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The cold winds of war howled through the desolate landscape as the trenches, etched into the earth like scars, held the stories of the soldiers who stood vigil. It was the harsh winter of 1916, and the Great War had entrenched itself into the very souls of those who bore the weight of conflict.
England was well versed in war. There were little to no things that managed to unsettle him. But this- this was different. This time humanity had outdone itself. It seemed like both sides of the conflict were in a race to invent new ways of killing each other. The mustard gas was the newest one, not to mention the flamethrowers. He might even find it all impressive if it weren’t so disturbing. Especially when most times, he was in the line of fire.
But he didn’t mind dying, as a Nation, it was something he had grown used to. Besides, his land was not the one being invaded, and therefore there was no real risk of him dying and not coming back. France, on the other hand…
Arthur stopped, surprised by the thought and the concern it came accompanied with. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time he’d had that sort of thought. He let his mind wander as he trudged through the muck-caked trenches, memories of the last German assault replaying in his mind.
The deafening roar of artillery fire echoed through the trenches, drowning out any semblance of normalcy. It was a cacophony of chaos that all soldiers had grown accustomed to, yet that day had felt different. The air was thick with tension, and an uneasy premonition lingered in the muddy expanse of the battlefield.
As the German onslaught intensified, Arthur pressed forward through the labyrinthine trenches. The stench of gunpowder hung heavy, intermingling with the acrid odour of mud and despair. The ghosts of battles past seemed to whisper through the chilling wind.
Amid the chaos, Arthur stumbled upon a ghastly scene that seemed to freeze time itself. France lay sprawled in the mud, his uniform muddied and torn. He could see he had been shot, probably several times, and was now bleeding and struggling to breathe. The sight triggered a surge of memories within Arthur.
The bloodied and mud-streaked face of François held a haunting resemblance to the expression he had sported when he was defeated at the fields of Agincourt. The echoes of a centuries-old battle reverberated through Arthur’s mind, the memories of a historical conflict that had left scars on the collective consciousness of their nations. But a sight that had once brought him joy, now unsettled him to his core.
Amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, a surge of protectiveness took hold of Arthur. Without hesitation, he rushed to François’ side, his hands trembling as he helped him rise from the mud.
“C’mon old bastard,” Arthur uttered, his voice carrying a mixture of concern and an unspoken apology, “I can’t let you die like this.” Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the sins of their shared history were catching up with them, that the mud beneath their feet held more than just the residue of war.
Out of his reverie and back in the present, Arthur took the time to slowly light a cigarette. Nowadays he smoked like his life depended on it. And maybe it did for all he knew.
He made a conscious effort to stop thinking about France, disoriented, and battered in the mud. He quite foolishly blamed the anguish he had felt at that moment on his prideful nature. Yes, that was it. Jealousy, if you must, of not being the one to put François in that position. How dare that barely-even-an-adult nation take his place as France’s mortal enemy? He was the only one allowed to hurt France.
And so, what if they were on good terms now? It only meant no one could hurt François.
He shook his head as he took one last drag of his cigarette before crashing it in the mud. Excuses were starting to sound ridiculous even to himself.
Their relationship had evolved since the signing of the Entente Cordiale, a diplomatic pact fostering cooperation. Yet, Arthur found himself grappling with emotions that transcended the bounds of camaraderie. It was an uncharted territory, a realm of sentiment he hesitated to explore, even within the confines of his own thoughts. He admired François for his resilience, yet a poignant ache lingered within him, a longing that defied explanation.
***
One restless night, as the soldiers around them slept, Arthur heard the subtle, heart-wrenching sobs of François. The vulnerability in that moment shattered the walls Arthur had built around himself. He couldn’t bear to witness François in pain, not when the world had already dealt them such a cruel hand.
Driven by an impulse he could no longer suppress, England’s hand sought out France’s back in the dimly lit trench. Carefully, hesitantly, he touched his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softer than the usual gruffness. Only after the word left his mouth did he realise what a stupid question that was.
François, startled by the unexpected intrusion, turned slightly back, looking at Arthur with tear-streaked eyes. In that gaze, Arthur saw not just a fellow soldier, but a kindred spirit. “It’s just... the weight of it all, Arthur. The suffering, the loss…” François confessed.
The words hung in the air, and Arthur felt a surge of empathy. Without thinking, he pulled François into a rough embrace, feeling the other’s back against his chest. “You’re not alone in this, you know. We’re in this together,” Arthur muttered, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
For a moment, they laid there – two nations caught in the midst of a war that tested the limits of their endurance. It was an unconventional display of solace, but it spoke volumes. François, surprisingly, found comfort in the strength Arthur offered, a sentiment that transcended the boundaries of their tumultuous history.
***
In the days that followed, Arthur found himself grappling with the realisation that his feelings for François ran deeper than he could fathom. The war had reshaped them, and amidst the chaos, a connection had blossomed. It wasn’t a perfect love story but love rarely thrived in the trenches.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the desolate horizon, Arthur found François sitting alone, gazing at the distant expanse. The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air. Arthur hesitated, then took a seat beside him.
“François,” he began, the words lingering on his lips before finding their way out. “You are an idiot.”
François let out a breathy laugh, still looking right ahead of him. That was such an Arthur thing to say.
“But,” Arthur continued, “so am I, I guess.”
“And why would that be?”
Arthur shrugged. He tried to find his words. He wasn’t nervous, this just wasn’t his forte. Especially not with France.
“I care about you,” He said finally, “More than I can comprehend. And it’s not just about our nations standing side by side. It’s about us.”
There was a lot more he wanted to say. But he meant those words. He cared about François. He really did.
François finally turned to him, his eyes searching Arthur’s face for sincerity. The sky was red, announcing a cold night, and the last rays of sunshine made his hair, once long and luscious, look golden. Arthur suppressed the urge to run his fingers through it. With a small smile, France responded, “Maybe we’re both a little mad, Arthur. But perhaps, in the madness, we’ve found something worth holding on to.”
Arthur looked into Francois’ blue eyes. He looked at the crease by them, at his hair, his nose, his ridiculous moustache. He looked at his lips.
“You are an idiot”. He repeated, but he wasn’t sure who he was saying it to this time.
***
The war continued its relentless march. In the trenches, England felt like a man, not a Nation, and thus, he allowed himself some human feelings. Sometimes, as the echoes of artillery fire faded into the distance, Arthur and François would cling to each other, finding solace in the midst of chaos. Arthur had a bizarre feeling. It was like holding an old safety blanket. This affection between them, born from the crucible of conflict, defied the odds and flourished in the unlikeliest of places.
When his company was deployed somewhere else and he had to leave François behind, he felt a part of himself slipping away.
“We’ll meet again,” He had told France, “Once we have won.”
François had kissed his cheek in the softest kind of way, but it had left his skin burning for a whole day.
***
Victory day had felt like a fever dream.
The streets of Paris were still echoing with the fading cheers and distant echoes of parades, as the world celebrated the end of the Great War. The leaders had signed the treaty, the meetings were over, and the formalities had concluded. It was a time for reflection, for mourning the fallen, and for trying to grasp the enormity of the war that had ravaged the world. Yet, amidst the sombre atmosphere, there was a place where the air was filled with a different energy - a small Parisian apartment.
Arthur stood by the chimney, looking at the fire embers dancing. The creak of it soothed him, fire had always had a hypnotic effect on him. He had crossed the channel and journeyed through the post-war chaos to reach this moment. He could hear Francois in the kitchen, doing the dishes. How mundane it all felt. The war had left its mark on him, just as it had on François. They had been allies, fighting side by side, and now, standing at the threshold of peace, Arthur felt a mixture of relief and uncertainty.
France was quite a nostalgic one. The room was adorned with remnants of shared history between them – faded maps, mementos of battles, and the weight of unspoken words.
“Well,” François said softly once he was done washing, breaking the silence that hung in the air. “I guess it’s finally over.”
England hummed, his green eyes never leaving the fire. He felt the weight of the past clung to them, but there was something else, something unspoken that lingered between the two nations.
“What do we do now?” Arthur asked, his voice reflecting the weariness of the years gone by.
François approached the turntable, paused for a few moments looking for the one he wanted, and once he found it, Arthur watched as his delicate fingers arranged it so that the music began to play. With a gentle smile, François extended his hand towards Arthur.
“Now we dance.”
Arthur looked puzzled for a moment, as if unsure whether this was an appropriate response to the end of such a catastrophic war. But then, he took François’s hand, realising that perhaps a dance could be a simple yet profound celebration of life.
The soft and melancholic music filled the room with a bittersweet melody. They swayed together, their movements carrying the weight of the past and the hope for the future. In that moment, the scars of war seemed to fade as they danced through the remnants of a tumultuous era.
As they moved gracefully across the room, the boundaries between nations blurred, and for a brief moment, they were just two souls finding solace in each other’s company.
Arthur had his head resting on François’ shoulder. Underneath his palm, he could feel François’ heart beating. It seemed to be attuned not only to the music, but to his own heart. He felt closer to him than ever before.
‘Fuck it,’ he thought. He looked softly at the scar running down François’ throat and kissed it with his mouth open. Like a drowning man, he kissed François’ neck as if his life depended on it.
He felt François sigh, losing the rhythm of his dance, and pushed him until they reached a wall.
“This is not dancing,” François whispered breathlessly.
Arthur took the opportunity to finally kiss his lips. God knew he loved that man’s voice, but right now he needed to shut up and show him just how good he was at French kissing.
He had the crazy idea that his kisses could somehow erase all the suffering of the last few years. François’ mouth and hands were burning him, reviving him, undoing him and putting him back together again. For so long he had wanted to touch him, to feel him, and François seemed to reciprocate with the same force, the same passion and impetus.
“What if someone finds us out?” François asked, struggling to keep his sanity.
“I’ll kill them.” Arthur replied, kissing him again.
And at that moment he truly believed it. He didn’t want anything to separate him from François anymore.
The war had tested them, challenged their resolve, and now, they were finally letting free that feeling that had been born in the trenches. That affection that haunted Arthur, that went far beyond simple camaraderie, could finally reach François, and embrace him dearly. He kissed François, tearing his war uniform almost violently, because he needed to feel his skin, he needed to feel alive again, to believe in something again.
That night they made love for the first time. And then for the second and third time. Neither could get enough of the other. It was a way to heal. The weight of history lifted, if only for a moment, as they kissed and caressed each other.
As the music played on, England and France, Arthur and François, embraced the peace that had eluded them for so long. In that small Parisian apartment, amidst the echoes of the past, they found a reason to believe in the possibility of a brighter tomorrow.