It was a gloomy day in London -as per usual- and the weather affected Francis’ mood more than he cared to admit. He had already gone through more than half of his day’s supply of Gauloises, and it was only one in the afternoon. The Frenchman coughed after a rough inhale of his second last cigarette, as he was basically smoking the filter at this point. After his fit, he fumbles through his pocket to find his phone and his pack. He takes off his gloves and dials Arthur’s number with frozen fingers, and then lights his last cigarette with the butt of his old one.
He was in London for a meeting, and of course, he would make a point to see Arthur. Or at least contact him. He figured that the other would be offended if he didn’t, even though he would never admit to it. He’s currently waiting for a bus, coincidentally to the other’s house, and he takes an inhale as he waits for the other to pick up his phone.
“Arthur? You will never guess where I am right now.” He pauses. “Well, okay, do not guess. I am in your trashy city, and I am on my way to your place- are you home?” He says this in a light tone, a slight smile on his face. “I am freezing and I would like a coffee waiting for me.”
Arthur is roused from his spontaneous nap by shrill ringing piercing through the house. He finds himself grunting, shifting his face from beneath the book, and groggily reaches for the phone.
“Wot?”
He pulls it to his ear and winces as accent fills it. It takes him, well, not very long to realise who it is.
“Bloody ‘ell.” He mumbles to himself, rubbing at his face in a bid to wake himself up. He yawns. “There is such a thing as calling in advance, Frog.”
At Francis’ request, he’s already pulling himself to sitting properly. “Would you, now,” he mutters. Arthur knows that the kettle will at least be boiling by the time Francis arrives.
“Fine, whatever. You’re already on your way, no point stopping you now.”
He hangs up, and blearily looks at the time. He’d been asleep for over an hour. Woops.
with an air of coldness blue eyes take in everything around. the roses– left in
a golden vase had gone frail and dark in these two months he’s been away.
there’s a thick layer of dust that covers the fine rococo furniture, a sign that
the house hasn’t been inhabited in a long time. the smell– it’s dust and old,
books, the only comfort françois feels for returning ‘home’.
setting the bag of groceries down, he sighs and stretches.
‘ please excuse the mess. do you want a cup of coffee? ‘
Arthur looks around the building with some nonchalance. A prude, honed habit himself initially wants to wrinkle his nose at the dust and the lack of cleanliness in the room, but if he did he’d be hypocritical.
He knows what it’s like to disappear for months on end. And what life looks like when you leave it as it is.
With a sigh, trying not to stir the dust up too much, he moves to crumple the rose between his fingers, both for the sensation and the attempt of helping. At the question, he turns with a half hearted glare.
“Tea, please. And I’m surprised you didn’t hire a maid.”
[Text]: I actually can’t remember
[Text]: And that’s most likely because Alfred stole my phone as we were drinking.
[Text]: But if you wish to take me up on it…
[text] Oh, so it was your influence.
[text] Absolutely not. I’d rather shove that mirror up there myself rather than have you touch me.
[text]
[text] . Why were you drinking with Alfred?
[text]: ...
[text]: You know what happened last time you sent me one of these.
[text]: Also, really? This is the sort of stuff Alfred would come up with.
(Today is the 70th anniversary of Victory in Europe day, for those who don’t know. Here’s just a small tribute.)
They are sat around the rather regal table. There is a calm silence despite the cheers and singing that echoes from the streets outside. Churchill looks to an empty seat, raising an eyebrow to the monarch.
"Is he not joining us for lunch?"
George shakes his head, swallowing. There's a slight smile on his expression.
"No. You know what he's like." He looks out of the window, towards where the crowds are surging.
"Anyway, I feel that today really belongs to him."
-------
Arthur is beaten, battered, bruised, broken. He's still leaning on a crutch, still mottled with bruises, but he's there. He is surrounded by singing. People press by him on every side, but some recognise the uniform and they shout and thank him with a clap on his shoulder. Arthur is too happy to care about the pain.
It's over. It's over and that means no more wars and his people being scraped against European soil and night terrors of impending invasions and a broken Empire becoming more broken. He is surrounded by his people, who are dancing and singing and drinking and laughing. It's over. They can go home without wondering if they'll live the night. They can go home and sleep without wondering whether they'll wake up without a neighbourhood. They can live and not fear the future. Because the future is here. And it's safe.
When the royal family come out on the balcony for the first time Arthur is stood in the crowds below. The praise and shouts roll forward from seeing the head of the country - united, safe. They're safe. They're all safe.
Arthur bows his head, and tears move.
-------
It is sometime later before Arthur hesitantly picks up the phone. He hasn't talked to him since the liberation, a few months earlier.
It rings for a few moments, before a slightly weak voice sounds; "Oui?"
"Ah - Hello."
"... Hello, Angleterre.”
There's an awkward pause. Arthur stumbles
"I - er. I just phoned to say. ... Happy Victory Day. -- Bon Victoire -- or, something.”
There's a long pause, again. Arthur can say that he's legitimately scared when he finally hears Francis, because his voice cracks.
"... Ah... yes. Oui, c'est vrai. Bon victoire, Arthur."
The Briton doesn't know what to say to fill the emotion, so he simply ends the call.
-------
There is still time for a more somber moment, however. During the precedents of the day he manages to find his way to where Alfred has finally appeared. The American is watching the sea of people in absolute awe. It's only a moment before it splits into a grin and he stretches out his arms.
"Man, now this is what you call a party! Makes me wish I was home. I bet ya they're putting on a real beat in New York."
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can't help his own smile. His cheeks are aching from doing it all day. Resting on his crutch, he nods his head towards some of the troops he's with.
"Considering your inability to withdraw from people, I'm surprised it's took you so long to notice. I half expected you to be the centre of it."
Alfred starts to chuckle, but his expression thins a note. Arthur catches it, and realises. His own smile drops.
"... Any news from Japan?"
Alfred appears not to be paying attention, staring at a couple as they dance together. He shakes his head. "Naw. Looks like the damned bastard ain't givin' up so easily.”
It's the first time that Arthur's thoughts turn to Ludwig and Gilbert. He doesn't know what will happen to either of them, now. His heart starts to ache.
Arthur reaches and pats the younger male's arm. He sighs.
"We'll get there. It's nearly over."
-------
It's the end of the evening and crowds (almost unbelievably) are still singing. Most pubs have closed from running out of alcohol. People had been out all day, the royal family had embarked the balcony a record amount of times (Arthur was stood in the window for one of the occasions, and a mirthless part of him thinks how opportune a bombing would be right now with the ocean of people crammed in front of the palace), and yet there was no sign of it stopping. The joy and relief is still reverberating in Arthur's core, but it's also as though the last six years have suddenly caught up with him. He wants to sleep.
He doesn't hear the initial announcement, but all of a sudden he turns and sees half of London back in floodlights, illuminating his city for the first time since the start of the war.
He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it.
Arthur had forgotten how majestic things had looked in light, not when he'd spent years undercover, hiding in his own home from the onslaught, nights spent cursing in agony as the fear and deaths of his people struck in him night after night --
-- And even after that, the blanket of paranoia and despair that'd cover London and the rest of England night after night after night. No weather forecasts. No signs. No train announcements. No lights. Normality could resume. Arthur could go home. His people could live again, without breathing in fear.
Two ladies make their way out of St Paul's Cathedral, and by the cheers Arthur can easily conclude they were the ones who had placed the lights on the building. He manages to grab them as they're about to pass, pulling both of them in for a frail hug.
Who knows what they'd had to sit through. Who knows what fears they'd had. What pain they might have held to themselves from those around them. The doubt they'd had to carry. The sacrifices they all had to make. The hopes they'd had to give up for this godforsaken war. The future they might have lost.
Yet here they were, restoring the light back on home. Their weapons of defiance had become stations of hope.
Arthur holds them, murmurs "Thank you," and it's there he breaks, sobbing against their shoulders.
The two girls, looking at each other for a moment, resolve to hold the man, no doubt a war-weary soldier who was overwhelmed with relief.
headcanon that arthur absolutely dotes on queen liz. (applicable to a lot of his monarchy) he’s been around her her whole life - from helping her to walk as a baby to seeing her married to seeing her crowned queen - say or do anything bad towards her and you’ll have arthur to deal with.
devastated would be an understatement the day she dies.
Gilbert tried very hard not to sound too sardonic as Arthur brought up memories of the Second World War. For all his fame as the ‘Warrior state’, that particular battle was definitely not one of Gilbert’s favorites. Red eyes follow the blonde as he walked in before following right after,
“Yeah. Not really a raid or anything, but scouting out the area with the new recruits - Getting a feel for it, knowing the quickest routes and shortcuts to go through, where guards are the thickest - Stuff like that,”
He shrugged. Having lived on these streets for months before he was found by Gerhart and Lyov, the Prussian already knew the place like the back of his hand. He blinked at the question thrown at him, running a quick calculation in his mind.
“Ermm… I’d say about just a bit shy of 6 months?” Gilbert said, emerging out of the alley onto a new street, “Me and the other two founders, Frederick - He’s the one you heard talking to the guys back there, and Lyov - You haven’t met him, but you will later - We’re all escapees from one of the gulags around here. We know first hand what kind of fucked up shit goes on inside that prison,”
He almost growled, eyes narrowing, “So that’s one of our main goals - Trying to free other poor people from that hell - Giving them the help they need, helping them stay off the grid until we find a way to get them out of this city and into any other country that’s got to be safer than here,”
Arthur watches Gilbert during his explanation, before ducking his head in as he headed back towards the headquarters. He sounds a small ‘Hmm.’ In response to the Prussian’s aims, before his expression softens at his heart.
He can’t help but roll his eyes at himself, though.
“No wonder it was so easy for you to grab me. I commend you on your security.”
He pulls his hood down, looking aound again.
“Well, I suppose if you want to reach to gulag and free the prisoners - I can certainly help with intelligence on that. I’m not sure what more I can do that you haven’t already accomplished, though...”
The incredulity of what he’sd come and down is starting to hit him. For pete sake’s, he’s neutral. He shouldn’t even be here. What if he got caught? What then?”
He shakes his head, passing his sudden nerves off. He throws a question at Gilbert.
“... Do you know the whereabouts of Ivan?”
Who knows what this is doing to him.
“Well, when you go back, if Cameron decides to give you hell for leaving just like that, let me know and I’ll vouch for the fact that you were doing something worthwhile - Not just visiting a corpse.”
Gilbert let out a little laugh at his own morbid joke, opening the door that lead to the outside again. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped out, pulling the hood over his head again to conceal his silver hair.
“Here, while they’re having a debriefing in there, I should show you the route we take to get to the base safely - In case you should ever need it.” The Prussian lead his friend to the empty back road, listening to him speak as he shoved his own hands into his pockets to keep them warm.
“That’s okay,” he brushed off the Briton’s apology with a smile, “I didn’t expect that you would be able to stay here permanently anyway. You have your own people to take care of, after all. What matters to me is that you’re trying to help in some way. I’ll take anything you’ve got to offer while you’re here,”
And the words were truly sincere as he flashed him another smile, stopping in front of a dark alleyway. Despite Arthur’s neutral stance on the war, the fact that he risked his life to come all the way to Moscow to find him was enough to ward almost every bit of bitterness away from the Prussian’s heart.
“Well,” he started, gesturing into the alley, “This is one of the safest ways to reach the base. The best part is, this leads to more winding alleys so even if you’re being pursued by soldiers - They almost never make it past the 3rd turn,” a mocking scoff,
“Once you get to the 4th and finally the 5th alleys though, you’re in the clear and you just walk down the path we took to get to the building!”
Arthur is mostly quiet as the Prussian explains the different routes and escapes, mentally noting them for a later point, no doubt. Arthur had a tendency to run into trouble like this.
He gives a snort.
“I remember there being a time when I was memorising similar things to run away from you or Ludwig.” He remarks, turning back to the Prussian. “If they were just debriefing, I’m assuming you had just been on a run somewhere?”
He starts to head down the alley, memorising it for himself. He turns to look back.
“... How long have you been running this? I’m not certain what I can offer until I know what your current aims are.”
One miscalculation- and suddenly bullets stuck in his shoulder. For once Francis was the one who needed medical help. If he healed before the bullets could be removed it’d be even more of a pain to get them out. “Tch-” Looking around for the nearest ally, he did his very best not to panic.
He hated the Western Front.
Every sodding memory of the last 100 years spent in trenches and hiding in bushes or hedges or trees, gun clutched to his chest as water seeped through tattered boots. He hated it.
He’s stuck out here, again, and he hates it.
He glances us in the moment he sees Francis step out from behind a small hill and he drops. When he refuses to stand is when Arthur’s chest drops.
Peering over the edge of his own hole, Arthur scrabbles to the top and hurriedly crawls his way across. He grabs the Frenchman.
“Bloody idiot--” He mutters, panting as he starts dragging the male back to his own hole. It wasn’t that long since Arthur was the cause of Francis’ wounds.
He throws them both to the ground as firearms rattle above them, hand starting to stain from Francis’ blood as he attempts to stem the wound.
“--- What were you thinking?--”
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