#fruk angst

"I hate you." Looking down at the nation lying in his lap and keeping close, Francis pulled Arthur closer to him before stroking the Englishman's hay colored hair. "I hate you so much, Arthur."  It was cold; the cruel winds were fighting with the rain outside. It was mind numbing; the cave they were in was the only shelter they could take refuge in to hide from the storm--it was so cold.  Where is the fire? Francis could not even make a spark from the small collection of wood he had gathered prior. It was all wet anyway. "It is because of you that we are stuck here. It is because of YOU that my life is made out of misery." He continued to stroke Arthur's hair, looking down with eyes that were so emotionless it was deliciously hateful. Moving his hand to graze over the Englishman's body, Francis took the time to look over the wounds and blood covering Arthur's body. He took his hand back and instead searched for the rise and fall of England's chest to find even the smallest intake of breath, to find even the slightest sign of life in his torn body. France chuckled in spite of himself for even trying to convince himself that England was still alive. "I never would have thought that you would actually be gone from the earth." He laughed again, more of disgust. "I never would have thought that I would live to see the day of having you gone, having you as cold and as dead as the ground beneath us." Francis snared through his teeth.  "But now that you are, dead. Dead, dead, dead--" He mocked darkly, almost amused by hearing his own voice saying that about Arthur, "I can finally live my life without any problems. Without any irritating little pests like yourself. Without YOU."  France began to feel his face becoming warm; he blinked a few times because of it, burying his face into the other's golden blond hair.  Taking a sharp intake of air, Francis held the breath in to stop himself from crying out. And he choked back a sob, "I never would have thought that wishing upon that star would work." He began to cry. He began to cry hard, allowing those tears to fall on his beloved whom he said he hated so much. "If I knew it would have worked...I never would have wished for it..." ----- "Look Francis. You can see a shooting star even through this bloody storm.."  Francis turned his head to look out of the cave, he stared blankly at the rain pouring sky. He laughed lightly, almost darkly, "Oui. You can see shooting stars in this dull, this gray, storm ridden sky." He looked back down at the Englishman lying in his lap. "You just do not know when to quit." Francis said, "The enemy was coming at us in swarms. I told you to run, but you stubbornly insisted on fighting." He paused for a moment before saying, "You are such a bother." France said bluntly, his voice deprived of all concern and care for the wounded country below him. "I know." England said. "Now look at us! We are stuck here until the storm passes and even more so before the enemy leaves..! You cannot even move you're so severely injured..!" "I know." "You know I hate you, right? I hate you so much." His anger was building, but he tried to keep himself composed. "…

I know." Arthur shifted his eyes to look back outside. Another star shot through the darkening sky. "Look Francis. Another shooting star." He moved his tired and half lidded eyes to look at the angry Frenchman. He smiled weakly, "Make a wish." The older nation scoffed in disbelief of the idea of wishing on a star, "What do I wish for?" He looked back out before returning to look back down at England. Francis scowled as he began to stroke the other's hair, "You're so much trouble--I wish you were dead."  Staring at the Frenchman for a moment, Arthur nodded then closed his eyes. "Good night, Francis." France scoffed again, "Bonne nuit." He said with a cold voice as he followed suit--closing his eyes and letting sleep take him. A couple hours pass and Francis woke to a clap of thunder followed by a bright flash of lightening that brightened up the cave enough for him to clearly see the face of the nation lying in his lap. The Frenchman saw not one bit of movement in the other nor any signs of breathing.

He took a hold of the other's wrist to feel a pulse, but all he could feel was how cold England was. And he just laughed; France just laughed heart-brokenly because he knew that England was gone--that his wish came true. England was dead. ----- "If I knew... I would have never wished for it.." Clutching onto England's blood soaked uniform, France just cried and cried--letting his sobs be heard by the merciless storm and by the dreaded star he wished upon. Francis lifted his head away from the one he loved the most, the one he hated as the tears kept falling just as much as the rain. Turning his head to look outside one last time and seeing another star shoot across the velvet sky, France cried a little bit harder.