There was something that kept these two countries together. They had grown up together, fighting, and playing; expanding their horizons. They knew every quirk, every flaw, every deepest fear, and every dream that they had ever shared. Their paths were intertwined since the day they met and how Arthur hated yet also loved it. They were ying and yang, salt and pepper, two beings that were nothing alike yet were stuck together.
As he watched the storm outside he lazily thought of that day when they were kids, how a young him awoke to find himself being hugged by a shaking Frenchy soon learning the stupid git had a fear of thunder…and finally coming to the conclusion he was extremely clingy.
He remembered dreams that France had blabbered to him in French thinking that England didn’t catch a word but every word was taken to heart. How France’s only dream that had never changed that the world would know that fighting war never accomplished anything and all the world needed was kindness, compassion, and love.
England smiled at the thought before it turned into a frown as the thought of their fights and harsh words. The day France’s love was taken by his hand when he had a chance at stopping it. Why did he kill Joan; he still questioned that. His enemy…no his Best Friend’s love was killed over a silly fight…or was it more. Could it have been jealousy?
He knew France’s flaws thinking he was perfect was just an act, deep down he despised himself, his actions; his ways. He believed if, even if he was suffering on the inside, he could at least make some else happy with a compliment or smile. How he tried to feel like he belonged in society and tried to live up to the standards of the nobles when they were around.
Francis was a piece of his history that if he tried to erase he wouldn’t feel complete, he would feel like something is missing. After America left him, the one that come to apologized wasn’t his ex-colony but the Frenchy who helped the rebellion. Who said he only wanted to help America because he believed the young boy needed to grow up, that the Englishman’s hold was too strong.
Now Francis had been taken because England hadn’t been fast enough to get to him. He had lost sight of him on the battle field fighting the German forces. He heard France’s cry for help but then his Commander gave the cry of retreat and he was dragged along by two of his solders trying to protect their country. Before he was fully pulled away he saw Germany picking up bloody, beaten French solder with dirtied, yet still golden blond hair. He saw the nation get taken and was useless to stop it.
He was determined to save the git for some reason, he didn’t understand why. It was his one goal in this war that even if he had to do it alone he would save that perverted Frenchy. Arthur stared at the storm wondering slightly if it was also showing France’s home and if he had someone to help him through the pain and hardship.
On the other side of the English Channel France stood gaunt and battle worn on the beach watching as storm clouds started to blow in from England’s direction. He gave a small smile along with a shudder; for once he welcomed the rain in hopes it would wash away the pain and suffering of his people. He welcomed the noise of the thunder to wipe away the cries of sorrow; opened his doors to the lightning in hopes it would strike with more pain than he was feeling now. He fell to his knees and cried as the rain came pouring down wiping the dirt and grime from him.
The once beautiful nation of France had gone down and the last thread of hope he clung to; hoping to be pulled up and meet the smirk he hated so much. Pulled out to see this was all a nightmare. Pulled out to be held with kindness and reassurance and for once shed his shell and weep, weep for all lost, weep for the suffering, weep for himself that no matter what can never be the perfect nation that everyone thinks he is.