Reversal

As a child I adored you, with my first few years filled with warm smiles, laughter, and showers of gentle kisses. Being a busy nation, you were gone a lot, but that just made you that much more special, more missed. Every time you came back I would tug at your sleeves and look up into your cheerful face and loving blue eyes, begging to be held in your arms.

You would always give in.

I was always such a careful child when I went out to play in the nature I loved, but when I saw you in the distance I couldn't help but run. When I fell and got hurt, I'd pretend it didn't hurt, and not always to avoid inconveniencing you. Because you noticed my pain without being told. So I let you pull me into your arms, to be coddled. To have sweet words whispered in my ears.

"Je t'aime, Mathieu. Mon Canada, mon petit frère…."

I loved the days you were with me teaching me the words of the language you loved. You always said it was because it was the language of love. England believed in the power that words had.

But he did not believe in your words of l'amour.

I had hated England when he took me from you, when he forbids me from using the only languages I knew (his loathing of the natives disgusted me almost as much as his hatred for you) and forced me to learn this bastard tongue he calls English. The hypocrite even borrowed words from your language. I don't get it, why does he hate you so much?

The day he told me I was no longer your brother, I cried for hours. He let me cry on his shoulder, saying he was my brother now. I could see the pain in his eyes but I know it's not really for me. He only thinks of America when he looks at me.

So if you aren't my brother, what are you to me?

England was a very strange brother. He was gone a lot like you were, but England never pulled me into his arms like you did. He said I was getting too old for such things.

That was a lie.

America is my neighbor and my brother. I watch as he suffers when you're gone, and the smile that appears on his face when you return. I see the hugs and kisses England gave America.

So I hug Kumakichi, and think of you.

With England I was obedient, but very withdrawn. I was not the cheery, curious child I once was. England called it loyalty. I called it giving up. My hatred had disappeared long ago, anyway. I found I can't seem to hold grudges, because there is no one worth hating. Parce que le monde est l'amour, est l'amour est le monde.

N'est-ce pas?

I was worried when America fought England for independence, because when I saw them fighting all I really saw was you and me. If we had stayed together, would I have had to fight you for independence, too? The fighting I could do without.

But at least I would have been with you.

I stayed by England's side, letting him cry on my shoulder in the months after his defeat when missing America grew to be too much for him. When he cried to me, England would tell me his thoughts. It was obvious he had no idea why America didn't want to be his brother anymore. I never told him I understood the reason why – England needed to suffer a little. Then, he asked me if I could be his America.

Without hesitation, I said no.

When I fought in WWI for England, people would tell me how fierce and unafraid I was. Of course, any time I tried to say they were exaggerating I was laughed at for my modesty. Somehow, I would end up laughing with them, but I would always quickly change the subject.

Because war brings memories alcohol and drugs can't make you forget.

The first time I saw you after all these years was at the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. As I stood next to England, who brought me here to watch, I couldn't help but find myself staring at you instead.

The war had really taken its toll on your appearance, as to be expected, but I was still shocked. The silky, blond hair I remembered was now matted and roughly pulled back with a blood-encrusted rag. The once glowing face of yours was now gaunt and pale. Your lips were chapped, with dry blood caked on them that you kept biting nervously. When you gazed in my direction, you merely looked beyond me. I was afraid you had forgotten me, but then you dimly smiled. God, you looked so tired.

When the event had ended, I made to follow you, but then I stopped, looking back at England. He nodded.

"Go ahead. You're practically independent now, anyway." He laughed.

"Thank you,"

By the time I caught up with you, you were struggling to open the door with your crutches. I stepped in, holding the door for you.

"Merci, Mathieu." Your voice was so dry, it cracked. I decided then and there what I was going to do.

"There's no way I'm going to let you go home on crutches."

"Technically, I am home."

"I don't care," I lifted you onto my back. When did you get so light and frail?

So I carried you piggyback style to your house. As expected, your house had changed a lot since I had last been here. Dust covered everything, and there were papers scattered on the floor. Spiders had begun to make themselves at home in corners next to the ceiling.

"Where are we going?"

"Bathroom,"

When we reached the bathroom, I gingerly turned the faucet on, praying it still worked. Miraculously, the water pipe still worked. I cleaned out the bottom of the tub, drained it, and then let the water fill the tub.

I had you sit on the toilet as I undressed you, swatting your hands away when you tried to help.

"You're injured. Just let me do it. Please." I added on for good measure.

After getting past your clothes, I gently un-wrapped the bandages on your arm and leg, and discarded the bandages. Lastly, I took the scrap of fabric out of your hair, letting the musty locks fall in your face.

I put an arm behind your back, the other under your knees, and lift your slightly malnourished body.

Carefully, I lowered you into the tub. Thankfully, the water seems to not aggravate your injuries. Unless you're hiding the pain….

"Aïe!" You yelp as I flex your arm.

"Well, at least it's not broken."

I take a clean wash cloth, let it soak in the water, and wring it out. I delicately scrub your face and neck, not wanting to rip into your skin or get water in your eyes.

In a cabinet, I find your soap collection. I unwrap one and run another damp cloth over it. Kneading the rag so the soap lathers up, I begin to wash your face and neck. Then I rinse the soap off with the damp rag.

Patiently, I clean your whole body in this manner, admiring the myriad of scars. Some had grown so faint that they appeared ghostly. Some looked smudged, while others were so fresh, they had barely begun to scab over. Absentmindedly, I ran a finger down one on your side.

"Waterloo," You whispered. Napoleon. Many claimed he was the last great thing to happen for France, in terms of military. They weren't the same since, even I have to admit it. Tenderly, I leaned forward, kissing the scar. You didn't say a word.

To wash your hair, I had you lean back into my hands so I could work the water through it to try and get some of the tangles out. Grabbing the shampoo, I worked it up to a good lather, and then had you lean back more so I could follow the instructions to rinse and repeat.

After I pulled the plug of the drain, I threw a large fluffy towel over my shoulder and stood on my feet. I threw your arm over my shoulder and helped you get out of the tub.

I had you sit on the floor, and wrapped the towel around your shoulders as you were sitting in fetal position. Grabbing a smaller towel, I sat behind you to dry your hair. It felt weird, taking care of the person who had took care of you, but it felt nice.

So if you aren't my brother, what are you to me?

Those haunting words left me with a sinking feeling in my stomach, and pain in my heart.

"Francis?"

It was strange to be using his human name at a time like this. Too personal, perhaps? Or was it because so much time had passed since I've used it, like opening an old, creaky door.

"Oui?"

"Do you still think of me as a brother?"

You were silent for a couple seconds, and it worried me.

"Do you want me to think of you as a brother?"

I remembered America's war for independence, and immediately my hands stopped drying your hair.

"I don't know," I admitted, and started drying your hair again.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to end up hurting you like America hurt England."

"…."

"You see, in the end, I would want what America wanted."

"Independence?"

"Yes. Independence so that he could be with England."

"Wait, are you telling me America fought to be separate from England to unite with England? That doesn't make sense!"

"It makes perfect sense. In fact, it can be summarized with a single word."

"I'm not going to rattle off all the English I know-"

"Nope, not English. Try it en français."

"Is this a trick question type of thing?"

"Non, il est l'amour."

I tilt your head back, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"I should have known." You pout. I laughed.

"Yes, you should have, mais je t'aime. Just think, it took England years to figure it out."

"So why didn't you let me figure it out? Surely I would have guessed it in much less time than that idiot."

"Yes, but you see, I'm tired of waiting. America always had England, even during their war. He knew England well enough to know it would take him a long time to come to him and was willing to wait. I wanted England to suffer like I had all those years…."

"Sounds lonely… and to think you fought for him."

"It was, but I stopped hating him a long time ago. I can't hold on to anger for very long, it doesn't feel right."

"It seems I taught you well."

I wrap my arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. I lean in to whisper into your ear.

"Le monde est l'amour, est l'amour est le monde."

You chuckle, letting the towel fall as you turn to the side, resting your head on my chest as you look up into my eyes.

"If I'd known you'd grow up to be so sexy, I would have given you independence without a fight."

"Even when I was a toddler? People would think you are a wimp."

"They already do," I lift your chin.

"I don't." I said, giving you a soft kiss. You grin, pulling me with your good arm into a deeper kiss.

"So does this mean you love me?" I ask, trailing the side of your face with kisses.

"Of course, mon Mathieu."

You shudder as I run my tongue down the curve of your neck.

"Are you cold? I can go get you some clothes, if you want."

I see you grin with a twinkle of mischief in your eyes.

"Non, but I know a way you can warm me up in the bedroom. Honhonhonhon~"

"B-but y-y-you're i-injured!"

"Don't worry, mon petit. I can improvise!" I blanched.

"Fine, we'll wait until I recover before I can have fun teaching you lessons in l'amour." You looked very disappointed. Darn it, I hate to see you look like that, but….

I lift you in my arms, bridal style, and I start heading down the hallway toward your bedroom.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you wanted to wait for me to recover."

I lay you down on the bed, throwing my clothes on the floor before climbing on the bed. I smirk as I straddle you.

"Or I can experiment while you lay down there and be a good boy." Your grin just gets wider.

"Honhonhonhon~, whatever you say."

Before, as a child, I used to be held in your arms, and now I hold you. I used to beg for kisses, and now I can't stop kissing you. I've even discovered that I'm taller than you. But that feeling I get when I'm around you will always remain the same, from the time I used to look up into your eyes until the day you started looking into mine.

Translations

Le monde est l'amour, est l'amour est le monde: the world is love, and love is the world. It just sounded like something Francis would come up with.

The others are pretty straight-forward (the I love you's, etc.), so I did not include translations.

Thanks for reading. It's my first fic, so I'm a little apprehensive. Should I continue more stories? Reviews are always welcome.