Archive of Our Own ^beta

Arthur found him in a room that smelled of smoke and perfume and mildew.

The apartment was too big for one man now. High ceilings, tall windows with their curtains pulled tight, furniture that had once been decadent but now only seemed to gather dust. The air carried that faint Parisian sweetness, the ghost of flowers from a street below, but it was drowned out by the sourness of cheap liquor.

Francis was exactly where the English man had imagined he’d be, though some bitter part of him had hoped otherwise: Sprawled on the settee like a doll someone had dropped. Barefoot, legs curled underneath him, a silk dressing gown clinging to his thin frame. The bottle at his side was half-empty.

He stood in the doorway longer than he meant to.

He’d survived the Blitz. He’d walked through burning streets, patched roofs with his own hands and even stared at the skeletal remains of London’s homes and told himself they’d rise again. He’d imagined this moment, coming to Paris, seeing the bastard who’d always teased him, berated him, matched him in strength and pride, and he’d prepared himself for the snide remarks or the smug resilience.

But this?

This hollow thing in front of him?

“France.” He spoke up finally but he wasn’t given an answer.

Arthur crossed the room slowly, boots sinking into a once-plush carpet that now just felt dead underfoot. He set his coat on the armchair and crouched in front of him.

Up close, the other nation was worse. His hair, always meticulously kept, was greasy at the roots, curling in disarray around his face. His cheekbones were sharper than Arthur remembered, and his wrists, visible where the robe had slipped down, looked breakable.

He reached out hesitantly and shook his shoulder lightly. “France. Wake up.”

The other man blinked, slow and unfocused. His eyes, once violet and wicked, were dull. They looked like amethysts that had lost their sparkle.

“Ah.” He rasped, voice rough with disuse. “Angleterre?” A shadow of a smile flickered and died. “You came.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “Someone had to.”

Francis’s fingers twitched against the armrest, tracing invisible patterns over the worn fabric. His gaze flicked briefly to the bottle at his side was half-empty, forgotten, then back to Arthur. A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him, soft but sharp enough to make Arthur flinch. “So dutiful. Always so dutiful…”

He didn’t laugh properly, didn’t even smile fully; it was a sound of habit, a ghost of mockery, stripped of its usual lilt. His eyes followed Arthur slowly, lingering on the lines around his mouth, the slight slump of his shoulders, the careful way he kept his hands at his sides. There was something in that observation, patient, tired and almost hungry, that made Arthur want to step closer, yet afraid that movement might shatter the fragile thing before him.

Of course England wanted to snap at him ‘Don’t start.’ He couldn’t. The words caught in his throat. What would be the point? Francis wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even present.

He sat back on his heels, the motion slow, deliberate— As though any sudden shift might disturb the fragile thing before him. His knees protested against the hard floor, but he hardly noticed. He exhaled through his nose, the breath shaky, his chest tight with a thousand unspoken things. “You look like hell.” He said quietly yet his accent still was obvious.

The words weren’t sharp, not this time, not a jab meant to provoke or mask concern with sarcasm. The sentence landed in the air between them like a limp flag after battle, heavy with truth and lacking the energy for mockery.

Francis didn’t answer at first. His fingers twitched against the worn fabric of the settee, as if trying to grasp for something that wasn’t there. He shifted, the silk of his robe whispering faintly as it moved against his skin.

His shoulder rose, tense, then fell again with a weary sort of resignation— The movement of a man who had stopped expecting comfort. France turned his face toward the window, the motion slow and fragile, as though even his neck had grown tired of holding his head upright. His cheek pressed lightly against the back cushion, and his gaze followed the thin line of light forcing its way through a gap in the curtains.

Outside, rain streaked along the glass in hesitant trails. Blue eyes tracked a single droplet as it slid downward, merging with another, before continuing its path. His throat bobbed with a swallow, one he tried to disguise, but he saw the effort in the tightness of his jaw.

“I’ve seen it.” Francis murmured. The words didn’t fit and felt like someone trying to force a puzzle piece in the wrong place. It was not boastful, not poetic or even dramatic.

Just flat.

His voice carried the texture of ash. It was dry, gritty and completely hollowed out by smoke. The syllables left his lips as if scraped from the bottom of lungs that had screamed too long in silence. The man’s hand lifted from his lap, only a fraction, fingers curling loosely as if intending to gesture to the window, to the rain, to the city beyond it, to the memory of flames reflected in broken glass, but the movement lost momentum halfway. His hand fell back to the cushion, palm open, useless.

Arthur noticed the fine tremor in Francis’s fingers when they stilled.

The Frenchman’s profile, once softened by candlelight and vanity and laughter, was stark against the dim room. His cheekbones cast shadows, his lips parted as though he were still catching his breath from a nightmare. The faint yellowish bruises beneath his eyes, sleepless imprints of weeks, maybe months, made him look older than Arthur had ever seen him.

The rain continued outside, slow and hesitant at first, then in a rhythm that reminded Arthur of London rooftops. The war had followed him here, it seemed. He’d half expected Paris to feel lighter after liberation some absurd hope that the city itself would breathe again. Instead, it felt like walking into a mausoleum. “Why are you here, Arthur?” The older country asked after a long silence. His voice was too calm. Too empty. “Did you come to see the ruins? Or to feel sorry for me?”

“I came to see you.”

The words left him more quietly than he intended. They hovered in the air between them, fragile and strangely intimate— Like a confession disguised as duty. France’s eyelids lowered, a faint scoff escaping him as he leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. “How sentimental.”

It wasn’t said with his usual lightness. The sarcasm was brittle, exhausted, as if he no longer had the energy to sharpen it into a proper blade. His fingers twitched against the cushion, once graceful and expressive hands now reduced to small, involuntary movements, like his body couldn’t decide whether to reach out or retreat.

England felt his jaw clench. A muscle jumped near his temple. “Don’t do that, Francis— France.” He corrected himself quickly. Luckily the other didn’t notice.

Francis’ gaze slid lazily back toward him, half-hidden behind tangled strands of blond hair. “Do what?” His tone was mild, but there was a flinch, barely there, like he expected to be scolded, not understood. “That bloody thing you do—” Arthur’s hand lifted vaguely, as if trying to grasp the exact shape of the accusation in the air before letting it fall uselessly to his side. “Acting like you’re above it all, like nothing touches you, when you’re clearly…”

He caught himself. The volume in his voice had risen without permission, echoing too sharply in the silent room. Arthur sucked in a breath, forcing his shoulders to settle. The back of his neck flushed with regret. “When you’re clearly not alright.” The English man finished, his accent softened this time.

The last word lingered, raw and unpolished.

Francis’ lips parted, just slightly. His eyes flickered, not in offense, but in something like surprise, or the sting of being seen too clearly. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly: his spine, which had been curved in that languid pose of false nonchalance, seemed to sag a fraction. One hand curled into the silk of his robe, clutching it closed at his chest as though the fabric were armor threatened by truth. He turned to him then, and for the first time Arthur saw something stir in his eyes, not life exactly, but something raw and defensive. “And you are?” he asked softly. “You think you hide it better than I do? Mon dieu, Arthur, you reek of smoke and guilt. You’ve always thought pain makes you righteous.”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “At least I don’t drown mine in wine.”

That struck a nerve.

The other’s hand twitched, fingers curling into the couch cushion so tightly that the fabric crumpled beneath them. His eyes flickered with something jagged, raw— A spark of rage that made the violet almost unbearable in its intensity. His lips pressed into a thin, white line, then quivered as he shook his head, muttering to himself under his breath. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare come into my home and speak of guilt as though you know mine.”

England flinched at the sudden vehemence, his hand half-raised, uncertain if he should step back or move closer. Francis rocked slightly, curling into himself, then jerking upright, as if the motion alone could burn away the memories clinging to him. He ran a trembling hand through his matted hair, pulling at the roots, leaving it sticking up in wild, spiky angles. His robe slipped from one shoulder, revealing the thinness of his collarbone, the tautness of his skin stretched over brittle bones.

“I know you were under occupation.” Arthur said, voice tight, sharper than he intended. “I know you fought back the only way you could. But you’re free now, France. It’s over.”

“It’s never over!” Francis’ voice cracked, splintering like glass under a hammer. It wasn’t the soft, bitter sorrow Arthur had expected. It was sharp, frantic, desperate. He flung one arm toward the ceiling, then clawed at his own chest as if he could tear out the memories lodged inside him. “They marched in, Arthur! Through my streets, under my flag! They took my sons, my daughters, my cities!” His feet slid on the carpet as he paced the room in small, quick steps, like a caged predator circling the bars. “They starved my people! My people! Do you understand what it is to feel your body used like a prize? To rot while pretending to smile for them?”

He spun, face contorted, eyes wide and glinting, and banged a fist on the arm of the couch, rattling the half-empty bottle. “To feel your people, your very being, die slowly, until you eventually die, and then… Oh, then you come back! Because we don’t get the privilege of death as countries, do you understand that?!” He sank to his knees, then leaned back onto the settee, rocking slightly, muttering, “No, no, no… It never ends…” His fingers clawed at the silk, twisting it in trembling knots, a manic rhythm that matched the pounding of rain against the windows.

Arthur’s chest tightened, a cold, hollow ache spreading through him. He could feel the madness radiating off Francis in tremors: The jerky head shakes, the restless tapping of bare toes against the floor, the sudden grasping at air as if trying to snatch ghosts from the corners of the room. Yet beneath it all, Arthur could see the fragile, human core, trembling and raw, the man still waiting, still burning with pain, still desperate for some anchor.

He wanted to help but said nothing. He couldn’t. Because he did know, in some way. They’d both been bombed, both stripped of their pride and forced to bleed for mortals who barely knew what they represented. But he couldn’t say that. Not when Francis looked like that… Like if he said one more wrong word, the man might shatter.

Francis laughed suddenly— A small, breathless sound that ended in a cough. “You always come too late.” He murmured. “Centuries and you never change.”

Arthur frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Francis’ lips curled in a twitch of bitter amusement, but his eyes, those violet eyes, were wild, darting from the rain-slicked window to the threadbare carpet beneath them, as if searching for ghosts in the fibers. He rocked slightly on his hands and knees, tilting his head as if trying to listen to the walls themselves. “You came too late to Joan…” He whispered, voice low, almost a hiss, each word clipped and trembling. “Too late to the Revolution. Too late to the Commune. Always arriving with your pity after the fire has already burned me hollow.”

He pressed a palm to the floor, fingers splayed wide, tapping it as if counting some invisible measure of time or loss. The other hand twisted at the robe around his waist, tugging it half off his shoulder, revealing the jagged outline of ribs that made the blond’s chest constrict with worry. His movements were jittery, frantic, each shift jerky and unsteady, yet deliberate, as though he could not decide whether to collapse or rise.

Arthur’s chest ached. “Don’t twist this, France.” His voice was firm, a tether trying to reach the spiraling man before him.

It was then that Francis laughed. A harsh, hollow laugh that cut through the rhythm of the falling rain, rattling the tall windows. Then he stopped abruptly, silence snapping back like a drawn bowstring. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly to the carpet, as if seeking forgiveness from the dust, before springing upright again with a violent jerk. “Yet..” He said finally, voice trembling, fragile but edged with mania, “I kept waiting.”

He shifted again, pacing a few steps on the thick carpet, dragging his toes along the edge of the rug, letting the fibers catch under his nails. “I waited for centuries, Arthur.” He murmured, spinning suddenly toward him, eyes wild, pupils dilated, unblinking. “For the wars, for the kings, for the fire and the smoke and the blood!” His arms flailed like a conductor orchestrating some invisible orchestra of ghosts. “I waited when London burned! I waited when your ships sailed! Always…” Francis pressed one hand to his chest as moved, trembling violently, “Always, I thought, perhaps that day…”

Arthur blinked, taken aback by the manic intensity, the tremor of desperation seeping from every line of France’s body. His lips parted, voice barely steady. “Perhaps what? What did you wait for.”

That caused France to freeze mid-gesture, staring at him like a wild animal caught in a trap. A slow shiver ran through him, shoulders rattling, fingers curling into the carpet as if the floor might anchor him to reality. Then he laughed again, quieter, more hollow, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, leaning almost entirely on Arthur’s steady gaze. “For you.” He whispered, so low Arthur almost didn’t hear it. “Always for you. Even when I thought the world itself had forgotten me, even when I thought I was losing myself… I waited for you, Arthur. For your eyes to find me before the fire swallowed me whole.”

There was no wit in it. No irony. Just a confession carved out of exhaustion.

Arthur’s breath stuttered, an uneven inhale that caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I am.” Francis lifted his head with a slowness that felt deliberate, as though any sudden movement might shatter what little composure he had left. He rose from the settee again, the hem of the robe whispering against his skin. The fabric slipped further down his shoulder, exposing the elegant ridge of a collarbone that looked almost too sharp, too prominent, as if the war had carved him down to bone and silhouette. In the low lamplight, faint bruising bloomed across his chest; not garish, but the kind of older, yellowing marks that told stories without words. His fingers twitched, briefly brushing the robe back into place, then stopping halfway— As if he no longer saw the point in hiding the damage.

“I waited for you to hate me less.” His voice was soft, but not weak; it trembled like a violin string drawn too taut. “I waited for you to forgive me, for Waterloo, for Napoleon, for every stupid century we spent clawing at each other. I thought maybe this time—” His throat tightened around the words. He exhaled, a trembling, fragile sound. “I thought maybe when the bombs fell, when you saw the smoke over my cities, you’d remember I’m not a pitiful fool or your enemy.”

England’s pulse hammered in his ears, a fierce, uneven rhythm that drowned out the distant ticking of the mantle clock. His heartbeat felt so loud he was certain Francis must hear it, must feel it, in the air between them. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if searching for something solid to hold onto. His nails bit into his palms; the brief sting grounded him, but only barely.

Then the other country sank back onto the settee as though his legs no longer trusted themselves to hold him. The cushion dipped under his weight, the old frame emitting the faintest groan, an almost human complaint under the heaviness of the moment. He noticed the subtle tremor in Francis’s shoulder as he settled, a tiny shiver that betrayed what dignity tried to conceal. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, blond lashes lowering not in dramatics, but in the quiet defeat of someone exhausted by hope.

The lamp cast a warm, amber glow across the room, throwing Francis’ profile into delicate shadow. Dust motes drifted lazily between them, suspended in the stillness like the words neither of them dared speak.

“You think that’s what this is?” He managed, but the words emerged frayed at the edges, thinner than he intended. His tone strained between offense and something far more brittle. He forced himself a step forward; the soles of his boots scraped softly against the worn parquet floor, a faint sound in the silence, too loud for how careful he was trying to be.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. “France…” Arthur’s voice cracked around the name, the old familiarity of it. “I didn’t come here because I pity you.” His gaze drifted, just for a heartbeat, to the bruises he wished he hadn’t seen, then snapped back up before Francis could misread the flicker of concern for charity. “I came because I—”

The rest slammed into an invisible wall lodged behind his teeth. His jaw clenched hard, a muscle in his cheek flickering. Words pressed against the back of his throat, dangerous things, once spoken. He could feel them burning there, threatening to escape. He looked at Francis, really looked, and the truth of what he wanted to say coiled like heat in his chest, too raw to name aloud. He swallowed hard, the back of his throat raw. He felt like an ant in a death spiral unable to break formation or even whisper a word.

Francis’ eyes widened just slightly, pupils dilating, and he shifted on the couch, a subtle motion that sent the silk of his dressing gown rustling. His hand moved almost unconsciously, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead and tucking it behind his ear, a fragile, human gesture that belied the steel the Englishman knew had once been there.

“Because you what?” Francis pressed, his voice trembling, desperate yet carefully restrained. “Because you care? Because you love me?” He said but the words seemed blank. Like he already knew. Like he already gave up.

That caused Arthur to flinch as if struck, chest tightening with the weight of centuries compressed into that single, fragile question. He could feel the air between them thrum with unspoken histories. The battles fought, betrayals endured, laughter shared and scalding words exchanged. He shifted slightly, the motion causing the settee beneath the other country to creak softly. “Because I couldn’t not come!” He snapped, the words loud enough to echo faintly against the high ceilings.

Then silence fell. Thick, suffocating and almost tangible… It was like a living presence that seemed to press against their ribcages and hold them in place.

The taller man’s body stiffened, a reflexive flinch, before he slowly exhaled and allowed the corners of his mouth to lift in a weak, almost imperceptible smile. His gaze, dampened with tears and shadowed with exhaustion, lingered on Arthur, searching, testing. “Then why do you look like you’d rather be anywhere else?” France murmured, voice soft, ragged, like the echo of a hundred ghosts trailing from Parisian ruins.

Arthur’s fists tightened at his sides. He wanted to shout, ‘Because you’re making this impossible.’ But he couldn’t. The man sitting before him wasn’t his rival anymore. He wasn’t the smug, unshakable France that strutted into battle wearing silk and a grin. He was a man who’d been broken open, who’d been left alone in his own ruin.

“I’m not here to hurt you, France.” Arthur said softly.

“Then why won’t you look at me the way you used to?” France whispered. His voice trembled with something too fragile to be anger, too desperate to be pride. “You look at me like I’m already gone.”

The words hung in the air like dust motes caught in the half-light that was suspended and impossible to ignore. His breath hitched, quiet but sharp enough that Francis’s eyes flicked up to catch it. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The only sound was the rain tapping against the tall windows, soft and relentless.

His green eyes dropped to the floor— To the frayed edge of the carpet, to the bottle glinting beside the settee just anything but the man opposite of him. His hand twitched against his thigh as though arguing with itself. The instinct to retreat, to guard or deflect with some bitter remark, warred with something older, heavier, lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.

He finally exhaled, the sound more sigh than breath, and took a small step closer. The boards creaked faintly under his boots, a hesitant protest. He didn’t speak at first. His eyes traced the curve of Francis’s jaw, the faint tremor in his lip, the way his robe slipped slightly with each uneven breath. He’d seen this man radiant before, lit by candlelight with pride and laughter spilling like wine as his voice caused the whole room to look in awe and reverence, but now the light on his skin was dull, gray, almost translucent.

And yet… It was still familiar.

Arthur’s throat tightened. “You’re not—” He stopped. The words refused to form, thick and unwieldy in his mouth. He swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. “You’re not gone.”

Francis gave a low, shaky laugh, the kind that barely made it past his throat. “Then prove it.” He murmured almost bitterly. “Look at me.”

So he did. Slowly, as if dragging himself through years of habit, he lifted his gaze and met Francis’s eyes. What he saw there hollowed him out, not beauty, not vanity but something raw and unguarded. A mix of want muddled by fear and exhaustion.

It made his chest ache.

He reached out then, hesitantly, as though testing the air between them. His fingers hovered inches from Francis’s shoulder— Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him but also close enough to see the faint tremor in his own hand. He hesitated again, jaw clenching, then finally let his palm rest there.

The fabric beneath his fingers was damp, sweat and tears soaked into silk, and the blue-eyed man shivered at the contact, a tremor running through him like a breath caught too long. His shoulder lifted slightly under Arthur’s touch, not to pull away, but to lean in. The motion was instinctive, starved.

Arthur could feel his pulse beneath the thin layer of cloth, fluttering fast, fragile as a bird’s. His thumb shifted unconsciously, tracing a small, grounding motion along the curve of bone. “I’m not going anywhere.” He said at last, his voice so quiet it nearly disappeared under the rain.

Chapped lips parted, but no sound came. For a moment he simply breathed, shallow and uneven, as if relearning how. His eyes fell half-shut, lashes trembling. The muscles in his jaw softened, though his fingers still gripped the edge of the couch like a man afraid the world might tilt if he let go.

When he finally spoke, it came as a whisper against the space between them, shaped more by breath than voice. “You always go.”

Arthur’s hand stilled. The words landed like a familiar wound.

“You went after the wars.” Francis continued, the syllables faint but sharp. “After the alliances, after every truce we signed. You build your little walls of pride and tea and tell yourself you don’t need anyone.” His mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile but not quite. “But you always leave me.” He looked up at Arthur again, and though his eyes glistened with tears, there was no accusation there— Only exhaustion. The kind that seeps into bone. His fingers, trembling, lifted slightly as if to touch Arthur’s wrist, then faltered halfway and fell back to his lap.

“I don’t—” He tried to argue.

“You do!” Francis’ voice was different splintered as if the sound itself couldn’t hold together. “You leave me every time I reach for you, Arthur. And I-I can’t…” His breath hitched, the rest of the sentence dissolving as his composure finally gave way. His fingers, which had been curled politely at his sides, fisted in the fabric of Arthur’s sleeve as his body tipped forward, forehead pressing into Arthur’s shoulder like a man seeking shelter from a storm.

Arthur went still. His spine locked, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air, caught between habit and want. For a heartbeat, maybe two, every instinct screamed at him to create distance and protect the fragile walls he’d spent years mortaring around himself.

But then he felt it.

The slight tremor in Francis’s shoulders. The uneven pull of his breath. The barely-there sound of someone trying to swallow a sob before it escaped. Francis wasn’t performing, wasn’t dramatizing, he was shaking. Something in Arthur shifted— No, buckled. The sight of Francis, always radiant, always composed simply clinging to him like this… It disarmed him in a way anger never could.

Slowly, awkwardly at first, Arthur’s hands settled on Francis’s back. One palm smoothed up between his shoulder blades, the other instinctively cupped the back of his head, fingers threading lightly into damp hair. When Francis sagged, Arthur held on tighter, bracing him, grounding him, as though Francis might slip through his arms if he didn’t hold him properly.

“I didn’t mean to.” He murmured, voice low, almost into the older man’s hair rather than to his ears. He swallowed, his throat tight. “I thought you were stronger than me.”

A wet, shaky laugh escaped Francis, half-sob, half-humorless amusement. “That’s what everyone thinks.” He whispered, breath brushing Arthur’s collar. His hands had gone from gripping to clutching, thumbs curling into the fabric of his shirt as if memorizing the feel of it.

Rain tapped harder against the windows, a slow build into a steady drumming that filled the room with a hollow, echoing hush. The kind of sound that made confessions feel safer, or perhaps inevitable. France’s breathing eased by degrees, though he didn’t let go; if anything, he drew infinitesimally closer, his cheek settling against the warm curve of Arthur’s shoulder. His hand moved absently, small and unconscious strokes along Francis’ upper back, barely-there circles meant to soothe. Time stretched, unhurried. The storm outside thickened; Francis’s hold loosened only when the trembling finally ebbed.

“You don’t have to do this.” Arthur said quietly, almost afraid to disturb the fragile stillness between them. His thumb brushed the side of his arm in a hesitant, grounding sweep. “You don’t have to pretend you love me just because you’re afraid of being alone.” Those words caused Francis to draw in a slow breath. He pulled back enough to see the other’s face. His hands remained on Arthur’s chest, fingers spread as if needing the physical proof of him. His eyes were still wet, lashes clumped, raw emotion laid bare without ornament. His voice, when it came, was soft but cut with hurt. “Pretend?” A faint tremor of disbelief threaded through the word.

“Mon cher…” His gaze searched through Arthur’s green eyes, as though seeking the part of him that still didn’t understand. “I have loved you longer than you have been willing to look at me.”

Arthur’s heart twisted, a slow painful knot forming beneath his ribs. He shifted his weight as if the floor had tilted under him, fingers curling against his palm. “You loved everyone, Francis—”

The other country lifted just enough to cut Arthur off, not sharply, but with a small, trembling exhale that carried more truth than any interruption. “Not like this.” The words were soft, unadorned and spoken with such quiet certainty that his breath caught. There was no dramatics, no flourish just a truth Francis had carried alone for far too long. One he had no answer, only silence.

A beat passed. Then another.

“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” Francis said, voice hollowed by memory. His gaze wasn’t on Arthur anymore, but somewhere past him, over his shoulder, through the walls, far into years neither of them had ever spoken of. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his cuff, as if needing something to hold on to. “When you stood in the mud and refused to kneel.” A faint, wistful smile ghosted across his lips. “I knew I should have despised you then. Part of me did. But, mon dieu, another part… Another part wanted to pull you close just to see if your pride would melt when I touched you.”

Arthur’s throat tightened. The room felt too small and disgustingly warm. “When I hated you so much I wanted to strangle you and kiss you in the same breath.” Francis murmured, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles, a restless, nervous motion betraying what his voice tried to steady. “I loved you when you burned my cities.” His lashes fluttered, remembering smoke, loss, and a stubborn silhouette against burning skies. “When you mocked my pride. When you refused my hand at the Channel and called me a fool.” His mouth curved in a brittle imitation of humor that was fragile and almost paper-thin. “You were probably right, but I wished… I wished you wouldn’t be.”

Arthur’s lips parted, but the words stuck, heavy and jagged things he could neither swallow nor speak. He took half a step forward before stopping himself, hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

Then the French voice dropped to a whisper, fraying at the edges. “I loved you when you walked away after my war with Prussia.” He blinked rapidly, as though the memory stung his eyes as much as his heart. “And I loved you when the Germans marched in and I looked at the empty sky and wondered why you weren’t there yet.” His fingers pressed briefly to his sternum, right where a wound might have been. “I kept thinking ‘surely he’ll come’. I was so relieved when you did…”

He swallowed hard. The silence between them pulsed. It was both too loud and too quiet.

Francis’ next words were almost soundless. “I loved you at Dunkirk when I told you to leave me.” His voice cracked, a hurt sound escaped his lips, and he shook his head at the memory, at the lie he had forced through his teeth that day. “I’m still glad I did. You were safe after all.”

“Francis…” Arthur’s voice was no more than a breath as he finally called the other country by his name. He reached out, barely brushing his fingers against Francis’s sleeve— A hesitant, instinctive touch, quickly withdrawn as if he had no right to offer comfort he’d never given before.

Oddly enough, France let out a quiet laugh, short, strained and utterly bitter around the edges. His eyes glistened, but he didn’t wipe them. “I thought if I loved you enough, maybe you’d come.” His shoulders lifted in a broken shrug, as though the admission cost him something to remove. “I built hope out of scraps, Arthur. Out of nothing but the stubborn belief that you, of all people, would not abandon me when it mattered.”

He inhaled, a shaky breath that rattled on the way out. “You came. Too late, as always.” The last words didn’t bite. They didn’t accuse. If anything, they sounded tired like a truth he no longer had the strength to dress up as humor.

Arthur’s throat burned. “Don’t—”

Francis flinched at the word, as if it were a blade rather than a plea. His fingers spasmed around the fabric of Arthur’s sleeve, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to love me back.” He whispered, cutting Arthur off before he could finish. His voice cracked like something brittle finally giving way. “I… I know what this looks like.” He swallowed, eyes lowering, blinking too fast as if trying to keep his vision from swimming. “But just don’t leave me alone tonight.” A breath shuddered out of him. “Not again. Please, Arthur.”

He sank down, not theatrically, but as if his knees simply stopped holding him, buckling under the weight of everything he hadn’t said. He ended up kneeling at Arthur’s feet, hands resting against Arthur’s leg, not grasping this time but seeking anchor. He let his forehead rest against Arthur’s knee, a quiet exhale warming the fabric there.

Arthur froze. His body went rigid, heart stammering against his ribs. Rain battered the window with a steady, merciless percussion, the rhythm of a world outside that refused to care. Behind the glass, the city’s lights blurred into streaks of white and amber, indistinct, like a watercolor left out in the storm.

He wanted to say ‘You’re drunk!’ Or ‘You’ll regret this.’ Or ‘You’re not thinking clearly.’ But he couldn’t. The sentences lined up in his throat like soldiers waiting for command but saying them aloud felt like firing the first shot. Felt cruel. Felt like pushing Francis’ head away when he was already kneeling.

Instead, Arthur’s hand moved carefully to the point it was almost trembling. He brushed a loose strand of wet hair off Francis’s cheek, tucking it behind his ear. His fingertips lingered for a fraction of a breath longer than they needed to, grazing skin still cold from the rain. He looked into those light blue eyes filled with tears he tried to wipe away.

“You’re impossible.” He murmured, the words too soft to wound.

Francis’ lips curled in a faint, exhausted smile, not triumphant, not flirtatious, simply relieved. “I know.” He breathed, voice barely there. “But I’m yours to endure.”

A laugh nearly escaped Arthur, a choked, disbelieving sound, but it died before it formed. Something in his chest loosened instead, painfully, as though a tightly knotted string had been cut. He slid a hand under Francis’ arm, urging him up, not pulling so much as guiding, giving him a chance to refuse, to rethink and to stand if he wished.

He took the chance. Francis rose slowly, unsteady, his hands briefly smoothing down Arthur’s sleeves as though memorizing the texture of the fabric. Their breath mingled, wine on one side, tea on the other, as Arthur leaned in, resting his forehead against Francis’s. The contact was tentative, testing, then settling. It felt oddly warm and made him feel almost fuzzy.

Francis’s hands lifted, hovering near Arthur’s waist but not touching, as if afraid even the smallest pressure would be too much and break whatever fragile truce existed in the space between them.

For once, neither had the strength to argue.

When Francis finally spoke, it was a quiet confession soaked in exhaustion rather than drama. “Don’t leave me.” His voice was raw, scraped thin. “You can hate me, refuse me, and even hurt me if that’s all I’m good for— But don’t leave.” His head tilted slightly, nose brushing the edge of Arthur’s. “Not again.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut at that but opened to see those beautiful blues looking back at his own green eyes.

“Ruin me, Angleterre.” Francis whispered, and the plea was not seductive— It was a surrender.