Work Text:
Spring 1800, Northern France
Francis watches as Basch undresses with the professionalism of someone contractually obligated to do so, and he is contractually obligated to do so, as Francis has practically purchased him for the day. Basch is his to command as his satellite state, after all.
There is a lot to be learned from the way a man disrobes. For example, the way Basch delicately handles his uniform tells Francis that he does not have many, if any, spares, and wants to preserve it as best he can. Francis watches as Basch hangs his officer's coat with white details atop black trim, a red collar, and the body of which is Francis's favorite color, a lovely shade of dark blue, over the back of the iron outdoor chair, beautifully crafted with fern leaf detailing and accompanied by two identical chairs and a matching table. And he watches as Basch turns away from his audience to unclasp his belt buckle. Francis grants him this liberty not only because it makes Basch more comfortable, and by extension more compliant, but because it also allows Francis to study and see parts of the other nation that he will not get to see once he is fully nude and posed. With his oil paints mixed and his canvas waiting on the easel, all Francis has left to prepare is his subject. As his satellite state, the newly unified Helvetic Republic is subject to Francis' whims, and while that typically consists of utilizing Basch's manpower, today that means Francis will be taking advantage of the younger nation for some much needed stress relief.
The belt ends up on the table, and Basch begins to unbutton his shirt next. He slides it off with hesitation, and now that it is no longer serving its purpose, the shirt ends up in a loosely folded square on the table. His undershirt comes off next, exposing his back to the gentle morning sunlight, and Francis studies the scars on Basch's body, ones he knows intimately, having sewn the stitches himself. Next come the boots, the scuff marks of normal wear and tear clearly visible on their white surface. Basch places his foot on the chair and undoes the buckle below his knee before going down the length of the inner seam of his boot and releasing each individual button of its duty. He slides the first boot off and sets it carefully by the feet of the table before repeating the same process with his other boot. Only his trousers and drawers remain, and Francis cocks a brow upwards at the swiftness which with they are removed and placed on the table. It seems that in the process of undressing that Basch had determined showing any sort of discomfort will be seen as weakness, and he is right.
Basch now stands in the garden nude before both God and Francis. He turns on his heel with the obedience of a soldier turning to face his commanding officer, and though he speaks with confidence, Francis spots a faint blush dusting his cheeks.
"Where do you want me?"
Francis lazily waves a hand in the air. "Wherever you would like. It will take a few hours to capture your essence, so you must get comfortable."
Basch looks around the garden, noting how the furniture is arranged t encourage him to sit facing Francis. If Francis wanted him to be comfortable they would have done this inside, or not at all. No, what Francis wants is not comfort, but for Basch to sit still and complacent while he gets oogled for hours. Sitting still is something he is well practiced in nowadays, comfort be damned. Basch ends up sitting in the same chair from which his jacket hangs, with his legs crossed at the ankles in a meek attempt at preserving his dignity. The breeze still tickles his backside through the gaps between the leaves on the seat, and he shivers from the feeling of being so exposed.
"Basch…" Francis says with a pout. "You look so stiff. Would it help you feel more comfortable if I got undressed as well?"
"Do not!" Basch says quickly and then tacks on an obligatory "please" at the end.
"What about something to drink then," Francis continues, unfazed. "I do not mind opening a fresh bottle of wine for you."
Basch grits his teeth at Francis' offer. He should accept it, as a minuscule fraction of a repayment for the food and drink that French soldiers are taking from their citizens as they occupied their lands. Well, no, they were not their lands anymore. The Swiss Confederation was gone. It was all his land now.
"No. Thank you."
"Suit yourself," Francis says, and Basch says nothing in return, so they sit in silence as Francis begins to paint.
He starts by blocking out shapes, the planters and bushes in the background, glimpses of the sky, a hint of the table, with the clothes atop and the boots underneath, before moving onto his real goal, Basch himself. Francis starts with the shape of him, very blocky, very sturdy, as expected of a gun toting mercenary, but there are subtleties to his figure. As Francis aims to immortalize the nation before him, he notices details missed before, like how the distribution of Basch's body fat lends itself to giving him hips, and coupled with his slightly smaller waist, gives him an almost feminine build. His body hair is pale like Francis's, but much thinner and sparser.
"Hm," Francis muses aloud.
Basch glares at him. "What?"
"You look very young, is all. It is almost like your body gave up in the middle of making you into a man."
"Well, why are you painting a nude portrait of me if you think I look like a child?"
"You do not look that young," Francis tutted. "Sit still."
Next come Basch's limbs, his arms and his legs. They are not terribly thin, but they are thinner than Francis had realized. It is easier to gauge their mass overall when looking at Basch as a whole, instead of the up close view Francis had a few years prior as he guided a needle and thread through flesh and stitched together the cantons into a one and indivisible republic. The scars from that effort are still clearly visible, along with the wounds from fighting Francis's and other's battles, fatal and non fatal alike.
"You scar a lot," Francis says and, after slipping a finger past his collar and scratching at his neck, he adds nonchalantly, "for a nation."
Basch is certain that he will have a freshly broken tooth by the time this day is done from how hard he is clenching his jaw, but he will be damned if he has to suffer through snide comments alone.
"I am sure yours have healed nicely," he says pointedly, and Francis shoots him a glare as he wordlessly pulls his hand away from his neck to resume his painting. With the base shapes done, he starts on the details, adding the scars, some of them a beautiful patchwork of his own making, without further comment as his own jagged flesh burns under his too tight collar.
Francis allows himself to become fully engrossed in the portrait. Flowers adorn the bushes, and buttons, buckles and hem lines are added to the clothing. Intricate detailing is added to the furniture, all while Basch sits perfectly still, perfectly exposed, always the obedient soldier. Francis saves his head for last, and when he can add no more to the body nor the background, he gives Basch hair and begins to carve out the features of his face.
"Do you know why I picked you to become my new republic?" Francis asks suddenly, his voice breaking through the distant and subtle birdsong that had filled the space between them.
"Because you'd already captured me?" Basch asks, not particularly interested in whatever asinine reasoning Francis had that led to his misfortune of still being alive and currently posing for a nude portrait.
"I suppose that is part of it," Francis momentarily points his brush as Basch. "But no. I picked you because you are resilient. It takes a strong nation, a special nation to survive that sort of procedure."
At Francis calling him special, Basch's stomach twists uncomfortably. For something that should be a compliment, it feels like anything but coming from Francis.
"Some of the other cantons were resilient too," Francis continues, "but there is another reason that I picked you. You," Francis does not tear his eyes away from his canvas as he insults Basch, "are not a threat. You are not intimidating, and nobody really listens to you. If I had picked a stronger canton, then I suspect things would not be going as smoothly as they are."
Basch stares at Francis incredulously. Things are not going smoothly for the French Republic. Basch's children, the ones that were his prior to the nonconsensual amalgamating of the cantons into one being, and the children he inherited from his counterparts, are resisting Francis on nearly every front.
"If…" Basch weighs his words carefully. "If I am so nonthreatening… why use me to fight your battles?" At this, Francis finally pries his attention away from his canvas and onto his subject.
"Sit quietly for a moment, I am working on your face."
Basch attempts to maintain a neutral expression, but the way Francis hems and haws as he avoids answering questions by dragging his brush across the canvas, and the way he sips his wine as he eyes his subject over the rim of his glass, all serves to irritate Basch further.
"This is very good," Francis mutters to himself, and then adds louder, so that Basch cannot miss what he is saying, "only a revolutionary could capture the common man so honestly. A noble could never create an image that is so true to your form, could never paint something as beautiful as this."
Francis does not hold back in complimenting his own work, yet he makes no move to show it to Basch, nor invite the satellite nation over to witness it himself. All the better, Basch is not sure he could stand to be beside Francis in this moment anyway, as he proclaims how his mastery of his craft is evidence of him being unquestionably different than the now headless nobles and anti-revolutionaries. Francis, who used to stand proudly beside his royalty, who benefited directly from their wealth, especially when his people starved. Even so, he could feel their suffering, but it was easier to ignore their collective hunger pangs when his own stomach was full. Francis, the crown jewel of his country, who had spent most of his life been waited on hand and foot, is currently proclaiming how much better he is than the very people he aligned himself with for centuries, all while his soldiers have invaded and occupied the Swiss Confederation and are driving Basch's economy into the dirt. Was it not just two years ago that Francis was sickly while France faced economic turmoil? Who did he stand on to pull himself out of that trouble? If Basch had faced the other way for the portrait, would Francis have been honest and captured the boot marks on his back?
"We are through here. You can leave now," Francis says dismissively. Now that Basch's purpose has been served Francis' interest in him has all but disappeared.
Swiftly Basch stands and begins to dress himself, not the least bit disappointed that Francis has already moved onto his next topic. It is only after he is dressed, after he accidentally catches a glimpse of the painting as Francis is ushering him to the door that Basch finally manages to ask the one question he has had from the very start of this ordeal.
"What are you going to do with it?"
Francis smiles, though the expression does not reach his eyes. "I keep all of my portraits in a safe place. Typically they are for my enjoyment only." A vision of a hidden room filled floor to ceiling of nude portraits of subjects both willing and not fills Basch's mind. "But I have yet to decide on yours. Yours is… special."
Basch nods, thanks his host, and leaves as his stomach twists in familiar discomfort, and he wonders what mistake he has made for Francis to consider him someone special.