La Tristesse

Chapter 3

So, I'm going to be using google translate. Yeah, yeah I know, but it's a fanfiction and I don't know French so yeah.
***
He'd called Matthew on his way over. The boy had directed him to Francis' flat and instructed him to pick up food from the cafe across the street. He did not like taking orders, but deep down he realized he owed the Canadian a few favors after ignoring him for most of his childhood, so he had only argued half-heartedly. With a sigh, he pounded demandingly on Francis' door. "Hey, Frog!" He called, "Let me in!"
     There was no answer. He pounded twice more  before heaving a sigh and uttering an enchantment to undo the lock. A small pop announced his success and he shook the cold chill from his spine with an indigent wiggle. Magic was tiring and he didn't have time for a nap. He hoped that'd be the last time he'd need use it that day.
Stepping inside he found the room dark despite being midday. "Francis?" He called into the dreary space. "You here?"
No response.
Closing the door behind him he bypassed the living room and sat the food down on the kitchen counter. The roses on the island were wilted. It was unusual for the Frenchman to allow such a thing. Without much thought as to why, he threw them away and poured the water down the sink. As he was setting the vase aside to dry he thought he heard a soft sound- perhaps a soft cough or groan. "Francis?"
Venturing back into the living room he found a nest of blankets on the sofa. On the coffee table sat a full glass of wine, a closed laptop and France's cellphone. The man was surely here, but where? Perhaps there was reason for Matthew's concern. He tried to ignore the pang of worry in his own chest and went on wondering through the flat. He half expected the other country to jump out from a dark corner at any moment, but he didn't.
      Finally he came upon the bedroom and knocked fervently. "Come out you bloody git!" He snapped, "You're freaking Canada out and wasting my time!"
As expected, there was no answer. Seething with irritation he pushed the door open and peered inside. His cheeks heated as his annoyance became a memory. Francis lay in his bed, swathed in his silky red sheets, his pale skin exposed to the air. His pink lips were parted lightly. He wore nothing but his underpants and his tangled bedclothes.
He closed the door just after realizing he was gawking, mouth agape. Standing there a moment he tried to gather the frantic bits of his mind, but it was hard, as each bloody piece was frolicking here and there in a field of Francis-faced roses. It should have been a sin to be that good looking.
     With a huff he turned to leave but a frowning green fairy fluttered before his face frantically waving her tiny arms. "Arthur, something is wrong!" She squeaked. "Look again!"
     Look again? He'd almost been undone the first time! "He's fine. He's just taking a nap." He sighed, brushing hair from his face.
    Perching stop his head she pulled at his hair like reigns. "Look again! He didn't wake up. Even after all your shouting!"
      Francis was a rather light sleeper... "Bloody hell." Fine. One more look.
The fairy disappeared with a twinkle and a grin and he turned back to the Frenchman's bedroom. This time when he entered he was careful not to let the other country's appearance befuddle him. Soon, all of Francis' sparkles and flowers faded into the background and he saw what truly lie before him.
France's chest rose and fell unevenly as he gasped for air and his body was trembling. Arthur was at the bedside before he'd known he'd moved. "Hey! Frog!" He shouted, taking the other man by the shoulders. His skin was cold. "Wake up you bloody wanker."
Francis' eyelids flitted open briefly as his shaking hand found the hem of Arthur's shirt. He mumbled something in slurred French that the Brit could only guess at. Something like: let me sleep.
This was not normal. "What's the matter with you?" That's when he glanced across the bed and spotted the bottle of pills on the nightstand. "Bloody idiot! How many did you take?!"
Tears began to seep from the corner of Francis' eyes. "Je suis fatigué , Angleterre."
"We're all bloody tired you git!" He raged, shaking the man in his grasp as if his body wasn't trembling enough. "What are you pouting about anyway!?"
Francis didn't respond, simply went lax and continued gasping. Arthur cursed in every language he knew and pulled the man upright, forcing his bare feet onto the floor. He allowed the man to lean against him, resting his head on his shoulder. Air seemed to enter his lungs easier this way. "Est-ce mieux , grenouille?" He found himself whispering despite Francis' consistent degradation of his spoken French.
More tears wet his shoulder and he sighed. What in the world had he gotten himself into? If Matthew were to find out that his father had overdosed on sleeping pills the boy would lose it. Alfred would never shut up about it. The whole world would find out that France was depressed. Ten minutes ago he would have laughed at the thought but now it seemed disgusting. He'd never let anyone know and he told himself it was because no one else deserved to see Francis as miserable as this but him- but in his heart there lay a deeper reason. And it was probably the only thing he'd ever refused to believe in.
"Arthur..." The man wept into his shirt collar. "Pars s'il te plait."
There was no way he was leaving and no way he was going to analyze the why of it. "Silencieux. Je reste."
More tears. "Ne faites pas cela. Ça fait mal."
Don't do this. It hurts. What hurt? Arthur didn't understand. Pulling Francis away from him he tried to catch a glimpse of those sky blue eyes. "Francis?"
"Non."
"What hurts?" He snapped, "Wake up and spit it out. Do you need a hospital?"
"Non!"
"Then what hurts?"
"Laisse-moi!"
"I'm not bloody leaving so just tell me what the hell your problem is!"
Francis struggled to look up at him. "Vous me aimes seulement dans mes rêves..."
You only love me in my dreams. The words made him sick to hear. His heart fell into his feet and his cheeks went cold. He pulled the frenchman's trembling form back into his arms and found himself rubbing soothing circles on his back as he gasped and sobbed.
Russia's pipe would have been less painful.