[Fic] Diary Entries 3/?
Running his fingertips tentatively over the front of the leather journal, Arthur hesitated. The Brit knew full well he shouldn’t be doing this; he shouldn’t even have picked up Francis’ journal, but he was too worried not to. The frog wasn’t opening up to him and he had refused to speak one word about anything that had happened. England just had to know what was going on in the Frenchman’s mind, and the journal must have something in it that could aid him in helping the stupid git. But he was wasting time, France was asleep and, even though he was tossing and turning and it didn’t look the least bit restful, he needed to read the entry before Francis woke up. Arthur opened the freshly tattered cover slowly, eyes trained on the elegantly scrawled cursive.
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“No,” England hissed quietly, knuckles white as they clench the journal he had found on the rooftop, hidden under a loose shingle, “No, NO!” Francis had lied. That damned French bastard had lied to him. Arthur had hot tears in the corners of his eyes as he stared at the roof under him. France had been saying he was fine the entire day. He had been complaining about his stomach and a headache, but insisting he just needed to stay in bed -away from Arthur- and that it was just a common bug he had had for a little while. But… the damned frog had never met his eyes, not once did the dull, deep blue meet his, and he should have known. Francis was a terrible liar, and yet he didn’t even see it.
He looked back at the partly closed window, just barely able to see Francis tossing slightly under the covers, illuminated by the pale moonlight. No wonder you are such a wreck…bastard. He let out a quiet breath, sniffing in the cold night air and setting the barely-used journal on the roof-top again, pushing it away from him. Despite being less than a week old, it was a still little worse for wear - the cover scratched and a few of the pages ruined from some liquid since France had left it outside for the past few days after his drunken binge.
Arthur glared weakly at the journal, bringing up his legs to his chest and shivering slightly as a gust of cold air blew by. The Frenchman wasn’t getting much better, and looking through his few entries it was easy to see why. How could anyone get over something like this?
The Englishman rubbed the back of his neck and hung his head tiredly. “And I told him it was all in his head…fuck, why did you just agree?” he mumbled quietly to himself as the guilt washed over him in waves, it was a nauseating feeling.
Arthur had gotten absolutely livid at the Frenchman the day he had found him on the roof, drunk out of his ever-living mind. He had yelled, dragging him back inside and France had gone completely mad the moment Arthur had touched him, only causing the Brit to shout louder and pull harder. The Englishman had even threatened to dump him off at some hospital and just let real doctors take care of him so he could go back home to England. No wonder Francis had sobered up so quickly.
I can’t believe I threatened to leave, his hands moved up, clutching the sandy-blonde hair tightly. He thought he might actually pull it out; this all was just too much to handle. He wished he could make out the rest of the last entry; surely Francis had talked more about his time there. Hopefully it wasn’t just bad-mouthing Arthur, or saying how he was right for calling him a spoiled brat. Christ, why did I call him that?
“Bloody hell, Francis! I was just being stupid!” he grit out finally, feeling a few hairs separate from his head with his tighter grip. He slammed his eyes shut, willing his breathing to even out. England didn’t deserve to cry. He had lived through the Blitz and had the scars to prove it, but his experiences were nothing like France's.
“Angleterre?”
Arthur wiped his eyes on the back of his arm quickly before turning around, looking up at the haggard Frenchman standing in the window, obviously shaking. “O-oy- frog, I… thought you were asleep,” he said half-heartedly, swallowing slightly and attempting to inch away from the journal without drawing France’s attention to it.
Francis stared at Arthur, gripping the window frame tight as he saw the journal next to the Englishman. “You read it,” his voice came out weak and he sounded almost on the verge of tears. Fuck, don’t cry.
England was about to lie, to tell France it was just a coincidence that the journal was a few inches from his hand; until his green eyes met the dull, dark blue that looked so broken he couldn’t even think about deceiving him. “Yes, I did.”
“How- how could you? Angleterre I…” Francis paused, closing his eyes tight as his chin started to tremble. “I trusted you!”
Arthur turned back around, looking off at the dark horizon. “I know, I know- I’m sor-“
“Take me back to Paris,” France said quietly, interrupting the Brit’s apology.
Reaching over, Arthur picked up the book and stood up, shaking his head. “I can’t do that France. You still aren’t well, you need to get better,” he said as he started to walk back to the window, offering the dark journal to the Frenchman.
Francis shook his head, taking the book quickly and clutching it securely to his chest. Right over that blasted scar. No wonder he had locked the door behind him to change, he must be covered in scars. “Non, take me back. I do not need help from…from you,” he said evenly, starting back over to his bed.
Arthur watched him start to grab the few things he had come there with. The Brit had let Francis borrow his clothes, which fit surprisingly- they were even a bit baggy on his now lean frame. Years of not eating resulting in France probably weighing less than England now. It was an odd thought. The frog had always been the bigger of the two, if not in height, in his broad shoulders.
England clambered through the window and made to grab Francis’ arm. “No…France, do you really just want to go to some asylum? To have some doctors lock you away?”
“ I am too much of a burden on you anyway. You should be happy you do not ‘ave to take care of me anymore,” the Frenchman murmured quietly, moving away from the Brit’s reaching hand. There wasn’t any bitterness to his voice and somehow, that just made Arthur feel worse. No, that’s not true.
“No- no France I was…wrong, alright? I was being thick!” Arthur admitted quickly, pulling his hand back and watching Francis’ back carefully. “You can’t go.”
The Frenchman shook his head, clutching his few possessions to his chest and starting out of the room. “I can and I will. Just take me home, Angleterre,” he requested quietly, stopping in the doorframe. “Or I will find my way home some other way.”
Arthur crossed his arms, frowning at the shadowy figure in the doorway and shaking his head as well. "I read your journal, the last thing you need is people...” he said, trailing off. Please stay.
“Fine,” France said curtly, still facing away from Arthur, clinging to his few small possessions. “Then I will find my way back myself.” He started out of the doorway again with quick, retreating steps.
“France!” England called quickly, following after the Frenchman, hurrying down the steps to catch up to him. “Fine! If you really want to go, fine,” he said with an exhausted sigh, grabbing his thick coat off of a rack and pulling it on, offering Francis’ to him and not meeting those dull blue eyes. “I’ll take you.”
How could Arthur say no? He had betrayed France’s trust, and he honestly wasn’t even sure how to handle the Frenchman by himself. He wasn’t a doctor. He couldn’t do the things for Francis a real doctor -a real psychologist- could do, so maybe this was the right thing to do. England could always visit; he could check in on France and make sure the damn frog hadn’t completely lost his mind. Yes, this had to be the right thing to do.
…Right?