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He didn't really know when it had happened.
He wasn't even really sure if he wished to know when it had happened.
He didn't even really know what had happened.
Others avoided him, he wondered why. What had made them act such a way towards him?
The man - who was more than that - raised the glass to his lips, taking a sip of the supple, red liquid, tasting hints of caramel and red fruit. His blue eyes, staring out of the open window into the night streets of Paris, were distant, looking into things mortal eye couldn't see.
Sometimes, when he wished to forget, he indulged in wine. Beer would have been cheaper but he didn't wish to be reminded of the others.
Not today, when he wished to forget.
"Rapist" they had called him. More accurately, England had called him a rapist and Canada had flinched away from his hug. His violet eyes had been wide and frightened. Of him.
His hand was trembling.
He set the wine glass down on the small side table and buried his head in his hands, hiding behind his hair. He could see the red behind his eyelids, miniscule rays of light slipping through his fingers.
He could never do that. He was the country of love, he knew it better than anyone.
Love should never be forced on anyone.
Especially if it wasn't love in the first place. And rape was anything but love.
It was disgusting. It was sick. It was wrong.
Why would anyone even accuse him of such a thing?
He knew others thought of him as a bit too liberal and free in the matters of love. America said his movies were too graphic - French movies, really? - England hated him on principle...
But that was cultural and historical.
It was anything but the truth.
It shouldn't make them think he was a... rapist. It went against everything he worked to embody as the personification of France.
It wasn't love.
He hoped they would realise that. But somehow, he had come to doubt it.
At least some of them hadn't forgotten who he was.
Spain and Netherlands understood; recently people had come to question their characters as well.
As if anyone could deny children were precious, meant to be loved and protected. England certainly couldn't and he still had his Commonwealth. He was still free to love the children he had raised, why wouldn't the smae thing apply to others as well?
Prussia also understood. France could never apologize enough for allowing him to be disbanded in 1947 and adding to the misunderstanding.
Prussia had forgiven him for that.
He sighed tiredly as he straightened in his chair, taking another sip of the wine.
Sometimes he really wondered what this world had come to. Stereotypes and accusations, prejudices running rampart. In a way it was better than before and in a way it was worse.
For one, it probably wouldn't have hurt so much in the past. You always knew that others didn't know you or your country. But now, when the times were changing and the world was maturing, becoming more open...
It hurt to think someone would be so close-minded as to simply jump to conclusions.
To simply make a judgement like that.
He wondered if things could be changed. Was there any way for the others to realise their mistake?
Would they even accept they had made a mistake?
Some wouldn't, out of stubbornness and prejudice.
Because people were close-minded.
He could always hope. He didn't think there was much he could do. But... he had thought that at least Canada would have realised the truth. He had been New France for two hundred years, he knew France.
He wasn't a rapist and he never would be. The very thought was unthinkable.
He drank the last dredges of wine from the bottom of the class and stood up, his gaze flickering over the people below.
Something would need to change. He didn't want to be thought of that way. He wanted his friends back.