[Fic] Lilies, Leaves and Weeds Chapter 4

[deegeeak]

The day was lovely. The sun had finally come out to shine, and the last bits of snow left over from winter were slowly melting away. Along the streets of Toronto, children were gleefully playing on the streets and sidewalks, thrilled to be allowed outside after the long winter. Adults were not only watching indulgently, but also taking part in celebrating the arrival of spring. It was a day worth spending outside, and everyone in the city was out enjoying the first real rays of spring sunshine.

Everyone except one, that is.

Inside an unassuming office building, Matthew was pacing his office. Everyone else had left for the day, but he'd stayed behind to think over his carefully tended plans.

Matthew, as anyone who'd faced the nation of Canada in conflict knew, was a meticulous and dedicated planner, possessed of a surprisingly iron will and a carefully hidden berserker nature. He was polite in negotiations, right up to the point where you got between him and something he wanted - at which point, well, your goose was cooked and served up with a Maple glaze. Despite the fact that his long life had taught him to trust in his plans and methods, Matthew had to admit he was a bit hesitant about this particular plan. Gilbert was the unexpected joy of his life; someone who'd been at first an unwanted intruder, and now was such an important part of it he didn't know what he’d do if things didn’t go well.

He'd have to proceed carefully if he didn't want to lose either Gilbert or Francis. Both of the men could be walking minefields after all they'd been through. Matthew leaned against the cool window of his office and tried to keep his nervous thoughts at bay. He hated this part of a campaign, the waiting. He didn't know how Gilbert would react, or how Francis would either, and the anticipation of it was killing him.

He could only hope his phone call to Antonio would prove fruitful in the long term.

Gilbert wondered why it was he felt like something was missing in his relationship with Matthew. It wasn't that he was unhappy with his Dom, but sometimes he felt like they were two parts of a whole and the final piece was missing. It was maddening in the way that an unscratched itch could drive a man insane. Matthew centered him, kept him in the here and now. He knew Matthew adored him, and he adored Matthew in turn. He wore the other man's collar for God's sake. But still, there was something in him sometimes that twitched at the way Matthew was asking him to relax into the quietness of their new life: some little part that wanted to fight back, while the rest of him desperately wanted to sink into the quiet. It was maddening and frustrating in ways he couldn't articulate fully.

(He’d tried to hide it from Matthew, his increasing...something, but from the start Matthew had proven he sometimes knew Gilbert better than Gilbert knew himself.)

The flight was long and boring; the in-flight movie some stupid American romance that was supposed to be funny but which would have probably put him to sleep if he wasn’t so caught up in his thoughts. Personally he'd never found Alfred's sense of cinematic humor very funny, though he had to admit it was far better than Arthur's stuffy attempts at comedy. It was going to be a long two weeks, Gilbert reflected. Not only did he have at least a week and a half of work to do with his brother, but there was also Antonio's Bad Friends reunion to deal with.

Francis was going to be there, Antonio had confirmed it in their last email. It would be the first time he'd seen France in years, despite the burgeoning relationship between their countries. Ludwig had always taken care of the meetings between them, while Gilbert stayed far away.

The first meeting they'd had, Gilbert had hung around, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of France. It hadn't been until France's PM had icily demanded he either be arrested or forced to leave the area due to 'stalking' that he'd finally given up. As he'd walked away, the man had informed Ludwig and their new Chancellor that he ought to be locked up and the key thrown away, no matter what Ivan had done to him. He hadn’t tried to steal a glimpse of France since.

France.

Now there was bomb waiting to explode in his face. Even now, the French embassy was not fond of him, preferring Gilbert remain hidden away. How would they - and France - react to this?

Gilbert knew he'd loved and if he was honest, still loved, the French Nation. France had been his first love, his first everything, but it hadn't been a good relationship. He'd taken and grabbed and forced and brutalized his way into France tooth and nail, without regard to what his lover had needed or wanted.

He'd been the one to personally deal with France during the War.

He hadn't wanted Ludwig to even look at France, much less touch him or do anything to him. France had been his, all his, without any sort of line drawn to stop him.

(He remembered it all, France tied to the brass bars of the worn bed, mattress filthy from the three days he’d spent lying on it. Swollen lips had begged for mercy, as his hand slammed down on France's ass, hurting him just for the sake of causing him more pain. At the time, he'd said it was for the rebellion, but in truth, he'd just wanted to hurt France. Gilbert had wanted to break France, see the pain in his eyes, and know he'd put it there, that he and only he could be given that look of agony. It was his alone, he'd wanted to believe. He’d been almost mad with power at that point, and twisted in with it was a passionate love that demanded he make his mark on France, take complete possession and control over him.)

France had always been beloved to him. Elegant, bright eyed, and full of sensual promise, but able to tear a man or nation asunder with just a biting glance; oh that was France. From the very first time they’d met he'd wanted the other nation, had wanted to call him his own, and his alone. Gilbert remembered being so jealous, so insane with anger if any other nation much as touched France that in private his own Kings had feared the consequences and tried to isolate him.

Gilbert shifted in his seat. He felt anxious and guilty and excited at the prospect of seeing France again. Although he’d mistreated France, lost all right to even look at him, he was still as attracted to him now as he’d ever been. But...he was collared now and that was a solemn, sacred oath to him. He'd promised unto death, and pledged his all to his Dom, sworn to honor and respect the bond tying them together. There were many things Gilbert had lied about, would still lie about in fact, but this wasn't one of them. The oath he'd made hadn't been the carefully written out negotiations that so many pairings were these days. No, he'd gone the old route, the way it should be done, the way it had been done since the time of Rome himself.

He'd vowed not only his body and sword arm to Matthew's care, but also his very soul for all eternity. It was an oath Gilbert would hold to till the end of days, when the stars went dark and the skies burned.

He shouldn't be stuck on the memory of how France looked when the endorphins hit and took him to another place. Blue eyes, melted in hazy pleasure, his pupils blown out wide. He'd never break his training and beg without permission, but oh what he could do with his body...Gilbert shivered, feeling torn even now. Matthew was what he needed and wanted or he'd never have taken this step but...it wasn't fair to Matt if he still wanted France, was it?

Was he breaking his oath?

(And, a little voice whispered insidiously, what right did he have to ask anything of France after what he'd done to him? A cool, snow-tempered voice added that he was lucky Matthew wanted him, useless, worn-out thing of war that he was, and that he had no right to even think of France.)

Gilbert groaned and motioned to the stewardess, "Beer, and keep 'em coming," he croaked. At the very least, he might be able to take the edge off and not think about this anymore during the long flight back to Berlin.

Sometimes, although he was very happy for his friend, Francis thought Antonio's new found happiness was annoying. It wasn't like Antonio had actually managed to get his beloved Romano into his bed, but nonetheless it seemed like their strained relationship had finally begun to heal. Francis wished them the best. It'd be better, he mused, if Antonio stopped denying his needs and paid attention to the fact that Romano was all but made for him. Arthur had once grimly noted how adept Antonio was at not seeing things he didn't want to see, and though at the time the comment had been in relation to how lovely Antonio had not wanted to give up his claim to Arthur, Francis found he had to agree with the sentiment.

Normally Francis would be inclined to do everything he could to encourage this burgeoning relationship, but at the moment he was a bit morose thanks to an upcoming event Antonio himself had planned and that kept him from feeling particularly charitable.

Prussia.

Francis grabbed blindly for the nearest bottle of wine, ignoring that he was opening one of the more expensive varieties in his kitchen.

He hadn't seen his erstwhile lover in years. Ivan had held onto Prussia, even after the wall had come down, reluctantly giving him up two months later.

Oh, he'd seen the other in passing, when no one seemed to notice where his attention was drifting. Prussia seemed to follow little Ludwig around like a lost puppy, completely without the energy and determination he’d had before the war. France shuddered, remembering when that passion had been so focused on him. Still, it made him sad to see someone he’d once called friend and lover so drastically changed. But the idea of speaking to him? Trying to initiate contact?

No.

For one thing, it seemed to upset his legions of diplomats and politicians whenever he sought out news of Prussia. It certainly upset his House, who felt he needed anything but news of the red-eyed nation. In fact, he thought wryly, his House would likely hold a celebration should Prussia vanish off the face of the earth. It didn't help matters any that England glared like an overprotective mother-country with a newly made colony every time a German nation got close to him during a world meeting. It also, he admitted with another desperate gulp, didn't help with his own attitude.

Prussia had hurt him, hurt him badly and where no one else had been able to reach.

(No one but a big blue-eyed colony tugging on his jacket tails, his mind whispered.)

Francis didn't recall much of the last bloody months of his liberation. He remembered things in spurts and lurches like some drunkard stumbling down an alleyway.

He remembered Arthur suddenly being there and the yelling. "Hang in there, you bloody frog!"

Pain. He remembered near constant pain. Some of it was the trenches etched into his lands, soaked with the blood of his people, but a fair amount of it was something else. Francis told everyone he didn't remember Vichy France, that the whole time was like a blank in his mind.

"Mon dieu." He took another swig, not tasting the wine, as his hands shook with the suppressed emotions he thought he'd dealt with.

The truth was, Francis remembered Vichy France with a clarity he rarely had for other memories associated with the Great Wars.

He remembered Prussia's hands on his cool skin, warm to the touch. He remembered the feel of those black leather gloves. Prussia's red eyes, gleaming with triumph. The bite of a whip, eating into his soul. The comfort of wordless crooning. Prussia singing softly to him, body cradled against the other nation's, even as his white skin dripped with Francis's blood.

He remembered the Collar, thick and sturdy. Black leather and polished steel.

He remembered kneeling for Prussia in a hall of red and black.

It was afterward that things got blurry. His first clear memory post D-Day was of his Matthieu and of Arthur.

Arthur had been sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed he was laying in. The Englishman was snoring, head tucked down against his chest. He'd looked like hell, bruises and cuts littering his visible skin, and a broken arm slung across his chest. His heart ached for his sometimes friend, sometimes enemy. Francis had known, even then, that the injuries hiding under Arthur's too big uniform were bad, especially if he was still nursing a broken arm.

Matthew had leaned across him from the other side and gently swept back the loose hair from his forehead. "Are you back with us, Francis?"

It had been an abrupt, almost painful bit of kindness he'd not expected - and if he was honest with himself, something he hadn't wanted.

Despite what most of his fellow nations thought, Antonio was fully aware of what was going on around him. He just found it easier to get things done if people thought he was oblivious to what was going on. It was, according to Roderick, incredibly passive-aggressive. But then, Antonio grinned to himself, it took one to know one. He still fondly teased the uptight Austrian about how long it took him to realize how much he needed Elizabeth. By pretending to be oblivious, he got his way in most things. He'd kept Romano with him for so long by simply pretending the south Italian was merely his charge regardless of what he actually wanted to do to him - tie him up, make him scream till he lost his voice, gorge himself on Romano.

Tonight's bar run was a perfect example of how well he'd honed his mask of obliviousness. Antonio knew something had happened between his friends. He wasn't sure precisely what, but he had a good enough idea to have figured most of it out. There was very little that could have earned Gilbert a virtual death sentence, and left Francis too body shy to submit to anyone but a mortal. He picked up his glass of sherry and admired the fine brown color. Off in the corner, Gilbert had discovered a karaoke machine and was in the process of forcing the thing to life. Francis was harassing the poor bartender to give up "the truly fine wine, not the swill you serve the English!"

Antonio wondered what might have happened had he interfered. He'd known there was something off in the French-Prussian relations, but had chosen to not interfere. Surely, he'd thought at the time, the Prussian Kings would see to it that nothing would get out of hand. They hadn't. Looking back, Antonio now knew it was due to the Prussian people's hate of those who were switches. Gilbert would have had to make a choice, and he'd chosen the safest route for himself and his people - to be a Dominant minded nation. He hadn’t learned the value of submission, the freedom and joy of letting go, until it was too late. If he'd said something, maybe forced Gilbert to submit to another, perhaps it all could have been avoided.

(This would be another thing he would confess to his priest later, yet another reason why he would keep denying himself Romano. He hadn't been able to see what was in front of his face back then, how could he expect to do so for someone so essential to his heart now? He surely had no right to think of Romano as his after all he hadn't done.)

The karaoke machine gave a lurch and then a horrific screech before Gilbert let out a laugh. "Fuck yeah! Now this is officially Awesome!" The Prussian pointed to the nearest human. "You! You there," he demanded. The poor man looked terrified. "Select a song and commence with the singing!"

"This shall not end well, mon ami," France muttered beside him. Antonio nodded. Gilbert, while not plastered yet - the night was far too young for that - was still wound up on a mixer of adrenaline, caffeine, and fine alcohols.

"Ludwig promised to keep us out of jail."

France sighed next to him. "Non, this," he gestured towards his neck. "This thing of his."

"Matthew seems like a nice nation," he offered. "Bit forgettable though, especially for a Lion. They tend to be more noticeable." Francis glared at him. "I suppose it's a bit sudden," Antonio continued. "But he seems happy enough."

He tried to not flinch at the soft, "But what about me," that came from Francis. He sighed to himself - Matthew had better know what he was doing - and wrapped an arm around Francis's shoulders. It was the first time he'd touched Francis that wasn't a handshake at some official function since the Great Wars ended. He wasn't certain, but he was pretty sure it was also the first time Francis had willingly touched a Dominant nation outside of official functions.

Without meaning to, his eyes looked over towards where Gilbert stood next to the machine. Gilbert had an odd look on his face, almost like he was grieving something, before it was wiped away by a forced cheerfulness as the Prussian turned back to beleaguered humans trying to sing along to some American pop musician.

Oh yes. Matthew had damn well better know what he was doing - or peaceful nation or no, Antonio would remind the young nation just why he'd once been one of the most feared of all nations.