Hetalia Deaths

Francis Bonnefoy (France)

This chapter is about Francis Bonnefoy, a rape victim and male prostitute who died of AIDS.*quick warning* This is probably going to be one of the 'darkest' chapters in this series, so... yeah. I also have some French in this one and translations are right underneath the phrases.
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So this was where his decisions had gotten him. Maybe it would have been better if he had chosen a far less questionable career. His parents wanted him to get into the banking business; he would have even made a good starving artist. But, difficult circumstances and the cruel reality of life had steered him in a far different direction.

But now that Francis sat on a pristine white hospital bed, weak, dangerously warm, depressed and far too thin, he was really questioning if prostitution was the only direction he could've gone. There must have been other ways to earn money in a short amount of time.

He sighed. Oh well, the damage is already done.

He glanced down at his pale forearms and furiously tried to scrub away the red lesions that had begun forming a couple of weeks ago. According to the doctors that attended to him in this antiseptic-scented Parisian hospital room, he really didn't have long.

Up until that incident, Francis hadn't even encountered the disease that was now wreaking havoc on his body. He had been anything but pure, but he only interacted with clients who he knew had no exposure to the disease and protection was always used. But, one night, he took a wrong turn not just on his way home, but in his life. It wasn't something he cared to remember, but his mind was clear of anything else, so it wandered into dark territory.

Paris in the springtime was a sight to behold. Flowering trees lined the banks of the Seine, the smell of fresh crepes wafting through the streets and there was a gentle breeze that wound its way through the alleys and streets at night. It sounded stereotypical, but almost every ounce of the American-hyped image was true. Almost.

Francis had just finished... meeting with a client. He was making his way through the deuxieme arondissement, heading back to the hotel he frequented when he visited the bustling business district full of... clients. That gentle breeze was blowing and the smell from a small café tickled his nose, so he decided to close his eyes and let his feet guide him on the now very familiar path.

He continued on like this for a considerable amount of time, the diverse conversations of Paris' citizens drifting in and out his ears. Despite his iffy career and the fact that he worried about not making rent almost every other month, Francis was content. Thinking over the past memories he had that were pleasant, he lost himself in his mind and momentarily lost his bearings.

An acrid scent reached his nose, and the pleasant chatter faded way into the background. Surprised by the sudden change, he opened his eyes, scrunching his eyebrows in response to the sight in front of him. One of the dark alleys that lined Paris' streets, mildew lined and full of the sounds of rats' claws on cement or cobblestone. They ran in systems behind buildings, which could allow one to get quite lost; a predicament Francis found himself in now. Looking behind and in front of him, all he could see were the trash bins behind buildings, overflowing with packaging. He sighed, and continued his wandering.

Perhaps I'll see if I can find someone, he thought. There has to be someone around here...

After a good couple blocks' worth of walking, he noticed a man in a loose coat having a smoke. Although he didn't appear to be the friendliest of sorts, he went ahead and asked where in the hell he was. Paris was his city, but he didn't know the behind-the-scenes areas.

"Excuse-moi? Est-ce que tu sais ou nous sommes? Je suis incroyablement perdu..." *Excuse me? Do you know where we are? I'm incredibly lost...* He gave the man a half smile, somewhat embarrassed at how lost he was.

"Oui, tu es tres perdu..." *Yes, you are very lost...* The man responded, giving him a quick once-over. "Venez." He turned and started walking.

Francis followed in his wake. About five minutes later, he started wondering why it was taking so long. "Est-ce que tu sais ou tu vais? Nous marchions pour cinq minutes." *Do you know where you're going? We have been walking for five minutes.*

A gruff, "Bien sur," *Of course* was the response.

A couple of minutes later, they stopped. "Ici, prends ce. L'odeur ici n'est pas bon." *Here, take this. The smell here isn't good.* He offered a small cloth that he implied he hold over his mouth. He obliged, being rather foolish. How naïve he was, to think that human beings were naturally kind people concerned about rancid scents.

He immediately began to feel light headed, his nerves began to send alarm signals to his brain, but they were far too late.

When he woke up, Francis remembered feeling cold. He didn't have clothes on, which he wasn't entirely estranged to, but he did not remember taking them off, not did he remember binding his own wrists. Immediately, his heartbeat began to thrum against his ribcage. Although he liked playing it rough sometimes (and honestly had been in a similar position before), this wasn't his doing.

"Tu es éveillé, hm?" *You're awake, hm?* He heard a deep voice him sound. Unfortunately, a chorus of other voices filled the air behind him too, some of them even English.

"This'll be fun!"

"Oui, regardes son corps!" *Yes, look at his body!*

"Il a été un moment depuis que nous avons baisé personne." *It's been a while since we've fucked anyone*

They were crude, and he knew exactly what was going to happen to him now. Francis closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, tried to steady his pounding heart. Panic wouldn't help him. He felt hands reaching to yank his head up by his hair and he tried to block his senses.

"Je parie que vous êtes assez utilize..." *I bet you're pretty used.* A sneer. Whoever the man was, he smelled heavily of marijuana.

It was painful. All of it. He usually enjoyed sex, but there was no pleasure in what happened then. It was tears and bleeding and hurting hands. After they had finished, he remembered seeing his clothes thrown in a corner of the room, still intact, unlike him.

Two weeks later, still having told no one, after experiencing some peculiar symptoms, he went to see a doctor, who informed him of his regrettable condition. That had been about three months ago. Three months and his body and his mental strength had fallen to pieces. Especially lately, his condition had dramatically worsened. Somewhere in his own mind, he knew that he would probably be dead by the time the staff came in to draw blood the next morning.

He was laughable before, making his living as an escort, but now he deserved the laughter of a good stand up routine.

So there he sat in his hospital room, in his white gown.

"Mon dieu, comment pituyable." *My god, how pitiable.* He said quietly to himself, shaking his head.

That night, as he fell into a fitful sleep, he thought about how little he had amounted to. He had so many options. Maybe he should have gone into banking. He should have been a starving artist. He should have been anything but was he had been.

Oh well, he would have a chance to try again in a few moments, wouldn't he?
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When he and Angleterre met, the boy always accused France of perverted thoughts. Of perverted things. It was somewhat true, his mind wasn't the cleanest, but it wasn't at any fault of his own. Things had always been that way. He had always appreciated a woman's beautiful legs, the curve of her backside. He had always admired the muscle and sinew that moved under the skin of a young man. He didn't know why. It was just some small part of who the nation was.