[FIC] Lux Aeterna
Title: Lux Aeterna
Author: mikkary_bones
Characters/Pairing: France/England (Hetalia)
Prompt: "the ghost of Christmas future," what_the_fruk's holiday event
Warning: Angst, post-apocalyptic
Notes: This is depressing; don't read it if you're looking for a happy fic.
The landscape is blasted, empty. The shells of buildings tower above rubble, steel pitted and scored but still gleaming faintly in the yellowish light of the rising sun. It is still possible to see faint outlines of streets, even though the pavement is already cracked and buckling. But they are not looking at the streets, or the destroyed buildings, or their sad, foolish children below them. Arthur is looking at Francis, and Francis is looking at the sky.
It seems like an eternity has passed since they had seen blue skies. After the blast, everything was black and red, the smoke and ash in the sky reflecting the dull red glows of agonizing fires, everywhere. Then, slowly, the smoke cleared, only to be replaced by sickly, low-hanging clouds, through which the sun shines as a dull red orb. Ash and dust is everywhere. They're breathing it in even now, Francis knows, despite the rags with which they occasionally cover their mouths. With every inhale, a fine layer of cancerous dust coats the insides of their lungs. Whenever Francis coughs, now, his phlegm is gray and speckled with blood.
"Good morning," Arthur says. His voice is hoarse, he doubles over and coughs into his hand (surreptitiously wiping it on his jacket) before he lets his head fall back down onto Francis's lap. "Have you been sitting here all night?" He fell asleep like this, his head in Francis's lap, Francis's hands in his hair.
"I slept a little," Francis replies, giving him a small smile. He knows he has dark circles under his eyes, that his cheekbones are hollow, that his lips are chapped and cracked, that his hair hangs bedraggled down in front of his face. Arthur's own hair is thin, brittle; he, too, is suffering from the effects of hunger, perhaps more so than Francis. When Francis watched him sleep the night before, Arthur would occasionally whimper like a dog or a very small child, and Francis would soothe him with murmurs and a barely remembered lullaby. He sighs and leans back against the steel pillar. "What month is it?" he asks Arthur, staring directly at the sun. It does not burn his eyes at all.
Arthur frowns as he tries to remember, and Francis resists the urge to smooth out the crease between his brows. "I don't-- winter, it must be," he says finally. "Because it was October first when the--"
"Yes," Francis agrees, cutting Arthur off before he says it. Not that Francis is superstitious, but... he is, a little, and certain things have always been best left unsaid. Unremembered. It feels as though they have been in this hellish purgatory for all time, with a red sun and falling ash and looted buildings. "And it's cold."
Wonderingly, Arthur uncurls a little, stretching out a hand. Francis can see the pale skin of his fingers through the ragged fabric of his torn glove. "So it is," he says finally. His hand dangles off the edge of the blasted building, floating in space like a ghost, Francis thinks, or an angel. They don't feel the cold anymore, not really. It's not like the old days, when winter cut through clothing like a knife, and the howling wind was an agony to endure. Now it is a dull sensation of numbness, like frostbite, Francis thinks, but all his limbs are working fine. That doesn't bode well for his general cohesiveness, and he knows it. He thinks it's the same for Arthur, too. "I wonder how many days it's been," Arthur says after a while, still swishing his fingers through the air.
"Months," Francis corrects him. "Months have passed." Though, even if he had been trying to keep track, it would have been difficult in those chaotic early days, when the world (Europe, at least) seemed enveloped in endless night.
"It must be December," Arthur replies, and then gives a dry laugh. "Maybe it's Christmas."
Francis thinks about that -- it's plausible -- and then shakes his head. "I wonder if anyone knows for sure."
"Maybe elsewhere," Arthur says. "Not here."
No, not here, Francis agrees silently. Not here, where his people eke out an existence on what food they can find. They are still looting grocery stores; their misery has not progressed to the point where they would feast on one another's flesh. Not quite, not yet, but the air is only growing colder.
"I wish I could have died on my own land," Arthur continues, "I mean, if I had a choice about it, that would be ideal." Francis, who has been staring, once again, at the sun, looks down at him with a faint air of surprise. For everything they have spoken about, or done, they never before talked about death so bluntly. "But it is nice to be here with you," Arthur adds hastily. "I suppose... if I could have all that I wanted, I would be in England now -- with you. And my people would be safe." He coughs again, doubling over, the weight of his head leaving Francis's lap as he curled in on himself. When he finally laid back down, his green eyes were dull and his expression was exhausted.
"I am glad you are here," Francis replied, smoothing his fingers as softly as he could through Arthur's knotted hair. "With me. At the end of all things."
Arthur sighs deeply, which leads to another coughing fit. When that settles, he puts his head back on Francis's knee and looks up at him. "It is the end, isn't it? Of us, at least. And you're on your own land, with me, with your people; you selfish bastard, you always get what you want." His grin is crooked and his eyes are filled with pain.
"If I could have changed it--"
"You wouldn't have, but ideally we could have both gotten our way. If that wasn't impossible." Arthur takes a small breath and then looked away. Instinctively, Francis leaned forward and grasped his hand, intertwining their fingers. Arthur squeezes Francis's hand; it is his own way of apologizing and simultaneously offering forgiveness. (Francis thinks it is both wondrous and bittersweet, how they two can say any number of things to each other without even speaking at all.)
Leaning down, ignoring the dull pain that grows in his back and shoulders with every movement, Francis kisses Arthur on the forehead. His dry lips brush skin and that is enough, for them, for now; they are old and tired. "How much longer, do you think?"
"For me, or for you?" Arthur retorts, giving Francis that same crooked grin. "I know I'm going first."
"Don't say that," Francis replies quickly, even though it has already been said and the words twisted in his heart like a knife. "I couldn't-- I mean--" Even now, after so long, the words stick in his throat: I couldn't live without you, I mean, I need you!
But of course, Arthur knows that already. He doesn't need to say anything. "Selfish," Arthur says, and laughs, even though his expression is more like a grimace. "How do you think I'd feel, frog, if you just up and-- left me here?" He tries to make it a joke, but his voice is too choked with emotion, and his fingers tighten in Francis's.
"Oh," Francis replies, by which he means so many things.
They sit for a while and Francis imagines -- what if today, no different from the stream of days ahead and behind him, is Christmas? What if yesterday was Christmas, or tomorrow is Christmas? What does it matter? They can't even feel the cold, up here, alone, dying, but Francis knows his people can. Do any of them know that today might be Christmas? And what a gift, this: gray skies, red sun, ashes, starvation, death.
It's only a matter of time. Francis has spent a long time pondering death, its necessity, and what death means to a nation. But he feels like the deaths he knew before this and the death he foresees now are two completely different things. They will not go down like Rome or Germania. They will simply... disappear, won't they? Will they fade into dust and ashes like the sky, or will their bodies remain here, skeletal remnants of countries, forever? It's a morbid thought and it makes Francis's stomach twist. Perhaps something of his conflict shows in his face or his body, because Arthur breaks the silence. "What is it? What are you thinking about?"
"Where do we go, do you think, once we die?" Francis asks him, which isn't quite what he was thinking, but it will do. "We are not human, and so I do not think our fates would be the same as theirs, whatever... that fate might be. And yet... we have feelings, such as they are, perhaps we even have souls. Will we, too, fly up to Paradise?"
"Paradise?" Arthur echoes sardonically. And Francis knows what he means -- their kind, at least the two of them, are not meant for "Paradise" in any traditional sense. "And religion? You're bringing that back here, now, of all places?"
Francis laughs a little. "I cannot help it," he says mildly. "It is who I am."
Arthur brings their intertwined hands to his lips and kisses Francis's fingers. "I hope there's nothing, when we die, you know. I'd like to rest for a while, after all of this. Rest forever."
"To die, to sleep -- to sleep, perchance to dream," Francis replies quietly, "ay, there's the rub." He is startled by Arthur's answering laugh, loud in the quiet, but still coming out muffled by ash and dust and the oppressive cold.
"Shakespeare, ahhh," Arthur says. "I don't know if I want to live in a world where the Bard is forgotten."
You won't have to, Francis thinks, and it's bitter, but it's a thought that he keeps to himself. "Isn't it amazing, how quickly our people forget?" Forget the past, forget the future, forget their nation. "If I did not love them I think I would be quite... lonely."
"If you didn't have me here, you mean," Arthur says, levering himself up onto an elbow and then sitting up. His frame is thin and his body looks fragile; Francis knows that his condition is not much better. "Thank God we can remember each other." He scoots back until he is leaning against the same wide steel beam as Francis, their bodies close together, hands intertwined. From a closer point of view, Arthur looks even worse; his skin has taken on a pale, waxy hue, and his eyes are glassy. Francis squeezes his hand.
"I will remember you -- as long as I am alive, you will exist in my memory," Francis says suddenly, his voice low and intense, his nose close enough to brush Arthur's dull cheek. Francis wants to cry, to scream, to rage against the heavens from where this apocalypse came; no, he can't go before me, I need him, I need him. But all of it goes without saying, and when Arthur turns to look at him, their noses brush together.
There is a strange depth to Arthur's green eyes, like they have found and held all that was once green and growing on the earth -- fields and forests and gardens in the summertime. Francis catches his breath. There is memory in Arthur's eyes, there is everything, and some part of Francis wonders whether his eyes look the same, full of (perhaps) the ocean and the sky. "I'm not dead yet, you know," Arthur tells him, their lips almost touching, their breath mingling. "There's still life in me."
"Yes," Francis breathes. There is life, so much life, stored up in Arthur's fragile, wasted body; Francis wonders (hopes) that he is the same way. He thinks about how fires burn brightest before they gutter out and how much life there is in this world, even after destruction rained down from the sky. How much hope there is for humanity after all, even now.
"And love," Arthur adds. "There's love in me yet." He doesn't even blush as he leans in and presses his lips to Francis's; oh, how far they've come, Francis thinks, as he kisses softly back. The kiss ends as gently as it began, and Arthur touches Francis's face with his free hand. "Let's pretend it's Christmas," he says.
"It's Christmas, and I love you," Francis replies, leaning into him.
Arthur huffs a little, back to his old self; his grin is crooked but his eyes are sweet and still full of life. Love, perhaps? Francis wonders. Hope? Fire? "I hope you're not pretending," he says wryly.
And Francis laughs, kissing Arthur's fingers once more. "Happy Christmas," he says.
"Joyeux Noël," Arthur replies.
Around them, the ashes are still falling from the sky, but if Francis doesn't think about that, if he thinks about Arthur, instead, and hope, and memory, it looks like it's snowing.
Author: mikkary_bones
Characters/Pairing: France/England (Hetalia)
Prompt: "the ghost of Christmas future," what_the_fruk's holiday event
Warning: Angst, post-apocalyptic
Notes: This is depressing; don't read it if you're looking for a happy fic.
The landscape is blasted, empty. The shells of buildings tower above rubble, steel pitted and scored but still gleaming faintly in the yellowish light of the rising sun. It is still possible to see faint outlines of streets, even though the pavement is already cracked and buckling. But they are not looking at the streets, or the destroyed buildings, or their sad, foolish children below them. Arthur is looking at Francis, and Francis is looking at the sky.
It seems like an eternity has passed since they had seen blue skies. After the blast, everything was black and red, the smoke and ash in the sky reflecting the dull red glows of agonizing fires, everywhere. Then, slowly, the smoke cleared, only to be replaced by sickly, low-hanging clouds, through which the sun shines as a dull red orb. Ash and dust is everywhere. They're breathing it in even now, Francis knows, despite the rags with which they occasionally cover their mouths. With every inhale, a fine layer of cancerous dust coats the insides of their lungs. Whenever Francis coughs, now, his phlegm is gray and speckled with blood.
"Good morning," Arthur says. His voice is hoarse, he doubles over and coughs into his hand (surreptitiously wiping it on his jacket) before he lets his head fall back down onto Francis's lap. "Have you been sitting here all night?" He fell asleep like this, his head in Francis's lap, Francis's hands in his hair.
"I slept a little," Francis replies, giving him a small smile. He knows he has dark circles under his eyes, that his cheekbones are hollow, that his lips are chapped and cracked, that his hair hangs bedraggled down in front of his face. Arthur's own hair is thin, brittle; he, too, is suffering from the effects of hunger, perhaps more so than Francis. When Francis watched him sleep the night before, Arthur would occasionally whimper like a dog or a very small child, and Francis would soothe him with murmurs and a barely remembered lullaby. He sighs and leans back against the steel pillar. "What month is it?" he asks Arthur, staring directly at the sun. It does not burn his eyes at all.
Arthur frowns as he tries to remember, and Francis resists the urge to smooth out the crease between his brows. "I don't-- winter, it must be," he says finally. "Because it was October first when the--"
"Yes," Francis agrees, cutting Arthur off before he says it. Not that Francis is superstitious, but... he is, a little, and certain things have always been best left unsaid. Unremembered. It feels as though they have been in this hellish purgatory for all time, with a red sun and falling ash and looted buildings. "And it's cold."
Wonderingly, Arthur uncurls a little, stretching out a hand. Francis can see the pale skin of his fingers through the ragged fabric of his torn glove. "So it is," he says finally. His hand dangles off the edge of the blasted building, floating in space like a ghost, Francis thinks, or an angel. They don't feel the cold anymore, not really. It's not like the old days, when winter cut through clothing like a knife, and the howling wind was an agony to endure. Now it is a dull sensation of numbness, like frostbite, Francis thinks, but all his limbs are working fine. That doesn't bode well for his general cohesiveness, and he knows it. He thinks it's the same for Arthur, too. "I wonder how many days it's been," Arthur says after a while, still swishing his fingers through the air.
"Months," Francis corrects him. "Months have passed." Though, even if he had been trying to keep track, it would have been difficult in those chaotic early days, when the world (Europe, at least) seemed enveloped in endless night.
"It must be December," Arthur replies, and then gives a dry laugh. "Maybe it's Christmas."
Francis thinks about that -- it's plausible -- and then shakes his head. "I wonder if anyone knows for sure."
"Maybe elsewhere," Arthur says. "Not here."
No, not here, Francis agrees silently. Not here, where his people eke out an existence on what food they can find. They are still looting grocery stores; their misery has not progressed to the point where they would feast on one another's flesh. Not quite, not yet, but the air is only growing colder.
"I wish I could have died on my own land," Arthur continues, "I mean, if I had a choice about it, that would be ideal." Francis, who has been staring, once again, at the sun, looks down at him with a faint air of surprise. For everything they have spoken about, or done, they never before talked about death so bluntly. "But it is nice to be here with you," Arthur adds hastily. "I suppose... if I could have all that I wanted, I would be in England now -- with you. And my people would be safe." He coughs again, doubling over, the weight of his head leaving Francis's lap as he curled in on himself. When he finally laid back down, his green eyes were dull and his expression was exhausted.
"I am glad you are here," Francis replied, smoothing his fingers as softly as he could through Arthur's knotted hair. "With me. At the end of all things."
Arthur sighs deeply, which leads to another coughing fit. When that settles, he puts his head back on Francis's knee and looks up at him. "It is the end, isn't it? Of us, at least. And you're on your own land, with me, with your people; you selfish bastard, you always get what you want." His grin is crooked and his eyes are filled with pain.
"If I could have changed it--"
"You wouldn't have, but ideally we could have both gotten our way. If that wasn't impossible." Arthur takes a small breath and then looked away. Instinctively, Francis leaned forward and grasped his hand, intertwining their fingers. Arthur squeezes Francis's hand; it is his own way of apologizing and simultaneously offering forgiveness. (Francis thinks it is both wondrous and bittersweet, how they two can say any number of things to each other without even speaking at all.)
Leaning down, ignoring the dull pain that grows in his back and shoulders with every movement, Francis kisses Arthur on the forehead. His dry lips brush skin and that is enough, for them, for now; they are old and tired. "How much longer, do you think?"
"For me, or for you?" Arthur retorts, giving Francis that same crooked grin. "I know I'm going first."
"Don't say that," Francis replies quickly, even though it has already been said and the words twisted in his heart like a knife. "I couldn't-- I mean--" Even now, after so long, the words stick in his throat: I couldn't live without you, I mean, I need you!
But of course, Arthur knows that already. He doesn't need to say anything. "Selfish," Arthur says, and laughs, even though his expression is more like a grimace. "How do you think I'd feel, frog, if you just up and-- left me here?" He tries to make it a joke, but his voice is too choked with emotion, and his fingers tighten in Francis's.
"Oh," Francis replies, by which he means so many things.
They sit for a while and Francis imagines -- what if today, no different from the stream of days ahead and behind him, is Christmas? What if yesterday was Christmas, or tomorrow is Christmas? What does it matter? They can't even feel the cold, up here, alone, dying, but Francis knows his people can. Do any of them know that today might be Christmas? And what a gift, this: gray skies, red sun, ashes, starvation, death.
It's only a matter of time. Francis has spent a long time pondering death, its necessity, and what death means to a nation. But he feels like the deaths he knew before this and the death he foresees now are two completely different things. They will not go down like Rome or Germania. They will simply... disappear, won't they? Will they fade into dust and ashes like the sky, or will their bodies remain here, skeletal remnants of countries, forever? It's a morbid thought and it makes Francis's stomach twist. Perhaps something of his conflict shows in his face or his body, because Arthur breaks the silence. "What is it? What are you thinking about?"
"Where do we go, do you think, once we die?" Francis asks him, which isn't quite what he was thinking, but it will do. "We are not human, and so I do not think our fates would be the same as theirs, whatever... that fate might be. And yet... we have feelings, such as they are, perhaps we even have souls. Will we, too, fly up to Paradise?"
"Paradise?" Arthur echoes sardonically. And Francis knows what he means -- their kind, at least the two of them, are not meant for "Paradise" in any traditional sense. "And religion? You're bringing that back here, now, of all places?"
Francis laughs a little. "I cannot help it," he says mildly. "It is who I am."
Arthur brings their intertwined hands to his lips and kisses Francis's fingers. "I hope there's nothing, when we die, you know. I'd like to rest for a while, after all of this. Rest forever."
"To die, to sleep -- to sleep, perchance to dream," Francis replies quietly, "ay, there's the rub." He is startled by Arthur's answering laugh, loud in the quiet, but still coming out muffled by ash and dust and the oppressive cold.
"Shakespeare, ahhh," Arthur says. "I don't know if I want to live in a world where the Bard is forgotten."
You won't have to, Francis thinks, and it's bitter, but it's a thought that he keeps to himself. "Isn't it amazing, how quickly our people forget?" Forget the past, forget the future, forget their nation. "If I did not love them I think I would be quite... lonely."
"If you didn't have me here, you mean," Arthur says, levering himself up onto an elbow and then sitting up. His frame is thin and his body looks fragile; Francis knows that his condition is not much better. "Thank God we can remember each other." He scoots back until he is leaning against the same wide steel beam as Francis, their bodies close together, hands intertwined. From a closer point of view, Arthur looks even worse; his skin has taken on a pale, waxy hue, and his eyes are glassy. Francis squeezes his hand.
"I will remember you -- as long as I am alive, you will exist in my memory," Francis says suddenly, his voice low and intense, his nose close enough to brush Arthur's dull cheek. Francis wants to cry, to scream, to rage against the heavens from where this apocalypse came; no, he can't go before me, I need him, I need him. But all of it goes without saying, and when Arthur turns to look at him, their noses brush together.
There is a strange depth to Arthur's green eyes, like they have found and held all that was once green and growing on the earth -- fields and forests and gardens in the summertime. Francis catches his breath. There is memory in Arthur's eyes, there is everything, and some part of Francis wonders whether his eyes look the same, full of (perhaps) the ocean and the sky. "I'm not dead yet, you know," Arthur tells him, their lips almost touching, their breath mingling. "There's still life in me."
"Yes," Francis breathes. There is life, so much life, stored up in Arthur's fragile, wasted body; Francis wonders (hopes) that he is the same way. He thinks about how fires burn brightest before they gutter out and how much life there is in this world, even after destruction rained down from the sky. How much hope there is for humanity after all, even now.
"And love," Arthur adds. "There's love in me yet." He doesn't even blush as he leans in and presses his lips to Francis's; oh, how far they've come, Francis thinks, as he kisses softly back. The kiss ends as gently as it began, and Arthur touches Francis's face with his free hand. "Let's pretend it's Christmas," he says.
"It's Christmas, and I love you," Francis replies, leaning into him.
Arthur huffs a little, back to his old self; his grin is crooked but his eyes are sweet and still full of life. Love, perhaps? Francis wonders. Hope? Fire? "I hope you're not pretending," he says wryly.
And Francis laughs, kissing Arthur's fingers once more. "Happy Christmas," he says.
"Joyeux Noël," Arthur replies.
Around them, the ashes are still falling from the sky, but if Francis doesn't think about that, if he thinks about Arthur, instead, and hope, and memory, it looks like it's snowing.