A La Guerre Chapter 2

The whip rose a few inches in the air and you tensed involuntarily.   

 Then Feliciano came skipping in, singing some Italian pasta song, his eyes closed blissfully.

    “Germany~ There’s an emergency!” He stops in front of Ludwig, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture. Ludwig growls, but he lowers the whip and demands,

    “Vhat is it now, Italy?”

    Italy, seemingly unaware of his comrade’s annoyance, sings out, “We don’t have any more-a tomatoes! How can I make-a pasta without tomatoes? Pasta without-a tomatoes is not pasta at all, Ludwig!”

    The German facepalms, sighing and muttering a few words in his own language. You choose that moment to smirk and say under your breath, but still loud enough for Francis to hear, “Dummkopf.”

    Instantly, you have the full attention of an irate German holding a vicious whip. Leaning over you, he snarls, “Never insult me in mein own language, _______.”

    You are saved from painful and severe injury by Feliciano, who pops up in between you and Ludwig, saying pitifully, “THE PASTAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!”

    Cue another facepalm.

    Ludwig stands there and just breathes heavily for a moment before straightening up and smirking at you. “This might take a while, so stay right there, frau. I’ll let Francis keep you company.”

    And with that, he walks off, leaving you tied on your back to a splintery wooden crate. As he leaves, you can hear him asking Japan to “throw them into the cave”. Said Japanese man comes up to you a second later and, pulling out a strip of folded black flannel, blindfolds you. After you protest (rather loudly and in various languages), he sighs and gags you with another piece of cloth. You are now blind and essentially helpless in enemy territory. Well, great.

    A second later, something warm, heavy, and very alive is thrown roughly on top of you, driving your breath out in a single whoosh; when Japan secures something to your already bound wrist, you realize that the thing is in fact Francis. As Japan finishes tying Francis’s wrists and ankles to yours, you desperately hope that Francis is blindfolded too, if only because you’re blushing redder than a tomato. There is absolutely no space between your bodies; Francis’s chest pressing is down on your sternum, your legs tangled together.

    He nestles his head beside yours (you are unspeakably grateful that you can feel the texture of the black cloth against your skin) and whispers softly, his voice breaking as Japan begins dragging the two of you over the bumpy ground, “Je suis très désolé, ______.”

    You try to answer, but all you manage is a muffled “mmph”. He smiles (you can feel the edges of his mouth turn up slightly) and nestles his head into the crook of your neck; you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours and are shocked when a drop of warm wetness drips onto your shoulder, seeping through your torn shirt. You panic for a moment, thinking that it’s blood, but as Francis inhales raggedly, you realize that you are feeling the tears of France.

    A rush of anger boils up within you and you try to whisper soothingly around the gag, but no sound will escape from your mouth. The Axis will pay. How dare they make Francis weep! His tears are sacred; they should be shed only for joy!

    Japan’s hateful voice breaks through your reverie, his somber tone incensing you further. “I wirr reave you here. Doitsu shourd return soon.” He walks closer and in a sudden movement, whisks away both your blindfolds. You expect him to turn away, but he lingers for a moment. There is a veil of wistfulness in his dark eyes as he adds softly, “I am sorry that I must do this, sister. But you shourd have joined us.”

    Your eyes widen at his last words and you struggle more against the bonds, spitting insults through the gag. Japan watches you for a moment before silently turning away and leaving your new surroundings. As he vanishes through a long, dark tunnel, you realize that you and Francis are locked somewhere underground; the dank, moist air and strange echoes are enough to tell you that.

    When you can barely see the spot of pristine white that is Japan’s receding back, Francis whispers weakly, “Squeeze my ’and when ’e is gone, chérie.”

    You nod slightly in response and wait until Japan completely disappears, taking the pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel with him, to gently close your fingers around Francis’s. At the touch of your skin against his, the Frenchman instantly straightens his body from its oddly curled up position, which puts the top of his head an inch or two above yours, and his mouth just above yours. You squeak in confusion and turn your head away, but he shushes you and tells you to relax before he bends his head slightly again and begins nipping at a slightly loose area of the gag, using his teeth to pull it away. You flinch slightly as he accidentally catches your skin between his teeth once, but then he finally loosens the knot and the black cloth slips away from your mouth, still tied around your neck.

    At this point, his arms and legs are quivering; you can feel them trembling against your own limbs. At first, you don’t understand why, but then you realize that he’s been forcing his muscles to keep himself from completely falling onto you. If he’s been doing this since the two of you were tied together, he must be exhausted.

    You smile at him gently and murmur, “It’s okay, Francis. You won’t crush me.”

    He looks at you and opens his mouth to protest, but his arms give out and he collapses on top of you, trembling. “Je…je suis désolé, ______,” he mutters, his voice cracking with fatigue.

    You intertwine your fingers with his, an action you would never had normally attempted, and say soothingly, “Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for, Francis.” And even then, the electric, exhilarating thrill you get whenever you say his human name rushes through you, brushing your nerves and tingling hotly in your cheeks.

    At first, his touch is hesitant, but soon, he is gripping your hands just as tightly as he replies unfeelingly, “Yes, I do, ______. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be ’ere. It’s my fault zat you were captured too.” You whisper random things into the darkness soothingly, trying desperately to convince him otherwise.

    Francis pays your words no heed, however, and continues, “I’m sorry, _____. You shouldn’t ’ave to see me like zis. You shouldn’t see me so weak. I swear, you will never see me like zis again, _____.”

    You lock gazes with Francis, your (e/c) eyes boring intensely into his azure ones. “Don’t ever say that, Francis,” you say, your voice low and fervent. “Tears don’t make you weak. They show that even if we, as countries, are doomed to never feel the true pleasures of humanity and mortality, we can still retain some of it. We have emotions! We live and cry and laugh and do everything just like our mortals, but we do it for eternity! Tears show that we are still humane; that we have not turned into mindless, bloodthirsty, insane slaves at the hands of our bosses. Don’t ever regret your tears, Francis. They’re just part of what makes you beautiful.”

    Immediately after the last sentence left your mouth, you clamped your mouth shut, berating yourself mentally. France, however, raised one perfect golden eyebrow and smirked at you, the familiar sight sending your heart rate skyrocketing. Somewhere in the back of your mind was a tiny thought that he must be feeling a little better, if he could pull off this move.

    “So,” he began throatily, “I am beautiful to you, non?” He winked, his deep cerulean eyes sparkling in the dim light. You snorted and averted your eyes, willing yourself to calm down and banish the blush from your flaming cheeks. Francis began trailing his fingers over yours, his touch feather-light, sending your heart at an impossible pace. Fire seemed to follow in the path of his fingers, leaving a burning trail down your palms.

    Suddenly, a screeching echo rang through the darkness; Francis’s head snapped up, his neck muscles straining. You turned your head as far as you could and spotted Japan approaching from the tunnel.

    “He’s coming,” you hiss intently. “Pull the—” Francis cuts you off by yanking the gag up off your neck and over your mouth. You bite down on the cloth to make it seem as if it were there the whole time, nodding in response to Francis’s whispered apology.

    Japan reaches the crate you’re tied to and shoots a death glare at Francis, whose head is (by Japan’s standards) far too close to yours for decency. Francis ignores it and nuzzles his head of wavy blond locks farther into your neck; the feel of his hot breath on your skin is enough to give you another shot of bravery.

    Japan just looks at you silently for a moment before saying quietly, without any emotion whatsoever, “Rudwig will not be back till morning. You are rucky I was abre to sneak some food out for you, sister.” He pulls the gag away, luckily not noticing how loose it was.

    “I’m not your sister, Japan! I’m Yao’s sister, and Leon’s sister! You’re just the enemy.”

    Japan’s hand ascended sharply into the air as if he were going to slap you, but then he halted and said, still in that horrible calm voice, “Bonds of brood are what bind us, _____-chan, and those chains can never be broken. You are my sister and wirr be untir the end of time.”

    You spat at him angrily and snarled, “You contradict yourself, Japan. These bonds of blood you speak of were severed by you. I never stopped being your sister; you stopped being my brother when you betrayed us all. You nearly killed Yao again, you know that?! The first time was bad enough, when you attacked him, but this time even I could barely stop the bleeding! Do you know what he—” Japan cut you off by shoving a chunk of bread into your open mouth, choking you. You gagged for a moment before your instincts took over and you spat the bread out, your heart racing.

    Japan really did slap you this time, but the regret on his face was sweet enough a treat to dull the pain. Francis yelled, “ ’ow dare you! If you are such un monstre to strike une mademoiselle belle as ______, zhen be man enough to ’it me!”

    Japan’s face hardens as you beg urgently in Francis’s ear, “No, don’t say that, please! I’m not worth it, Francis!”

    Before you knew what was going on, Japan had dumped the lukewarm contents of the bowl on Francis’s head, drenching him in thin soup that smelt of cabbage and salt. Unfortunately, his position meant that most of the soup dripped onto you as well. Japan fixed you with a familiar stony gaze before turning and leaving without a word, anger etched into every line of his being. As you watch him storm out of the tunnel, your heart felt as if he had taken a chisel and hammer to it. As you lie there beneath Francis, you feel a few hot, reluctant tears slip from the corners of your eyes and you fight back a sob.