Series: « L'histoire française », 20 historical Francis Bonnefoy drabbles. Written for lj/hetachallenge. Find my table at lj/coeurgryffondor.

L'histoire française
Bombing

They fall like rain from the sky, invisible at night to his eyes until they make contact. Until they ravage, destroy, consume everything. Francis watches from the window, always prepared to pull the curtains to stop his lover from seeing.

His fever burns him up but there's nothing that can be done about that, the grounded RAF fighter moaning and tossing in bed. Eyes, deep blue, are cast over a French shoulder but the nation does not have the strength to lift them, to see Arthur like that. He closes them tightly and another tear escapes.

He breathes deeply, filling his lungs before emptying them, like the hope he had before the Battle of France and the despair that came after, being smuggled out by the resistance from that place he had been held capitative. London was to be his resting place until the battle moved to Britain; then the orders had been given to have Francis sent to Canada.

There's been so much chaos and confusion during the Blitz that no one has come for him yet and while Francis knows he should go himself, that there is a standing order from Matthew to let his step-father into that country on the other side of the ocean, Francis cannot go. Who will be left to care for Arthur? To hold him when the bombs fall rapidly and his body shakes, each impact like a bullet shot into his chest? To wipe his forehead and cheeks and chest, to try and calm the fever that consumes him like fires on the street that are put out hastily? To remind him that they've seen bad before, to tell him that they've been through worst? That this isn't as bad as the trench warfare they'd gone through, when they both knew they'd die in that trench and so finally relented, admitting their love and being consumed by passion before they would be consumed by the end.

Francis can almost believe that lie, that they've seen worst, if he really tries.

"Fr-" a voice attempts, and he's never been sure if that word is suppose to be Francis or France and Frog or maybe even fucker, but it means him and so the nation pulls the curtains. Plunged into darkness he silently makes his way to the bed, striking a match to light a half-used candle. Arthur's forehead is once more covered in sweat, his whole body convulsing as his eyelids are scrunched up, the Englishman's mouth open in a silent scream that will never come.

He tries so hard to not cry at the sight as he washes his lover's forehead but it's futile: liking resisting the invasion of Paris, the battle had been lost before it started. And the once-imperial province, son of a Roman princess and Frankish lord, collapses on Arthur's chest. Arms snake under the man's back to hold him close, Francis gasping against a bare shoulder as he lets the anguish take over.

Lost, he's lost and Arthur's lost and the war is lost. Never has he felt so hopeless, so alone, so defeated. Every time Francis went down he was sure he'd come back up but now? Now there is no certainty, no Brit mocking him, no reason to go on if Arthur doesn't survive tonight or the next night or the night after.

The orders had been given to go to Canada but he'll never leave Arthur.

They fall like rain from the sky, tonight a light drizzle after months of precipitation. Arthur is conscious enough to lay quietly in bed while Francis stands at the window, waiting for the next fire, the next explosion, the next family made homeless and the next strike at British morale.

"Francisque?" that voice whispers, the forgotten name of years ago before Francis was reborn, baptized with fire that consumed a young woman who had loved him. The man had ended that part of Francis's life, had killed her, and he's the only one left to remember the name the French nation bore before.

He crawls into bed, holds Arthur close, and tonight there's hope.