Chapter Text
July 18th, 1936.
The war had been declared yesterday morning. Antonio was still trying to get his head around it all, a headache having stayed with him ever since he received the telegram from Melilla, in pain from the growing conflict of his people and the swelling July heat. He was in his capital city, having travelled there hurriedly overnight from across the Ebro River, and was now waiting for the government to open the doors of the meeting room to him.
He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. The rich were uniting against the poor, the pious against the illiterate (who were not so out of choice) and they were prepared to tear up his country in order to do so. It was to be the war of the two Spains, two sides led by two Franciscos, both of whom he was very familiar with.
Francisco Caballero was someone he considered strong, but amiable, a man of the people and the Republic who knew how war worked, and knew how to lead Spain into the modern age through a leftist approach to politics and economics. Antonio could rely on him — confide in him if needs be — as a mature and responsible man. He knew what was what. He knew what was wrong.
Francisco Franco was different. Antonio had struggled to get along with him, though had found something impressive in the way he had propelled himself so far through the military ranks. It was remarkable. But there was always something off when they crossed paths. He didn't like the firm grip in the handshake, the glint behind the older eyes when surrounded by the topic of political advances and the notion of Spain as 'being restored to its former glory'.
"You're not who you used to be," he had said many months before at a formal state occasion. "You and the country you represent used to be so great... So powerful..."
"Everyone has their glory days, General. Everyone has their fall from grace."
"Perhaps, Antonio. Perhaps."
A shiver trailed down the brunette's spine and he played with his hands in his anxiety. Franco was the one leading an uprising in Melilla, one of the Moroccan ports that Spain controlled, and was preparing to cross the Gibraltar Strait onto the southern mainland. His nerves — ones that went a little crazy around the General on even an ordinary day — were clearly not incorrect or faulty; Franco was now someone Antonio considered an enemy to both himself and the state, ready to start a war just to have his way.
And he wasn't alone.
Franco was reportedly backed by most of the other generals in the Spanish military who rose through nepotism rather than skill (though Franco was surprisingly not one such man). He also had his own African Army, he had reached out to Germany and Italy — fellow far-right nations — to help him cross over to Spain. Heck, he even had the support of the Church who were against the leftist 'heathen' views of Antonio's dear Republic.
There was no end.
"Antonio, we're ready for you now," a voice said, coming from a head that had stuck itself through the double doors of the meeting room. It was one of the ministers, a member of the government.
Antonio rose from his seat in silence and walked over, trying to compose himself in order to face the room of people who had to make a decision with him: how would they fight against the rising rebels in the South?
The sun shone brightly through the large windows of the long room, across the gloss mahogany table littered with papers and pens and panicked, scrawled writing, right into Antonio's eyes. "Hola, compañeros," he greeted with a nod, moving around the table to avoid being blinded.
He received an echo of greetings in return (he truly loved this room of men — platonically, of course) and awaited for Azaña to speak. He was the Spanish President, the man of the hour. He had to have a solution, right?
"We're declaring war."
Oh. Well that wasn't quite what Antonio was expecting to hear. After all, the war was beginning in the South, off the coast; it was not the fault of the Republic if Spain was catapulted into civil conflict!
"Señor, they declared war on us. Our only option is retaliation," the personification corrected.
"Spain has declared war on itself, Antonio. We are all declaring war," the president stated, a disheartened look on his face. It was an inevitability that everyone in the room was aware of, everyone but the country himself. "It is not something we wanted, but we cannot let Spain fall to the rebels without a fight."
Antonio gained a little frown as he seemed to process this. He didn't want to have to defend Spain — not from its own people. "But the navy? They're forming a barricade across the Strait of Gibraltar," he added in desperation, "Franco's Army won't be able to cross the—"
"He has applied to Hitler and Mussolini for aircraft to fly them across to Andalucía," Azaña said with a raised hand to silence the brunette. "Hitler seems to have replied with an affirmative, and I don't doubt that Mussolini will follow his shepherd loyally..."
No. No, no, no! This wasn't fair, how dare they get involved in a war that isn't their own! Did They all know the war was happening, too? Were the four points of the compass — North, East, South and West — sat in their fascist den together, plotting out how to drag another country into their dwelling?
He felt sick. There was no way they were all okay with this, it wasn't possible, they couldn't hate him that much, could they? One of his best friends? His old charge, a person he had grown to care so much (too much) about all that time ago...?
But no matter what, those three words would not leave Antonio.
We're declaring war.
They floated around his mind, refusing entry to any other thought or important information he was going to need for several hours until he found himself in his Madrid apartment, still unable to think of anything else. Spain was declaring war on Spain, Azaña had said. Antonio was declaring war on himself. Would he have to fight himself? Was that possible? Heaven forbid!
He had never faced a war like this, he'd never faced a proper civil war. Spain and its people were to be truly divided by this; it wasn't the Christians versus the Arab moors, this was something so much bigger and more damning for the country he called home.
What would happen to the losing side? What would happen to him at the end of the war? How long would it last? How many people would die? Would anyone help him, the Republic, the people whose lives were to be thrown out onto the line?
That was a thought. Foreign aid, foreign nations... How would they all react to this war so soon after they had recovered from the First World War?
Forget Italy and Germany, the quartet, because they already seemed prepared to support the Nationalists, as the rebels called themselves. España: una, grande y libre. That was their motto, for a united Spain, great and free. But what about the Western nations? Azaña had mentioned something about France in their meeting. Would Francis back him up? French elections had not long put a socialist government in power, an ally to the Spanish Republic. Maybe together they would be a big enough threat to get Italy to back down at the very least...
Would... Would Feliciano and Lovino really uphold supporting the rebels?
Stupid question, stupid, stupid, stupid. Feliciano did not seem particularly crushed by the current regime in Italy, happy enough that he was allied closely to the German brothers (particularly Ludwig), and as for Lovino... Would he care at all if Antonio was at war with himself like this? Wouldn't he laugh, simply revel in it?
'You always did like war,' he could hear the taunting, suave Italian voice circle him. 'It's all you know, Antonio. You were even born out of one.'
Antonio shook his head to loosen his thoughts and remove them all. He had no time to think of what other peoples' interests were, he had bigger fish to fry, more important things to worry about. How on earth would the Republic finance a war, where would they find the men to fight in their army if most of the trained soldiers weren't on their side, where would they find the weaponry to arm these fictional men with, the food, the clothes, the pay?
He found himself hovering over the telephone, staring at the black metal receiver and wondering if it would ring first (who was he kidding, who in their right mind would call him?) or whether he would have to pick it up whilst it was silent, elusive, yet another thorn in his aging side—
The number was frantically spun into the phone with the mechanical sound that Antonio would love on any other day, and he waited, with the cold metal to his ear, for someone to answer him.
And then the voice came:
"Bonjour, this is the office of Bonnefoy; how can I be of assistance?"
Antonio inhaled slowly, not mentally prepared to let these words leave his mouth — those four, damaging words — but there was no use fighting it. The truth could not be hidden forever, and certainly not now; not for Antonio, not for Spain.
"Francis?" He received a hum of acknowledgement to his oddly timid voice. "It's Antonio," he said, "and I... I need your help..."