A/N: I do not own Hetalia.
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J'ai cru que je pourrais être fort sans vous
Mais je vous manque
de plus en plus.
Love is so fickle to him; like a pigeon, caught between calloused fingers, picking at the hand that feeds. Never easy, always challenging how far he would go. And in its purest form, always unobtainable, even to the man made of eloquent grace and charm.
Francis never understood why.
When he reasoned with himself, he would think of his sweet Matthew, a treasure buried within forests untouched by time. Not yet tainted from the wars ravaging Europe, he had the naivety that the man could only wish for again; the innocence that could make Francis cast his gaze away from the past and onto the child and his world. This savage boy, wild from birth, his protégé, a quiet follower in his empty footsteps.
Francis trained him to speak French, to write, to govern. He would gently smile as he watched Matthew attempt to learn as fast as he could, just to make him happy, just to make him forget about her for a second.
And for a while, it worked.
But then, as he became greedier, he couldn't push away the thought of her. Her voice distantly crackled in his mind as he spoke, gently guiding his voice. She rested in his thoughts, her short hair woven from birch threads of silk, dark glittering eyes poised, resting her milky hands upon her armoured knees like he remembered many years ago.
Soon after that, he lost Matthew.
There was no hollow feeling.
Even as the years past by and his child in teary eyes staggered to his door demanding why, his mouth evaded the words that he wanted to hear once again.
No, he couldn't say that he didn't love Matthew.
He did.
But not the way Matthew wanted him to love him back.
The boy would never understand; the way that love works with people like them.
Their love is manipulation, strings silently plucked as he watched his marionettes dance right into his grip.
That's how it worked.
Every touch, kiss, fuck after she left; it was all to gain the advantage.
When they looked upon him, begging to him shower them in his lavish attention, murmuring contempt at his uneasiness, he found himself giving into his sorrow. There was no more love left for the eternal beings that he walked the earth with (he had filled that piece of his heart with her flowers) but only for her and her alone.
So when Francis found himself crawling in the sheets with them, hands bent like claws caressing the skin laid before him, his mind filled with nothing but distant thoughts of her. They would never be like her; they couldn't have the same delicate skin smooth like marble as he trailed his fingers down their cheeks. They couldn't sooth his anxiety with their honey voices, soft like the rain against the shells. They couldn't trump into battle the same, taking lead of endless men without a glint of fear after she said goodbye to him.
No one could be her; she's been gone for years.
Even now, as she dances under the silky blue of the Seine, she lingers within him, reminding him of their love. Though she can't hear him, she whispers into his ears, haunting his thoughts with her presence.
He wants to keep all the memories of her to himself, locked tightly into his head so that she won't slip away. Not again.
Francis doesn't want to admit it, but he misses her.
He misses his love.
He misses his Joan of Arc.
And he'd do anything to have her back for one more night, but his words fall upon deaf ears.
Je m'excuse de toutes les choses
Je n'ai pas dit
Quand vous étiez ici.