La Tristesse

Chapter 11

     Francis stumbled in the doorway and Arthur was forced to jerk him roughly in order to save him from toppling the coatrack. "Don't do to my house what you did to that pub, damn stupid frog." He didn't bother making the man take off his boots nor did he allow him to shed his jacket, he simply prodded him toward the bathroom. "Clean yourself up. I'll bring you a change of clothes."
       Francis leaned heavily in the lavatory's doorframe and gave him a pitiable look. "Arthur."
       The sound of his name softened his demeanor a bit. "What?" He spat, annoyed by how easily he was undone.
        In reply, Francis lifted the large hand he'd been holding over his side, revealing a wadded red bit of cloth that may once have been a very nice ascot. As it fell away blood gushed anew from the large angry injury it'd been concealing. The man would certainly need stitches if not a hospital. "Why didn't you say something earlier!" He shouted, "What we're you even thinking? Have long have you been shagging Turkey? Why are you such a bloody moron!?" That third one hadn't been meant to be spoken but he was too irritated to bother berating himself over it.
       Those blue eyes blinked down at him, clouded and slow moving. "J'ai besoin de vous..."
       Arthur's heart beat a little faster.  "Well, of course you need me, wanker. Look at you! You're a disgrace." It was hard to keep his tone harsh when Francis' face was paling and blood was pooling on his hardwood. As much as he hated it, it wasn't the time to be tsundere.
        "Peter!" He shouted into the dark hallway, pretty sure the little bugger was still lingering someplace. He had a lot of empty space in his large home so it wasn't unusually for the boy to stay months at a time only being seen now and then. Unfortunately there was no answer. He'd have to tend Francis' injuries alone. "You'll need to lay down. Come with me."
The instruction was followed shakily. "Angleterre..."
         Arthur slid beneath the other man's arm without any further prompting and accepted most of his weight, bloodying his own clothes in he process. "I could call an ambulance if you'd rather someone else fix you up."
         "Non." Was the soft response.
He hadn't expected any different. "You told Sadiq that you have a fear of being restrained, didn't you?"
"Non."
        "Why?" He wasn't sure why he felt he need to press the issue, why he even cared, but his mouth was running before his mind could catch up. If you were dating then-"
"Non."
"He forced you?" The thought caused a hot, bubbling rage in his gut.
Francis sagged as they approached the guest bedroom, his near swoon making the inquiry temporarily irrelevant. The man let out a soft noise of protest as he heaved him onto the mattress, but didn't speak. Arthur didn't waste any time.
       He stripped Francis of his shirt without ceremony and ordered him to hold the torn clothing to his wound while he ran for the first aid. It took him longer than he'd have liked to track it down and when he returned his patient had fallen into a sort of doze, the hand tasked with staunching the blood doing it's job very poorly.
       "Come on now Francis." He scolded gently, sanitizing his needle. "It probably would be better for a professional to do this."
        "N-one embroiderss bett'r zen you, Angleterre." The Frenchman slurred with a smirk, throwing his right forearm over his eyes. "Bezides, you've done zis plent' of times."
         True. He'd treated many, many, many wounds during his long existence, Francis' on more than one occasion. "Just don't make a fuss." He sighed, "I'm starting."
         The needle pierced the rent flesh and Francis stiffened but did not squeal or squirm. There were none of his usual theatrics and it left Arthur wondering if he even really knew France at all. Which was the real one? The happy, perverted moron he'd grown up with or this- this morose, miserable man before him now who lay straight-faced and sullen as his wounded skin was relentlessly jabbed and stretched? The sheen of sweat across his pale body was the only indication that he felt the pain at all.
         Rinsing the stitches, he paused to admire his neat work only for a moment before patting the wound dry and applying the ointment and bandage. The other cuts and bruises were minor and he was satisfied with simply rinsing them clean. His hand strayed a little too heavily across a certain few ribs in the process, garnering the first reaction from Francis' during the process.
          "Brisé." He snarled, snatching his arm to stay his ministrations.
          "If it's broken then I'll need to bind it." Arthur stated gently, eyes catching again those black and blue marks bedecking the man's wrist.
           "Non. Leave be."
           "Look here Frog-" The words fled as he was taken by the collar and drug forward with more strength than he'd expected the other man to have. His heart journeyed to his throat and blocked any protest he may have uttered as he was forced onto the mattress and brought mere centimeters from the older nation's face.
           "I zed leave it be."
           The bitter scent of whiskey reached him and he simply stared at the man who now held him captive in more ways than one. What in the bloody hell had convinced this wine-loving weeny to consume such a furious drink? It was no wonder he was so ill-tempered. "Let me go."
"Ask me in French." The man demanded, the effort of keeping him where he was while so wounded causing his breath to come up short. Arthur told himself that it was because of that, that he conceded.
"Laisse-moi."
With a weak grunt the man did as he was asked and turned his face. "Je le regrette, Angleterre...
Je regrette de vous combattre. Je regrette de ne pas vous laisser me tuer."
I regret ever fighting you. I regret not letting you kill me. The words made Arthur feel sick. He didn't want to hear any more. He couldn't do this, couldn't look down at this crumbling creature he'd once so sought to be. He couldn't face this stranger he'd sworn he knew.
         Having leave to pull away, he did so. Giving the other nation his back as he sat on the bedside, seething. Was this all because of him? Because Francis- loved him? Why? Why would any one let something like that destroy them? Surely not. It couldn't be true. No one would be so utterly desperate for the affections of such a worthless thing. He wasn't anything to mourn over. And yet, here they were, having no more than an inch between them though it felt like oceans.
         "You're too old for tantrums like this, you twat." He muttered, rising and grabbing a blanket from the closet. Before he could think better of it he crawled into bed and threw it haphazardly across both of them. "Whatever Turkey did to you, whiskey can't fix it."
In answer, the man turned to wrap his body around him despite the pain of his injuries; Arthur remained still as he did so. He heard the ragged breathing, shuddered beneath the hot breath at his nape and felt the wetness of tears in his hair, but he didn't recoil or flee. He made no issue of it, asked no questions of himself as to why he was letting this happen. Closing his eyes, he simply allowed the warmth the other man brought to his otherwise cold existence be datum enough.

For now.

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I know I haven't done Francis' POV in a while but I feel like Arthur's is more interesting right now since not knowing what Francis is feeling and thinking adds to the allure. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am.