Work Text:
The rain in London pattered against the windows, mirroring Arthur’s depressed mood. He sat stiffly at his desk, staring down at his untouched teacup, the steam having long faded. Honestly, he didn’t get the idea of how quiet everything had become. For centuries, that space had been filled by the dramatic and frustrating presence of a certain Frenchman.
Arthur sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the leather chair, and let himself sink into the faded memory of the Frenchman. He could still hear the echoes of their last encounter, an argument in a grand diplomatic hall that had since long become a taunting reminder.
“Your cuisine is an absolute tragedy, Arthur,” Francis had sneered, elegantly swirling a glass of deep red wine, his voice dripping with frustration. “You boil everything until the very flavor begs for mercy. It is a perfect reflection of your people! A bunch of dull, rigid, and entirely lacking in passion peasants. You survive, mon cher, but you do not live.”
“At least my people possess an ounce of godfearing decorum, you arrogant frog,” Arthur had snapped back, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table. “Your entire culture is built on vanity, fragile excess, and a desperate, pathetic need for attention. You mistake filth for beauty. You are a nation of children governed entirely by your impulses, chasing every fleeting whim! Also, don’t call me that!”
“And you are a nation of stones!” Francis had hissed, stepping directly into Arthur's personal space, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, surprising heat that burned through his usual innocent mood. “Unfeeling, cold, and utterly incapable of appreciating the beauty in this wretched world. You live in a permanent fog, Arthur, and it has rotted your mind. Rotted I say!!”
“I would rather be a stone than a fickle breeze, blowing wherever the newest trend dictates,” Arthur had spat, his breath hot against Francis’s cheek, refusing to lessen an inch of ground.
They had stood chest to chest, breathing heavily, the air between them heavy pants of air and angry grunts at eachother. (👀👀)
To the rest of the world, they were eternal enemies, destined to fight one another until the end of time. Though in the quiet, shut off privacy of Arthur's own soul, Francis was everything to the nation. He was the only one who truly mattered, though Arthur would chalk it up as him being an equal in battle. He was the only one who had walked the earth just as long, who understood the idea of living on this cruel world as long as he did. Francis was his absolute equal, his muse to chase to out beat. Arthur would pray for God to help him but Francis was the only man he could ever love, even if it destroyed them both.
Now, with the channel stretching wide and silent between them, that arguing was gone, and the absence was a physical ache. Arthur was drowning in a desperate yearning, a feeling of being too young to hold on, yet far too old to just break free and run. (👀👀I lowk js wanted to include those lyrics somewhere)
It was the agonizing realization that he had let pride control their time together, and now he was left waiting for a chance to see the one he saw as his equal that would never come.
To get through the wait, Arthur found himself secretly letting small pieces of French culture bleed into his days. It was a cheap substitute for the real thing, but he couldn't help it. He’d even started putting milk in his tea, something he always used to scoff at. Now, the habit just reminded him of Paris, and the way Francis used to tease him for drinking his tea bitterly.
On the worst nights, with the wind howling outside, Arthur gave in to the taunting loneliness. He’d fetch the volumes of French poetry he had once confiscated from Francis and would sit by the dying fire, tracing the elegant cursive with a trembling finger. He would murmur the vowels in the dark, trying to capture the warmth and flair of the voice he missed so desperately. He even kept a bottle of French wine hidden away. Whenever the desperation grew too loud to ignore, he would pour a single glass just to breathe in the rich aroma of the southern coast, letting the scent fool his senses for a fleeting moment.
Then, the letters stopped coming in from Francis. The rumors from across the Channel turned dark and bitter, word of the revolution getting worse.
When the official diplomatic letter finally crossed Arthur's desk, the letters were taunting the English man. His government officials gathered in the room, their voices hushed as they delivered the news.
“The French Revolution has reached a peak, My Lord,” the chief minister reported, handing over the document. “The monarchy has fallen, and the personification of the nation has been swept up in the mess. The report is blunt, sir, France is incapacitated. The old monarchy is entirely dismantled.”
Arthur’s heart stopped, he muttered, “What do you mean, incapacitated? What happened to Francis?”
“He was captured by the revolutionaries, sir,” the official replied, lowering his gaze to avoid Arthur’s. “He was subjected to the same fate as the aristocracy. He is gone from the public eye. We must prepare for the political fallout.”
Arthur stared at them for a while, his mouth hanging open in shock. He looked down to the letter, gazing at the messily written letter.
“Get out,” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying coldness.
“Sir, we must discuss wartime strategy—” One official tried to muster, only to be interrupted by Arthur.
“I said, get out!” Arthur barked, slamming his hands onto the desk and standing.
The paper slipped from Arthur’s fingers, drifting to the floor like a fallen leaf. A ragged breath escaped his throat as his composure entirely collapsed. His hands flew to his face, his shoulders shaking as a sob tore through him.
Arthur’s heart pounded rapidly against his chest as the government officials scrambled out of his study, slamming the heavy oak doors behind them. He collapsed back into his chair, his gaze drifting to the floor where the scattered reports lay.
The political letters meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the sudden, horrifying memory of how a nation's body functioned. A country's physical recovery was tied to the state of their land and their people. If a nation was stable, their wounds healed with miraculous speed.
Though the entirety of France was currently tearing itself apart in blood, fury, and tears. Francis wouldn't be able to recover on his own as countries usually would. Without proper care, and being left to the mercy of a country in total disarray, Francis would be trapped in an unconscious state until his country could repair itself.
Arthur stared at the desk, realizing if he didn’t make haste of getting to Francis then he might not ever be safely taken care of.
That realization drove him into a sudden, frantic desperation. Arthur couldn't just sit here anymore while knowing Francis was probably rotting in some alley! Ignoring every diplomatic protocol, the active war, and the immense danger to his own safety. The nation pulled some strings, secured a disguised boat, and crossed the English Channel under the cover of a foggy night in record time!
Sneaking himself into the blood ridden streets of Paris, he followed whispers and leads until he traced Francis to a damp, sad looking cellar on the outskirts of the city. There, he found his enemy being poorly tended to by a small handful of French commoners. They were simple, terrified, people who knew nothing of the true nature of countries. It seemed they had merely found Francis discarded after the chaos and upon seeing shocking signs of life where there should have been none, they must’ve took pity on him.
Arthur stepped out of the shadows, his cloak pulled high around his face. It being like the very one he wore as a child. The peasants eyes snapped open, many backing away and grabbing random items scattered about to use to fight back.
“Who goes there?” an older man barked, his voice shaking. “Stay back! This man is a living miracle, or a demon, but we won't let you harm him further!”
Arthur raised his hands slowly, revealing a heavy pouch of gold coins to use for bargaining. He spoke, “I am not here to harm him. I am an old... acquaintance. I have crossed the sea to take care of him. Look at me. Do I look like the revolutionaries who did this to him?”
A young woman peered from behind the older man, looking at Arthur's tear-stained face and the unmistakable desperation in his eyes. “You know him?” she whispered. “He does not bleed like a normal man. His skin mends itself, but he will not wake. We did not know what to do.”
“You did well to hide him,” Arthur said softly, placing the gold on a wooden crate. “Though, his care requires things you cannot provide. Please. Let me take the burden from your hands. Take this and secure safety for your families.”
Reluctantly, moved by the wealth and the sincerity of the strange Englishman, the peasants bowed their heads and quietly slipped out into the night. This leaving Arthur alone in the dim candlelight of the cellar with the feverish Francis.
The reality of the situation finally settled on Arthur. Francis lay on a makeshift cot, deathly pale and wrapped in tattered clothes. Arthur quietly knelt with such gentleness he would’ve never used for Francis, ever. He grabbed a cloth, one which one of the peasants left behind, and dampened the towel with a bucket of water from nearby.
As he began to gently clean the grime from Francis's skin with soft strokes. Arthur noticed light bruises painting his wrists, arms, and shoulders. They were frantic marks, clearly imprints of heavy constraints and violent grips. Arthur's heart nearly shattered as he realized what they meant. Francis hadn't gone quietly to his fate, he had fought it to the bitter end. He had struggled with every ounce of his remaining strength against the guards who dragged him away, desperately trying to break free from the fate his people signed him for.
“You stubborn fool,” Arthur gritted out, his tears finally falling hot and fast onto Francis’s cold skin. “You always had to fight to the bitter end, didn't you?”
With quick movement and a worrying need to care for the Frenchman, Arthur quickly got to work. He patched the lingering wounds, applied soothing pressure to the light bruises, and wrapped him in clean blankets he had brought with him. He used everything in his power to help the nation’s magic close the gaps and begin the deep process of physical regeneration.
When the delicate task was finished, Arthur washed the remaining dirt from Francis’s face. Including having brushed the matted blonde hair away from the man’s forehead, and having to sit by his side in an old chair that squeaked upon movement. He sighed and let his eyelids finally flutter shut as he sat there awaiting Francis to awaken.
He didn't leave the said chair for a week.
For seven long days and nights, Arthur watched over him, listening to the fighting sounds of the revolution echoing in the distance. While also holding Francis’s cold hand and whispering ancient poems to the unconscious Frenchman that he could barely recall. He kept one eye open on the man, barely sleeping a wink. As well as caring for him through sudden fevers as the country’s body fought to knit itself back together.
On the eighth morning, a glimmer of sunlight filtered through the cracked cellar window. Arthur had felt a slight twitch in the hand he was holding, making his eyes snap open. He leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest, as Francis’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing dull, exhausted, but living blue eyes.
Francis stared up at the ceiling, confused and weak, before his gaze slowly drifted to focus on the exhausted, tear stained face of his oldest rival and muse.
“Arthur?” Francis’s voice was barely a whisper, stripped of all its usual dramatic flair. “Am I in hell? Or have you simply come to mock me in my darkest hour?”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Arthur breathed, a broken laugh escaping his lips as he squeezed Francis's hand tightly. “I'm not here to mock you. I've been sitting in this filthy cellar for a week making sure you didn't fade away entirely.”
Francis looked down at his neatly bandaged arms, then back up at Arthur, a faint, fragile shadow of his usual smile gracing his lips. “Ah. So it was you who tended to me. How uncharacteristic of the cold nation of stones.
Arthur leaned closer, his expression turning dead serious, the yearning and fear of the past months pouring into his words. “Listen to me, Francis. I understand you just awoke but time is of the hour. Paris is mad right now. Your people are consumed by fury, and you cannot heal properly while your soil is drowning in this much blood. Come back with me to England. I have a ship waiting. You can stay at my estate, hidden away from the world, until this entire madness blows over. I will take care of you. Just... Come with me, please.”
Francis looked at him, his blue eyes softening as he took in the Englishman’s words. Arthur seemed so genuine, not bitter and cold as he usually was.
Eventually, the Frenchman slowly shook his head, pulling his hand gently from Arthur's grasp.
“I cannot, Arthur,” Francis whispered softly. “Even when they strike me down, I still love them. A country cannot run away from its own heart, oui?” He gave a weak smile.
Arthur stared at him, his jaw clenched as the words settled in. Why would the dumb Frenchman stay when his own nation wanted him dead?! Arthur wanted to argue, to yell, to demand why the Frenchman would stay when his nation was in such a state. Though, looking at the faint determination in Francis’s dull blue eyes, Arthur knew he had lost before he even would fight. He knew he could never force Francis to abandon his soil when it was in such a state of emergency.
With a heavy, defeated sigh, Arthur slumped his shoulders, already coming to terms with the Frenchman's decision without even fighting.
“Fine,” Arthur snapped, though the usual bite in his voice was completely betrayed by the tears filling his eyes. “You won't leave France. I accept that you are an absolute idiot. All I request is that you cannot stay in Paris at all.”
Francis blinked, slightly surprised by the intensity in the Englishman's tone, he murmured, “Arthur...”
“No, listen to me,” Arthur interrupted, leaning in closer, his grip tightening slightly on the edges of the warm blankets wrapped around Francis. “Paris is a powder keg. If you stay here, the madness of your people will keep dragging you down, and you will never fully mend yourself. You are going to find somewhere far from the capital. Somewhere quiet, rural, and completely removed from this. A hidden cottage in the south, or an isolated village where the revolution hasn't affected it.”
Francis watched him, a soft, touched expression gently breaking through his exhaustion. “And why is the location so specific, mon cher?”
“Because,” Arthur muttered, looking away to hide the burning flush on his cheeks and the rare vulnerability in his eyes, “It needs to be somewhere accessible. Somewhere close enough to the coast or a quiet port where I can easily slip across the Channel every few weeks to check on your progress. Heaven only knows if I leave you to your own devices, you'll manage to neglect your recovery entirely.”
A genuine, although weak, chuckle escaped Francis’s chest at the comment. He reached out with his bruised hand, his fingers brushing against Arthur’s sleeve until Arthur finally gave in and looked back at him. Their eyes locking onto one another, Arthur’s saddened green eyes to Francis’s weak blue ones.
“Very well, Arthur,” Francis murmured softly, his eyes shining with a dim light in them. “I will find a quiet place in the countryside. For my own sake, and for yours.”
Arthur finally let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding. He looked at Francis and finally smiled after ages it felt like. He sighed, “That’ll do. I’ll help you make arrangements on finding a place.” Francis gave a weak nod, his eyes fluttering. He didn’t have much energy, but knowing he was alright was good enough for Arthur. The Englishman spoke, “Get some sleep.” As Francis didn’t even bother to respond, simply let his eyes drift shut.
yeah umm then Francis gets the home and all is fine and dandy but yknow Arthur being a tsundere he declares war and the two forget of this occurrence cause yknow god forbid they have a normal relationship.