Franada Gift-A-Thon entry 2010; "lettres interdits"
Title: Lettres interdits
Author/Artist: xellia
Rating: nothing higher than PG-13
Warnings: none, actually; eventual hints of former France/Russia if it disturbs you, nothing too explicit though.
Prompt: "Reminiscing on old colonial days; 'You were my first love.'
Summary: One day in Paris, Canada discovers the letters France has been writing to him.
A/N: My first time posting a fic to the community *headdesks* I hope it fits into what OP asked for. The title means "forbidden letters" in French. Also, huge thanks to onikotsu and cutthroatpixie for help ♥
Matthew yawned, stretching lazily in the king-sized bed. Rubbing his eyes, he realized the house was unusually silent for such a late morning - his alarm clock told him it was precisely 10:20 AM - especially for Francis' house, which was almost never silent. Curious, he got out of the bed, looking around. He wouldn't be surprised if France was still sleeping, but Matthew had noticed he tended to wake up earlier when he had guests - or, at least, him as a guest. It annoyed him sometimes that his former caretaker always treated him like he was still a little colony to be spoiled and taken care of, but in the long run, he found he couldn't mind the behavior for long. He'd long ago abandonned the thought of finding his way into Francis' heart as anything else than a beloved former charge; and besides, getting breakfast to bed on a daily basis was nice enough.
Stretching again, he left the guest room, wandering through the house all the way to France's bedroom and knocked gently on the door. He felt guilty for waking the other nation up, but France had still promised to take him out for one last summer walk around Paris before he went back to Montreal.
"Francis, are you there?" he called out softly, knocking again. No response. After a while, he pushed on the doorknob, looking into the empty room.
Well, France was nowhere to be found, it seemed. Curiously he peeked further, amused by how old-fashioned this one room was in comparison to the constantly modernized rest of the house. Old habits die hard, Matthew thought with a smile. The room looked almost the same as he remembered it from centuries ago, when he was read to sleep in a soft voice in the very same bed, long fingers brushing gently through his hair. Since he was a kid he never thought of coming into this room again - alright, he did, but those were only his silly fantasies, never to come true.
Sometimes, he wondered if France - with all his fondness for the past - sat down once in a while and thought of those times, too. Closed his eyes and smiled fondly, remembering a small golden-haired boy in a white robe either running around the mansion in Paris or playing with wild animals in the cold forests in the North. Probably not, Matt thought sadly, France with all his smiles, wars, enemies and lovers didn't have time to care about the past; maybe that's why he tried to compensate for it every time Matthew visited, cancelling all his appointments and pretending the world didn't exist for those few days just to take care of his former charge.
A sense of nostalgia overcame him as he laid down on the bed, stroking the velvet covers with his fingertips. He looked around the room; the curtains around the bed were pulled away, a few old chests - probably France's old clothes, he thought, he had tried those on as a child once - pushed to the wall beneath a large window, dark mahogany desk still in the same place, decorated with a few photographs and a small packet of papers laying in the middle. He walked to the desk and picked them up; the paper some of them were written on was already yellow, while the others seemed to be newer. He knew he shouldn't look at these; anything it was, if it was so old, it had to be important to Francis in some way. But then again, if he kept it in a place like this and not hidden it wouldn't hurt to look, a voice in his head reasoned.
After a closer inspection, Matt realized they were letters. From England, maybe? He knew how close they used to be, even if both of them denied it now; it wouldn't surprise him if France kept each and every one of them.
When he noticed that the one on top was addressed to himself - in France's elegant handwriting, no less - he couldn't stop his hands anymore from opening the packet. If they were for him - well, all the more reason to read them. He briefly wondered what kept France from sending them; he knew the answer was hidden in the pile of papers now in his hands. He reached for the oldest one - this one had nothing more than a date on it, 1764 - unfolding it slowly. The ink was stained by something watery in several places; was France crying when he wrote this?
Paris, 1764
Matthieu,
It has been a year since we have last seen each other. I hope you are doing well; is he taking good care of you?
In fact, if this letter has reached you, it means you should thank Arthur for the good will he has shown; and as much as it pains me to do so, I will, too. I simply wanted you to know, mon fils, that by no means I have forgotten about you; but the current circumstances all of us are placed in do not allow me to see you so freely. I hope you understand what I mean by that; he-- Arthur-- is not letting me see you and probably will not for quite some time, but despite my best efforts I cannot blame him. In fact, I would have done the same, Matthieu. I lost the war and have been punished; it was the worst punishment, taking a beloved child away from their parent, but it is a punishment nonetheless. One thing I'd want you to know, Matthieu; I did not leave you because I wanted to. I do not know what he has told you, but I am giving you my word.
I miss you; in fact words wouldn't be able to describe how much I miss you, mon petit. This is why I hope Arthur treats you well, I do not need any more reasons to hate him than I have now. Are you getting along well with your brother? I have heard from Antonio that he has started to make problems, but I hope you two are on good terms with each other no matter what happens, like you were before.
There is one last wish I have for you, petit; please, be good to Arthur. Even if he does things you do not like, it will be safer for you if you do not rebel. This is also why I am writing this letter in English; I do not want to cause you any problems with your current caretaker about the language you should be using.
Do remember that I will always love you, Matthieu, no matter how far you are.
Beaucoup d'amour,
Francis Bonnefoy
Matt blinked; this was not what he expected. The letter was so full of emotion; he knew Francis was emotional to the point of overdramatic sometimes, but this was a different kind of emotion. The letter was short but he saw how hard for Francis it was to write it. But why didn't he get the letter back when it had been written? Did Arthur see it and gave it back to Francis, keeping up the image of a bad former caretaker in Matthew's eyes, the image of one who left him in favour of some sugar islands; who deemed him unworthy. Matthew had tried not to believe in it, back then; on the days when Arthur came home drunk and angry at Alfred he hoped for Francis to come back and save him, take him somewhere far away. But this has never happened; nor had Francis done anything as trivial as talking to him more than the usual casualties exchanged, not until he gained independence. But why, Matt asked himself, why didn't he try? Had he just forgotten about him like everyone else?
Hoping for the rest of letters to clear it even a little, he reached for the second one, but then another caught his sight. It was the third, bound by a simple ribbon instead of an envelope, and the paper seemed crumpled, even torn in some places. Slowly, he unfolded it, leaving the second one for later - if he'll have another chance to read it, of course.
Moscovie, 1785
Are you doing well, Matthieu? I have already realized I will not be able to send any of those letters; in fact even if I do, they will not reach you. Now that your brother is independent I hoped to ask him to deliver them to you, but the tensions between him and our dear Arthur are still unsolved so I fear it will not do you any good. I have decided to keep them for you, though - may the day come when both of us will be able to share them.
I am in Moscovie now, Matthieu; Moscow you call it, I suppose. Have you ever met Ivan? You could be roughly the same age, but he is tall; way taller than me or even your brother. Ivan can be a bit intimidating, but he is a sweet person.
I have taken care of him, cheri - he does not belong to me in any sense like you did, he is independant after all, but we share a lot of cultural and political understanding. He has come to visit me many times just like I am visiting him now. Spending time with Ivan is entertaining; I fear that I might care for him a lot more than the other Europeans do. This does not worry me, though - I am sure he needs love like everyone else does, he is still a child at heart after all.
The reason for that is simple, cheri, do forgive me for saying this; he reminds me so strongly of you. Do you know, Matthieu, that he has the very same eye colour as you do? What I am doing presently is a bad thing; bad to me, to you in a sense, and especially to dear Ivan. But I cannot help it; when I close my eyes it is your hair I run my hands through, those are your violet eyes I look into, this is you I smile at, you that I kiss. I beg you to forgive me, Matthieu, for telling you all this.
I have seen you recently, did you know that? Arthur finally allowed me to. I would not be surprised hearing you did not even know about it; see does not mean talk, after all. And observing you there, congratulating your brother on his newly gained independence in secret with that soft smile of yours, it made me realize how much more I miss you, petit.
Forgive me but I do have to end now, Matthieu; I see that Ivan has woken up. I will not stop writing letters to you, do not worry; after all, I hope that one day you will be able to read them.
Je t'aime toujours,
Francis Bonnefoy
Matt stared at the letter, unable to force himself to close it. Had Francis-- had he really meant it? He knew about the relationship France had with Russia; he hasn't been kept oblivious back when he was England's colony, and he's long ago noticed that Arthur took a special pleasure in revealing only the things that would make him think less of Francis.
But the knowledge that every time Francis looked at Russia he thought of Matt instead - it was cruel, part of him said. He knew how it was like to be treated like a substitute of someone else - America, in this case - and that nobody should be treated this way. But another part, deep inside, made his heart ache with happiness that his feelings were reciprocated... some time ago, it seemed. Francis was a flirtatious man; two centuries were certainly more than enough to make him forget about ever having loved Matt as something more than a long-lost son.
The response to that fragile hope born in his heart was in the newest letter, he knew; he won't have the chance to read all of them, not now, but the last one was probably the one he wanted to see the most right now. He wanted to - no, he had to see if France's feelings have changed during all this time.
Somewhere in his heart, he hoped not.
"Paris, 1961
I am finally recovering after the War, Matthieu. This is why I am able to resume writing those letters to you; although I am afraid this will be the last one.
At first, I intended to wait until you are independent; somehow I foolishly thought it will be the best moment. But the war came; it was the worst moment to say things like this, when honestly I was not sure if I would be alive by the next year.
What I want you to know, petit, is simple: you, Matthieu, were my first real love.
I realize I should not write such an important thing on a piece of paper that would be forgotten; that is why I wish to invite you over to Paris for a few days where we will be able to talk freely--"
Matt turned around quickly, his eyes widening as he heard a soft click and realized Francis was standing in the door, watching him with a shockingly calm look on his face.
"I... see you have finally found them," the Frenchman said, his voice disturbingly quiet as he walked up closer to Matt. The younger country looked up at him, putting the letter back quickly on the desk; tried to fold it back together with shaking hands but only crumpled it more instead.
"Shit, Francis, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go through your things, it's just that I went looking for you and you weren't here and they were right in front of my eyes and every one had my name on it so I thought--"
"It's alright, petit," Francis silenced him with a finger to his lips. "I-- to tell the truth, I even wanted you to find them. Giving them to you personally seemed... too painful, I admit. As would be seeing you reading them standing right there next to me." Francis explained, a slightly hurt look crossing his features as he gestured to the pile of papers laying now on the desk.
"But... why, Francis? I mean, I deserved to know about them, I've seen you so often lately and nobody ever-- you never told me they even existed! It-- it's just so not fair, you know? Were you going to tell me... tell me all this someday? Probably not, right? And now I'm confused and I don't even know if you still--" his voice hitched for a moment, then dropped to a quiet whisper. "If you still feel what you felt back when you wrote all this."
"Matthieu," the man smiled, brushing past his former charge and walking to the desk to pick up all those papers. "Do you think I would have kept them if my feelings had changed? What I wrote there-- I still mean it, cheri."
"But--" Matt shook his head in a weak protest, "you couldn't possibly love me that long. I mean - you're you, you know what people say about you, that you flirt with almost everyone you see and--"
"And that does not change the fact that you were - and are - still my first love. You, Matthieu; not Jeanne, as I let people think for so long, not Arthur who despite himself might have wanted to think so." Francis finished, putting an arm around the boy and kissing his hair softly.
"I--" Matt started, looking up, but was cut off by another kiss, this one to his lips.
"I know, cheri. I know. Do not say anything now," France replied, pulling him even closer.
"I just want to-- can I take them with me and read again? I mean, I saw only three of them because you came back and... And it sounds stupid, I know, but I'd want to catch up on all those years I haven't seen you in. Even if this is the only way I could, I still want to do it," he sighed, nuzzling his face under France's chin.
"Of course, Matthieu. They are for you, are they not?"
"I suppose so," the boy smiled, his eyes closing as he sighed softly.
Author/Artist: xellia
Rating: nothing higher than PG-13
Warnings: none, actually; eventual hints of former France/Russia if it disturbs you, nothing too explicit though.
Prompt: "Reminiscing on old colonial days; 'You were my first love.'
Summary: One day in Paris, Canada discovers the letters France has been writing to him.
A/N: My first time posting a fic to the community *headdesks* I hope it fits into what OP asked for. The title means "forbidden letters" in French. Also, huge thanks to onikotsu and cutthroatpixie for help ♥
Matthew yawned, stretching lazily in the king-sized bed. Rubbing his eyes, he realized the house was unusually silent for such a late morning - his alarm clock told him it was precisely 10:20 AM - especially for Francis' house, which was almost never silent. Curious, he got out of the bed, looking around. He wouldn't be surprised if France was still sleeping, but Matthew had noticed he tended to wake up earlier when he had guests - or, at least, him as a guest. It annoyed him sometimes that his former caretaker always treated him like he was still a little colony to be spoiled and taken care of, but in the long run, he found he couldn't mind the behavior for long. He'd long ago abandonned the thought of finding his way into Francis' heart as anything else than a beloved former charge; and besides, getting breakfast to bed on a daily basis was nice enough.
Stretching again, he left the guest room, wandering through the house all the way to France's bedroom and knocked gently on the door. He felt guilty for waking the other nation up, but France had still promised to take him out for one last summer walk around Paris before he went back to Montreal.
"Francis, are you there?" he called out softly, knocking again. No response. After a while, he pushed on the doorknob, looking into the empty room.
Well, France was nowhere to be found, it seemed. Curiously he peeked further, amused by how old-fashioned this one room was in comparison to the constantly modernized rest of the house. Old habits die hard, Matthew thought with a smile. The room looked almost the same as he remembered it from centuries ago, when he was read to sleep in a soft voice in the very same bed, long fingers brushing gently through his hair. Since he was a kid he never thought of coming into this room again - alright, he did, but those were only his silly fantasies, never to come true.
Sometimes, he wondered if France - with all his fondness for the past - sat down once in a while and thought of those times, too. Closed his eyes and smiled fondly, remembering a small golden-haired boy in a white robe either running around the mansion in Paris or playing with wild animals in the cold forests in the North. Probably not, Matt thought sadly, France with all his smiles, wars, enemies and lovers didn't have time to care about the past; maybe that's why he tried to compensate for it every time Matthew visited, cancelling all his appointments and pretending the world didn't exist for those few days just to take care of his former charge.
A sense of nostalgia overcame him as he laid down on the bed, stroking the velvet covers with his fingertips. He looked around the room; the curtains around the bed were pulled away, a few old chests - probably France's old clothes, he thought, he had tried those on as a child once - pushed to the wall beneath a large window, dark mahogany desk still in the same place, decorated with a few photographs and a small packet of papers laying in the middle. He walked to the desk and picked them up; the paper some of them were written on was already yellow, while the others seemed to be newer. He knew he shouldn't look at these; anything it was, if it was so old, it had to be important to Francis in some way. But then again, if he kept it in a place like this and not hidden it wouldn't hurt to look, a voice in his head reasoned.
After a closer inspection, Matt realized they were letters. From England, maybe? He knew how close they used to be, even if both of them denied it now; it wouldn't surprise him if France kept each and every one of them.
When he noticed that the one on top was addressed to himself - in France's elegant handwriting, no less - he couldn't stop his hands anymore from opening the packet. If they were for him - well, all the more reason to read them. He briefly wondered what kept France from sending them; he knew the answer was hidden in the pile of papers now in his hands. He reached for the oldest one - this one had nothing more than a date on it, 1764 - unfolding it slowly. The ink was stained by something watery in several places; was France crying when he wrote this?
Paris, 1764
Matthieu,
It has been a year since we have last seen each other. I hope you are doing well; is he taking good care of you?
In fact, if this letter has reached you, it means you should thank Arthur for the good will he has shown; and as much as it pains me to do so, I will, too. I simply wanted you to know, mon fils, that by no means I have forgotten about you; but the current circumstances all of us are placed in do not allow me to see you so freely. I hope you understand what I mean by that; he-- Arthur-- is not letting me see you and probably will not for quite some time, but despite my best efforts I cannot blame him. In fact, I would have done the same, Matthieu. I lost the war and have been punished; it was the worst punishment, taking a beloved child away from their parent, but it is a punishment nonetheless. One thing I'd want you to know, Matthieu; I did not leave you because I wanted to. I do not know what he has told you, but I am giving you my word.
I miss you; in fact words wouldn't be able to describe how much I miss you, mon petit. This is why I hope Arthur treats you well, I do not need any more reasons to hate him than I have now. Are you getting along well with your brother? I have heard from Antonio that he has started to make problems, but I hope you two are on good terms with each other no matter what happens, like you were before.
There is one last wish I have for you, petit; please, be good to Arthur. Even if he does things you do not like, it will be safer for you if you do not rebel. This is also why I am writing this letter in English; I do not want to cause you any problems with your current caretaker about the language you should be using.
Do remember that I will always love you, Matthieu, no matter how far you are.
Beaucoup d'amour,
Francis Bonnefoy
Matt blinked; this was not what he expected. The letter was so full of emotion; he knew Francis was emotional to the point of overdramatic sometimes, but this was a different kind of emotion. The letter was short but he saw how hard for Francis it was to write it. But why didn't he get the letter back when it had been written? Did Arthur see it and gave it back to Francis, keeping up the image of a bad former caretaker in Matthew's eyes, the image of one who left him in favour of some sugar islands; who deemed him unworthy. Matthew had tried not to believe in it, back then; on the days when Arthur came home drunk and angry at Alfred he hoped for Francis to come back and save him, take him somewhere far away. But this has never happened; nor had Francis done anything as trivial as talking to him more than the usual casualties exchanged, not until he gained independence. But why, Matt asked himself, why didn't he try? Had he just forgotten about him like everyone else?
Hoping for the rest of letters to clear it even a little, he reached for the second one, but then another caught his sight. It was the third, bound by a simple ribbon instead of an envelope, and the paper seemed crumpled, even torn in some places. Slowly, he unfolded it, leaving the second one for later - if he'll have another chance to read it, of course.
Moscovie, 1785
Are you doing well, Matthieu? I have already realized I will not be able to send any of those letters; in fact even if I do, they will not reach you. Now that your brother is independent I hoped to ask him to deliver them to you, but the tensions between him and our dear Arthur are still unsolved so I fear it will not do you any good. I have decided to keep them for you, though - may the day come when both of us will be able to share them.
I am in Moscovie now, Matthieu; Moscow you call it, I suppose. Have you ever met Ivan? You could be roughly the same age, but he is tall; way taller than me or even your brother. Ivan can be a bit intimidating, but he is a sweet person.
I have taken care of him, cheri - he does not belong to me in any sense like you did, he is independant after all, but we share a lot of cultural and political understanding. He has come to visit me many times just like I am visiting him now. Spending time with Ivan is entertaining; I fear that I might care for him a lot more than the other Europeans do. This does not worry me, though - I am sure he needs love like everyone else does, he is still a child at heart after all.
The reason for that is simple, cheri, do forgive me for saying this; he reminds me so strongly of you. Do you know, Matthieu, that he has the very same eye colour as you do? What I am doing presently is a bad thing; bad to me, to you in a sense, and especially to dear Ivan. But I cannot help it; when I close my eyes it is your hair I run my hands through, those are your violet eyes I look into, this is you I smile at, you that I kiss. I beg you to forgive me, Matthieu, for telling you all this.
I have seen you recently, did you know that? Arthur finally allowed me to. I would not be surprised hearing you did not even know about it; see does not mean talk, after all. And observing you there, congratulating your brother on his newly gained independence in secret with that soft smile of yours, it made me realize how much more I miss you, petit.
Forgive me but I do have to end now, Matthieu; I see that Ivan has woken up. I will not stop writing letters to you, do not worry; after all, I hope that one day you will be able to read them.
Je t'aime toujours,
Francis Bonnefoy
Matt stared at the letter, unable to force himself to close it. Had Francis-- had he really meant it? He knew about the relationship France had with Russia; he hasn't been kept oblivious back when he was England's colony, and he's long ago noticed that Arthur took a special pleasure in revealing only the things that would make him think less of Francis.
But the knowledge that every time Francis looked at Russia he thought of Matt instead - it was cruel, part of him said. He knew how it was like to be treated like a substitute of someone else - America, in this case - and that nobody should be treated this way. But another part, deep inside, made his heart ache with happiness that his feelings were reciprocated... some time ago, it seemed. Francis was a flirtatious man; two centuries were certainly more than enough to make him forget about ever having loved Matt as something more than a long-lost son.
The response to that fragile hope born in his heart was in the newest letter, he knew; he won't have the chance to read all of them, not now, but the last one was probably the one he wanted to see the most right now. He wanted to - no, he had to see if France's feelings have changed during all this time.
Somewhere in his heart, he hoped not.
"Paris, 1961
I am finally recovering after the War, Matthieu. This is why I am able to resume writing those letters to you; although I am afraid this will be the last one.
At first, I intended to wait until you are independent; somehow I foolishly thought it will be the best moment. But the war came; it was the worst moment to say things like this, when honestly I was not sure if I would be alive by the next year.
What I want you to know, petit, is simple: you, Matthieu, were my first real love.
I realize I should not write such an important thing on a piece of paper that would be forgotten; that is why I wish to invite you over to Paris for a few days where we will be able to talk freely--"
Matt turned around quickly, his eyes widening as he heard a soft click and realized Francis was standing in the door, watching him with a shockingly calm look on his face.
"I... see you have finally found them," the Frenchman said, his voice disturbingly quiet as he walked up closer to Matt. The younger country looked up at him, putting the letter back quickly on the desk; tried to fold it back together with shaking hands but only crumpled it more instead.
"Shit, Francis, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go through your things, it's just that I went looking for you and you weren't here and they were right in front of my eyes and every one had my name on it so I thought--"
"It's alright, petit," Francis silenced him with a finger to his lips. "I-- to tell the truth, I even wanted you to find them. Giving them to you personally seemed... too painful, I admit. As would be seeing you reading them standing right there next to me." Francis explained, a slightly hurt look crossing his features as he gestured to the pile of papers laying now on the desk.
"But... why, Francis? I mean, I deserved to know about them, I've seen you so often lately and nobody ever-- you never told me they even existed! It-- it's just so not fair, you know? Were you going to tell me... tell me all this someday? Probably not, right? And now I'm confused and I don't even know if you still--" his voice hitched for a moment, then dropped to a quiet whisper. "If you still feel what you felt back when you wrote all this."
"Matthieu," the man smiled, brushing past his former charge and walking to the desk to pick up all those papers. "Do you think I would have kept them if my feelings had changed? What I wrote there-- I still mean it, cheri."
"But--" Matt shook his head in a weak protest, "you couldn't possibly love me that long. I mean - you're you, you know what people say about you, that you flirt with almost everyone you see and--"
"And that does not change the fact that you were - and are - still my first love. You, Matthieu; not Jeanne, as I let people think for so long, not Arthur who despite himself might have wanted to think so." Francis finished, putting an arm around the boy and kissing his hair softly.
"I--" Matt started, looking up, but was cut off by another kiss, this one to his lips.
"I know, cheri. I know. Do not say anything now," France replied, pulling him even closer.
"I just want to-- can I take them with me and read again? I mean, I saw only three of them because you came back and... And it sounds stupid, I know, but I'd want to catch up on all those years I haven't seen you in. Even if this is the only way I could, I still want to do it," he sighed, nuzzling his face under France's chin.
"Of course, Matthieu. They are for you, are they not?"
"I suppose so," the boy smiled, his eyes closing as he sighed softly.