looking well Arthur thinks tired and drawn although distinctly better then six years ago; his skin at least is the right color now. “Your government supports me in this, mon cher.” Francis says as if speaking to a small child and Arthur picks up his own teacup and takes a sip so as not do break something instead.
“My government ‘supports your position in regards to North Africa but not necessarily your policies’ ” He quotes managing to keeps his voice level, “but I’m telling you this as a-” He pauses, swallows “as a friend, don’t do this to yourself.”
Francis cocks his head to the side a little watching him shrewdly, “this is about India.”
Arthur drops his hands into his lap so Francis won’t see them shake, won’t see him clench them into fists, “Fine.” He says pushing himself away from the table and standing, “do whatever you want. Fight a war with them, sacrifice your morals for something you’ll loose anyway but don’t come crying to me afterwards.”
He has the satisfaction of storming out, but it’s short lived and by the time he gets to his car he’s already unbearably tired.
March 1955
Decolonization; the act of taking apart an Empire. It makes it sound so painless, like taking apart a bicycle or a machine. It’s not though, its hard and blood and painful. It makes Arthur feel worn down, tired, hurt and so very, very guilty. They’d thought they were doing the right thing, civilizing the natives and all that, except that he’d known better. These days he’ll admit it, sitting in the window seat of his library, a blanket tucked around him, a book open on his knees, watching it rain. He’ll admit he knew better. He’d been there; he’d seen the look on people’s faces and in their eyes when his armies and missionaries had taken their land, their history and their way of life away from them. At the time though he’d told himself it was worth it, in the name of the British Empire. He had been young then, young and stupid.
They’re all gone now; his house is almost completely empty. It makes him feel old and guilty and lonely but he knows it’s for the best. The world is changing and he has to change too or be left behind.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about India, tries not to think about Kalyan’s eyes the last time they had been in the same room together. Tries not to think about how angry he had looked, how fierce and strong and betrayed. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. At the end they had proven he the bad guy and he deserved that. He had loved Kalyan though, really, truly he had, India, beautiful, precious India, the jewel in the crown. Arthur brings his fist down hard onto the windowsill with a loud thump that hurts more then it accomplishes anything. Kalyan might never speak to him again in a civil kind of way and Arthur would probably deserve that too. Now Francis is fucking it up with Algeria, and Aysha is fighting back, and it was going to be long and it was going to bloody and horrible and Francis is going to end up being wrong. Arthur knows Francis is wrong.
Arthur had been trying to be careful of Francis these last ten years. Francis is better, he’s been rebuilding his country this past decade as Arthur has. Arthur’s been giving him space because Arthur doesn’t really know what to do for the other man. Francis these past ten years reminds Arthur of Francis after the Great War, except that after the Great War Francis had come to him almost desperate for Arthur’s companionship, for his care. This past decade though Francis had kept his distance and Arthur hadn’t known what else to do but keep his as well. Otherwise Arthur would have marched over to Paris and shaken some sense into the other nation, literally.
He sighs and props his chin on his hand, it’s been ten years and maybe his hands off policy towards Francis needed to end. Arthur thinks of the dark circles underneath Francis eyes, his tight brittle smile, Francis hair hadn’t completely grown out yet, it had been so thin when Arthur, Alfred and Matthew had liberated him, and every once in a while Francis eyes will get haunted shell shocked look. Yes it definitely reminds him of Francis after the Great War and it had taken Francis so long to get over that. Except Arthur knows that’s a lie because Francis had never really gotten over the Great War. Arthur sighs and rubs his eyes thinks of Francis’ haunted ones. Maybe he should wait just a little longer before smacking the other nation upside the head over Algeria.
May 1955
“You don’t have control over North Africa.” Arthur says it flat and plain because at this point it’s not just coming from him anymore it’s coming from his government too. Francis turns away from the window he’s been gazing at and looks at Arthur, where he’s sitting on the couch in the English Embassy in Paris.
“That’s why I can’t leave.” Francis runs his fingers through his hair, “The area’s too unstable.” Francis eyes beg him to understand to agree that yes this is the case and Arthur bites his lip and drops his gaze.
“You need to get out of there. Let them clean up their own bloody mess if that’s what they want.”
“They need me. They need me to look after them, to bring them order.” Francis sits next to him on the couch fingers twisting together and Arthur turns a little to watch him. Francis looks like he’s been loosing sleep over this and possible not eating and it wasn’t like he was healthy to begin with.
“No,” Arthur says as kindly as he knows how, “no they don’t need you. They don’t need either of us anymore. No one does.”
Francis opens his mouth has if he’s about to says something to this and thinks better of it. His shoulders slump slightly instead and he runs one hand over his eyes. On impulse Arthur reaches out and takes the other man’s hands in his. Lets his small, rough hands curl around Francis’ slender ones and he bends to kiss along Francis’ knuckles and Francis smiles ever so slightly.
“You are being very sweet today mon petite Angleterre.”
“Yes well,” Arthur blushes and huffs a little, “don’t push your luck.”
Francis only smiles again and leans forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek and Arthur turns his face towards the other nation at the last minute and the kiss falls on his lips instead. It’s a quick, dry, little thing. It feels so unbelievably good nonetheless that Arthur forgets completely about asking Francis about how the rebuilding is going or bitching about Alfred’s newfound obsession with atomic weaponry. Instead he leans forward and lifts his hands to cradle Francis face and kisses him back, hard. His fingers bush against Francis cheeks, draw little patterns against his jaw, and he licks across Francis’ lips but doesn’t push inside. When they draw apart again Arthur knows he’s blushing hard and Francis looks dazed.
“Is this alright?”
“Arthur, dearest-” Francis cuts himself off and Arthur blinks a little because it’s rare and strange for Francis to use English endearments. Francis kisses him again slow but deep this time. Arthur puts his arms around Francis’ waist, feels Francis’ hands on his thighs and thinks he can get used to this again, thinks how much he missed it.
January 1957
“Francis!”
The tall nation turns towards them and watches as Arthur and Alfred make their way down the hall toward him. It’s the latest UN General Assembly sessions and they’re all on their way back from lunch.
“Francis we need to talk about Algeria.” Alfred’s voice is loud and brisk and Arthur comes to a halt a little behind the much younger nation.
Francis raises on eyebrow “Oui Alfred?”
Alfred frowns and opens his mouth and Arthur cuts in before he can start, “everyone’s been reading the news reports Francis, and it’s gotten completely out of hand now.”
Next to him Alfred is nodding, “Arthur’s right, you can’t go one like this, the torture and stuff it’s not-” He scrunches his face up a little as if searching for a word to fully express his displeasure and distaste. “it’s not cool.”
“They are dangerous. Terrorists and criminals trying to undermined the official government of that country.” Francis snaps at them, “I am using whatever methods work to stop civilians from being kill.”
“They want self rule and you’re shooting and torturing them!”
Not particularly quiet to begin with Alfred’s voice has risen in volume and Arthur looks quickly up and down the hall to make sure they aren’t attracting a crowd.
“They are bombing café’s and restaurants filled with innocent people including children.” Francis all but hisses at the younger nation. “I will not idly stand by while my people are killed. I am doing what needs to be done.”
“You are doing exactly the same thing as Ludwig did to you and your resistance-”
Francis actually jerks back, looking stricken as if Alfred had punched him, and Arthur lays a hand on Alfred’s arm.
“That’s enough.”
Alfred turns a little to look at him, “but-”
Arthur shakes his head, “let it alone Alfred, please.”
Alfred stares at him for a moment hands clenched before shaking his head and Arthur envies him in that moment his ability to see the world only black and white. Alfred shrugs finally and stuffs his hands in his pockets before glancing at Francis again.
“You have to stop Francis, this isn’t ok anymore.”
He walks off down the corridor and Francis still stands there looking pale and shocked. Arthur wants to go to him, wrap his arms round the other nation and hold him close. His bosses have told him that his relationship with Alfred is more important though, just for a now, just until they stop needing American financial support so much.
“I need to-” He glances over his shoulder at Alfred’s retreating back, clears his throat. “I need to go with him.”
Francis’ eyes seem to focus on him for the first time during the entire confrontation, then they slide back towards Alfred’s retreating form, before closing. Francis runs one hand across his face. “I understand mon cher.”
On impulse Arthur takes two steps forward and wraps Francis up in a hug, pulls him close and holds on tight for a few seconds.
“Well, I’ll-” He steps away from the other nation pulls awkwardly at the bottom of his jumper. “I’ll see you later then.”
Francis nods a little and Arthur fives him a small smile. Then he turns trotting quickly down the hall to catch up with Alfred.
July 3, 1962
Arthur finds Francis out on the roof, knees pulled up to his chest, looking out over Paris. Arthur doesn’t say anything only puts down the wine bottle and sits next to him legs crossed. Francis’ eyes are closed, long lashes against pale cheeks and his hair is loose around his shoulders. He looks healthier every time Arthur sees him but tonight he looks tired and older then Arthur is used to. Still lovely though, Francis is always lovely. Arthur knows for a painful fact that Francis can be caked in blood, mud and filth, raving mad and so thin Arthur would be able to break him with one hand and Arthur would still find him lovely.
“Alfred was right.”
Arthur looks up sharply but Francis hasn’t opened his eyes, hasn’t acknowledged him in any other way. He reaches out for Francis anyway, takes one of his hands in both of Arthur’s. “Alfred is a foolish, spoiled child and doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” It comes out a little gruffer then he means and Francis’ lips curve into a smale smile.
“A foolish, spoiled child who happens to be right in this instance, mon cher.”
Arthur’s fingers draw little patters against the back of Francis’ hand, “it’s over now.”
It’s a weak reply, but Francis eyes open and he turns a little to face Arthur and Arthur sees the pain and the guilt in his eyes. His hand comes up without really mean to and touches the side of Francis face, traces his jaw, cups it. Because Arthur knows that look, understands this pain. Francis just stares at him and then suddenly there are tears and Francis half falls onto Arthur, face buried in the smaller nations shoulder and sobs. Arthur’s arms go around Francis and hold him close and he looks away over Francis’ shoulder watches the night claim Paris, gives Francis a little room to grieve.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, Arthur thinks bitterly and holds Francis closer, brushes his lips against Francis hair, the curve of his ear. He tries not to think that not all his intentions had been good and neither had Francis’. Francis is choking out things in French that Arthur doesn’t have the will to translate, instead he just rocks the other man, and waits for it pass.
“I was wrong” Francis finally gets out in English, “Mon Dieu, so wrong and so many people died.”
“Hush,” Arthur cups Francis’ face rubs his thumbs against the dark circles under Francis’ eyes, feels his tears. “Hush now, love.”
Francis leans into him and kisses him, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s short messy hair, tipping his head back to make the kiss deep and long. Arthur opens willingly against the press of Francis tongue pressing himself close, letting himself forget about the grief and guilt that still sits heavily inside him. Francis’ hands pull him down until they have traded places and Arthur is mostly in Francis’ lap. They kiss and rock against each other, fingers sliding against shoulders and neck, tangling in hair, until Francis pulls away. Arthur sits back a little too, trying to catch his breath and Francis rubs a hand across his face trying to wipe away his tears and gives Arthur a watery smile.
“We should drink the lovely wine you brought. It would be a pity to waist it non?”
Arthur sigh and blinks and then glances over that the bottle and glasses, and nods. “Yes, well lets do that then.”
They detangle themselves awkwardly in the small space, but manages it where neither falls off the roof. Arthur scoots over and grabs the bottle, he wrestles with it for a few moments finally manages to get it open and pours the wine. He turns back to find Francis has been watching him a little smile on his lips and Arthur wordlessly hands him a glass.
“How is Alfred?” Francis looks out over Paris again and Arthur tilts his head, sips his wine and watches Francis.
“He’s fine, still lending me money. My bosses are happy about that.” He’s not you. He doesn’t know this thing inside me-this pain and guilt-he can’t make me forget about it like you can. He finds he’s blushing scarlet just thinking that, and Francis smiles a little knowing smile Arthur hasn’t seen on him for decades. Arthur feels something that’s been twisted up in his chest for a very long time slowly loosen and uncurl. He gives Francis a little smile of his own, drinks his wine and watches Paris. Francis hand slowly creeps closer until Francis is covering one of Arthur’s hands with his own. It’s stupid and sappy to be sitting here drinking wine and holding hands, but Arthur pretends not to notice and lets it happen.
Eventually they move off the roof back down into Francis’ apartment. Arthur puts the wine bottle away and washes out the glasses. Francis winds his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulls him into Francis’ bedroom and there is no grief or guilt here just slow familiarity. Arthur arches into every one of Francis touches, doesn’t force himself to be quiet this time. He touches Francis not like he’s something delicate easily broken but like he’s something precious that Arthur can’t bear to break.
Tomorrow the guilt will be back. Tomorrow Francis will cry again, swear he didn’t mean it and slowly come to grips with that fact that he had. Arthur will try once again to figure out how to politically interact with ex-colonies turned countries.
Tonight though Arthur just is, and so is Francis, and it’s enough.
_________________________________
- The Algerian War lasted from 1954-1962. It was a long and an incredibly violent conflict during which The French Army drew a lot of international attention and criticism for their public use of torture. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algerian_War)(http://mondediplo.com/2001/06/11torture2)
- Algeria was officially declared independence on July 3, 1962 (http://www.onwar.com/aced/data/alpha/algeria1954.htm)
- India gained independence from Britain in 1947 after decades of both violent and non-violent resistance to imperialist rule. (http://www.kamat.com/kalranga/freedom/timeline.htm)
- The British government mostly supported France during the Algerian War, stating in 1955 that they “supported France’s position in regards to North Africa but not necessarily France’s policies.” However as the conflict progressed Britain moved to take a stronger stand against France’s actions. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 159)
- In 1957 at the UN General Assembly Britain and American both tried to pressure France into taking a less aggressive stance towards Algeria. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 167)
- During the Algerian War France claimed Article 2 Section 7 of the UN charter that states that no group or faction may interfere in the workings of a nation’s government as justification for their actions. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 160)
- The Great War refers to WWI, while Alfred makes reference to Nazi occupation of France during WWII, and the brutal crack down against those who resisted Vichy rule.
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category:France/England, with Alfred and OC!India, OC!Algeria
Rating: PG-13
Warning: ideologically sensitive material, talk of the WWI, WWII and The Algerian War, brief mention of torture, and portrayal of decolonization from the perspective of the colonizer, mention of sex and some cuteness.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: 1955 Arthur is suffering from a major case of post-colonial guilt and Francis is in denial
Author Note: Not beta'd, sorry guys. I am not a French historian and haven't really studied the Algerian War beyond my college European History, Modern European History and post-colonial theory classes. I am neither a French nor English Historian so please forgive whatever historical errors there might be. Also the closest I've ever gotten to French is Latin and please forgive any of those errors as well.
February 1955
Arthur finishes off the reports on his desk and then just sits there for a long time not really looking at anything in particular. He had known it was bad and in a peripheral kind of way, or at least had a bad feeling about it. He hadn’t really understood until know though. It hits a little too close to home, brought back memories he’d spent the last several years repressing. Memories, which lay like scabs over much older much darker ones. Arthur rubs his hands across his face feeling both tired and old. He needs to talk to Francis, not just a telephone conversation either, no he needs to talk to Francis face to face about this.
“What do you think you’re doing in Algeria?” He meant to have some anger behind the question, maybe some righteous indignation. It just comes out sounding tired though.
Francis’ spoon makes a light clack against the edge of his saucer as he stirs his coffee and then set it aside. “Enforcing Article 2 of the UN charter.” Francis doesn’t even bat an eyelash, and Arthur feels something between his own eyes tighten.
“You know that’s shite. Francis don’t . . .just don’t.”
Francis sets down his coffee cup. He isn’t looking well Arthur thinks tired and drawn although distinctly better then six years ago; his skin at least is the right color now. “Your government supports me in this, mon cher.” Francis says as if speaking to a small child and Arthur picks up his own teacup and takes a sip so as not do break something instead.
“My government ‘supports your position in regards to North Africa but not necessarily your policies’ ” He quotes managing to keeps his voice level, “but I’m telling you this as a-” He pauses, swallows “as a friend, don’t do this to yourself.”
Francis cocks his head to the side a little watching him shrewdly, “this is about India.”
Arthur drops his hands into his lap so Francis won’t see them shake, won’t see him clench them into fists, “Fine.” He says pushing himself away from the table and standing, “do whatever you want. Fight a war with them, sacrifice your morals for something you’ll loose anyway but don’t come crying to me afterwards.”
He has the satisfaction of storming out, but it’s short lived and by the time he gets to his car he’s already unbearably tired.
March 1955
Decolonization; the act of taking apart an Empire. It makes it sound so painless, like taking apart a bicycle or a machine. It’s not though, its hard and blood and painful. It makes Arthur feel worn down, tired, hurt and so very, very guilty. They’d thought they were doing the right thing, civilizing the natives and all that, except that he’d known better. These days he’ll admit it, sitting in the window seat of his library, a blanket tucked around him, a book open on his knees, watching it rain. He’ll admit he knew better. He’d been there; he’d seen the look on people’s faces and in their eyes when his armies and missionaries had taken their land, their history and their way of life away from them. At the time though he’d told himself it was worth it, in the name of the British Empire. He had been young then, young and stupid.
They’re all gone now; his house is almost completely empty. It makes him feel old and guilty and lonely but he knows it’s for the best. The world is changing and he has to change too or be left behind.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about India, tries not to think about Kalyan’s eyes the last time they had been in the same room together. Tries not to think about how angry he had looked, how fierce and strong and betrayed. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. At the end they had proven he the bad guy and he deserved that. He had loved Kalyan though, really, truly he had, India, beautiful, precious India, the jewel in the crown. Arthur brings his fist down hard onto the windowsill with a loud thump that hurts more then it accomplishes anything. Kalyan might never speak to him again in a civil kind of way and Arthur would probably deserve that too. Now Francis is fucking it up with Algeria, and Aysha is fighting back, and it was going to be long and it was going to bloody and horrible and Francis is going to end up being wrong. Arthur knows Francis is wrong.
Arthur had been trying to be careful of Francis these last ten years. Francis is better, he’s been rebuilding his country this past decade as Arthur has. Arthur’s been giving him space because Arthur doesn’t really know what to do for the other man. Francis these past ten years reminds Arthur of Francis after the Great War, except that after the Great War Francis had come to him almost desperate for Arthur’s companionship, for his care. This past decade though Francis had kept his distance and Arthur hadn’t known what else to do but keep his as well. Otherwise Arthur would have marched over to Paris and shaken some sense into the other nation, literally.
He sighs and props his chin on his hand, it’s been ten years and maybe his hands off policy towards Francis needed to end. Arthur thinks of the dark circles underneath Francis eyes, his tight brittle smile, Francis hair hadn’t completely grown out yet, it had been so thin when Arthur, Alfred and Matthew had liberated him, and every once in a while Francis eyes will get haunted shell shocked look. Yes it definitely reminds him of Francis after the Great War and it had taken Francis so long to get over that. Except Arthur knows that’s a lie because Francis had never really gotten over the Great War. Arthur sighs and rubs his eyes thinks of Francis’ haunted ones. Maybe he should wait just a little longer before smacking the other nation upside the head over Algeria.
May 1955
“You don’t have control over North Africa.” Arthur says it flat and plain because at this point it’s not just coming from him anymore it’s coming from his government too. Francis turns away from the window he’s been gazing at and looks at Arthur, where he’s sitting on the couch in the English Embassy in Paris.
“That’s why I can’t leave.” Francis runs his fingers through his hair, “The area’s too unstable.” Francis eyes beg him to understand to agree that yes this is the case and Arthur bites his lip and drops his gaze.
“You need to get out of there. Let them clean up their own bloody mess if that’s what they want.”
“They need me. They need me to look after them, to bring them order.” Francis sits next to him on the couch fingers twisting together and Arthur turns a little to watch him. Francis looks like he’s been loosing sleep over this and possible not eating and it wasn’t like he was healthy to begin with.
“No,” Arthur says as kindly as he knows how, “no they don’t need you. They don’t need either of us anymore. No one does.”
Francis opens his mouth has if he’s about to says something to this and thinks better of it. His shoulders slump slightly instead and he runs one hand over his eyes. On impulse Arthur reaches out and takes the other man’s hands in his. Lets his small, rough hands curl around Francis’ slender ones and he bends to kiss along Francis’ knuckles and Francis smiles ever so slightly.
“You are being very sweet today mon petite Angleterre.”
“Yes well,” Arthur blushes and huffs a little, “don’t push your luck.”
Francis only smiles again and leans forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek and Arthur turns his face towards the other nation at the last minute and the kiss falls on his lips instead. It’s a quick, dry, little thing. It feels so unbelievably good nonetheless that Arthur forgets completely about asking Francis about how the rebuilding is going or bitching about Alfred’s newfound obsession with atomic weaponry. Instead he leans forward and lifts his hands to cradle Francis face and kisses him back, hard. His fingers bush against Francis cheeks, draw little patterns against his jaw, and he licks across Francis’ lips but doesn’t push inside. When they draw apart again Arthur knows he’s blushing hard and Francis looks dazed.
“Is this alright?”
“Arthur, dearest-” Francis cuts himself off and Arthur blinks a little because it’s rare and strange for Francis to use English endearments. Francis kisses him again slow but deep this time. Arthur puts his arms around Francis’ waist, feels Francis’ hands on his thighs and thinks he can get used to this again, thinks how much he missed it.
January 1957
“Francis!”
The tall nation turns towards them and watches as Arthur and Alfred make their way down the hall toward him. It’s the latest UN General Assembly sessions and they’re all on their way back from lunch.
“Francis we need to talk about Algeria.” Alfred’s voice is loud and brisk and Arthur comes to a halt a little behind the much younger nation.
Francis raises on eyebrow “Oui Alfred?”
Alfred frowns and opens his mouth and Arthur cuts in before he can start, “everyone’s been reading the news reports Francis, and it’s gotten completely out of hand now.”
Next to him Alfred is nodding, “Arthur’s right, you can’t go one like this, the torture and stuff it’s not-” He scrunches his face up a little as if searching for a word to fully express his displeasure and distaste. “it’s not cool.”
“They are dangerous. Terrorists and criminals trying to undermined the official government of that country.” Francis snaps at them, “I am using whatever methods work to stop civilians from being kill.”
“They want self rule and you’re shooting and torturing them!”
Not particularly quiet to begin with Alfred’s voice has risen in volume and Arthur looks quickly up and down the hall to make sure they aren’t attracting a crowd.
“They are bombing café’s and restaurants filled with innocent people including children.” Francis all but hisses at the younger nation. “I will not idly stand by while my people are killed. I am doing what needs to be done.”
“You are doing exactly the same thing as Ludwig did to you and your resistance-”
Francis actually jerks back, looking stricken as if Alfred had punched him, and Arthur lays a hand on Alfred’s arm.
“That’s enough.”
Alfred turns a little to look at him, “but-”
Arthur shakes his head, “let it alone Alfred, please.”
Alfred stares at him for a moment hands clenched before shaking his head and Arthur envies him in that moment his ability to see the world only black and white. Alfred shrugs finally and stuffs his hands in his pockets before glancing at Francis again.
“You have to stop Francis, this isn’t ok anymore.”
He walks off down the corridor and Francis still stands there looking pale and shocked. Arthur wants to go to him, wrap his arms round the other nation and hold him close. His bosses have told him that his relationship with Alfred is more important though, just for a now, just until they stop needing American financial support so much.
“I need to-” He glances over his shoulder at Alfred’s retreating back, clears his throat. “I need to go with him.”
Francis’ eyes seem to focus on him for the first time during the entire confrontation, then they slide back towards Alfred’s retreating form, before closing. Francis runs one hand across his face. “I understand mon cher.”
On impulse Arthur takes two steps forward and wraps Francis up in a hug, pulls him close and holds on tight for a few seconds.
“Well, I’ll-” He steps away from the other nation pulls awkwardly at the bottom of his jumper. “I’ll see you later then.”
Francis nods a little and Arthur fives him a small smile. Then he turns trotting quickly down the hall to catch up with Alfred.
July 3, 1962
Arthur finds Francis out on the roof, knees pulled up to his chest, looking out over Paris. Arthur doesn’t say anything only puts down the wine bottle and sits next to him legs crossed. Francis’ eyes are closed, long lashes against pale cheeks and his hair is loose around his shoulders. He looks healthier every time Arthur sees him but tonight he looks tired and older then Arthur is used to. Still lovely though, Francis is always lovely. Arthur knows for a painful fact that Francis can be caked in blood, mud and filth, raving mad and so thin Arthur would be able to break him with one hand and Arthur would still find him lovely.
“Alfred was right.”
Arthur looks up sharply but Francis hasn’t opened his eyes, hasn’t acknowledged him in any other way. He reaches out for Francis anyway, takes one of his hands in both of Arthur’s. “Alfred is a foolish, spoiled child and doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” It comes out a little gruffer then he means and Francis’ lips curve into a smale smile.
“A foolish, spoiled child who happens to be right in this instance, mon cher.”
Arthur’s fingers draw little patters against the back of Francis’ hand, “it’s over now.”
It’s a weak reply, but Francis eyes open and he turns a little to face Arthur and Arthur sees the pain and the guilt in his eyes. His hand comes up without really mean to and touches the side of Francis face, traces his jaw, cups it. Because Arthur knows that look, understands this pain. Francis just stares at him and then suddenly there are tears and Francis half falls onto Arthur, face buried in the smaller nations shoulder and sobs. Arthur’s arms go around Francis and hold him close and he looks away over Francis’ shoulder watches the night claim Paris, gives Francis a little room to grieve.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, Arthur thinks bitterly and holds Francis closer, brushes his lips against Francis hair, the curve of his ear. He tries not to think that not all his intentions had been good and neither had Francis’. Francis is choking out things in French that Arthur doesn’t have the will to translate, instead he just rocks the other man, and waits for it pass.
“I was wrong” Francis finally gets out in English, “Mon Dieu, so wrong and so many people died.”
“Hush,” Arthur cups Francis’ face rubs his thumbs against the dark circles under Francis’ eyes, feels his tears. “Hush now, love.”
Francis leans into him and kisses him, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s short messy hair, tipping his head back to make the kiss deep and long. Arthur opens willingly against the press of Francis tongue pressing himself close, letting himself forget about the grief and guilt that still sits heavily inside him. Francis’ hands pull him down until they have traded places and Arthur is mostly in Francis’ lap. They kiss and rock against each other, fingers sliding against shoulders and neck, tangling in hair, until Francis pulls away. Arthur sits back a little too, trying to catch his breath and Francis rubs a hand across his face trying to wipe away his tears and gives Arthur a watery smile.
“We should drink the lovely wine you brought. It would be a pity to waist it non?”
Arthur sigh and blinks and then glances over that the bottle and glasses, and nods. “Yes, well lets do that then.”
They detangle themselves awkwardly in the small space, but manages it where neither falls off the roof. Arthur scoots over and grabs the bottle, he wrestles with it for a few moments finally manages to get it open and pours the wine. He turns back to find Francis has been watching him a little smile on his lips and Arthur wordlessly hands him a glass.
“How is Alfred?” Francis looks out over Paris again and Arthur tilts his head, sips his wine and watches Francis.
“He’s fine, still lending me money. My bosses are happy about that.” He’s not you. He doesn’t know this thing inside me-this pain and guilt-he can’t make me forget about it like you can. He finds he’s blushing scarlet just thinking that, and Francis smiles a little knowing smile Arthur hasn’t seen on him for decades. Arthur feels something that’s been twisted up in his chest for a very long time slowly loosen and uncurl. He gives Francis a little smile of his own, drinks his wine and watches Paris. Francis hand slowly creeps closer until Francis is covering one of Arthur’s hands with his own. It’s stupid and sappy to be sitting here drinking wine and holding hands, but Arthur pretends not to notice and lets it happen.
Eventually they move off the roof back down into Francis’ apartment. Arthur puts the wine bottle away and washes out the glasses. Francis winds his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulls him into Francis’ bedroom and there is no grief or guilt here just slow familiarity. Arthur arches into every one of Francis touches, doesn’t force himself to be quiet this time. He touches Francis not like he’s something delicate easily broken but like he’s something precious that Arthur can’t bear to break.
Tomorrow the guilt will be back. Tomorrow Francis will cry again, swear he didn’t mean it and slowly come to grips with that fact that he had. Arthur will try once again to figure out how to politically interact with ex-colonies turned countries.
Tonight though Arthur just is, and so is Francis, and it’s enough.
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- The Algerian War lasted from 1954-1962. It was a long and an incredibly violent conflict during which The French Army drew a lot of international attention and criticism for their public use of torture. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algerian_War)(http://mondediplo.com/2001/06/11torture2)
- Algeria was officially declared independence on July 3, 1962 (http://www.onwar.com/aced/data/alpha/algeria1954.htm)
- India gained independence from Britain in 1947 after decades of both violent and non-violent resistance to imperialist rule. (http://www.kamat.com/kalranga/freedom/timeline.htm)
- The British government mostly supported France during the Algerian War, stating in 1955 that they “supported France’s position in regards to North Africa but not necessarily France’s policies.” However as the conflict progressed Britain moved to take a stronger stand against France’s actions. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 159)
- In 1957 at the UN General Assembly Britain and American both tried to pressure France into taking a less aggressive stance towards Algeria. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 167)
- During the Algerian War France claimed Article 2 Section 7 of the UN charter that states that no group or faction may interfere in the workings of a nation’s government as justification for their actions. (France and The Algerian War 1954-1962 by Martin S. Alexander, John F. V. Keiger page 160)
- The Great War refers to WWI, while Alfred makes reference to Nazi occupation of France during WWII, and the brutal crack down against those who resisted Vichy rule.