The Beautiful World (Hetalia Oneshots)

Dysphoria/France

Character: Francis Bonnefoy

Warning: Based around a reader who is ftm. This is something that hits very close to home, and that I wanted to share. If you feel uncomfortable, dont read it.
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You looked at yourself in the long mirror that hung on the wall.
You hated looking in mirrors for too long, after so long you start to see all the flaws in your reflection.

You'd honestly rather not see them.
Ignorance is bliss after all.

Despite your hatred towards your reflection, you couldn't look away.
The bump on your chest was driving you mad.
It wasn't too bad, infact you could have passed it off as muscle.

To someone who doesn't know about your transitioning, you would easily pass as the guy you want to be.
The guy you are.

But you knew.

You knew it wasn't muscle.
And knowing that your chest won't be completely flat till the you can afford the surgery kills you.

You had spent hours layering sports bras, and tightening binders. Even going against better judgment, and using an ace bandage, and tape.

Despite all that, it was still there.

You felt sadness, the disgust, wash over you like waves hugging the shore.
Tears pricked your eyes, threatening to fall as the nauseous feeling rose to your stomach at the mere thought of what lies under the layers of binding.

Dysphoria.

One of the most self hated things about being you.

You tried yet another layering of sports tape.
It squeezed your ribs in a painfully way, but it would all be worth it to lighten the disgust you felt.

You turned to the mirror, hopeful that your efforts paid off.
But alas luck isn't on your side.

The tears you has been working so hard to hold in finally fell down.

You let out a scream of frustration, punching the wall next to the mirror. A sharp sting went through your hand, but you didn't mind it much.

You sank to the floor, crying.
Normally you could brush it off, it was never this bad.
But pestering from the horrid thoughts made it worse.

What if I never get the surgery?

What if I have to be stuck like this forever?

Why does my chest have to be so visible?

Why can I just be me?

"Mon amour?" your lover, Francis, asked as he entered the bathroom after knocking on the door softly.

After seeing your state as you cried on the bathroom floor, he instantly joined you.

"Mon amour?" he said cupping your face gently, "what wrong?"
You shook your head and sobbed.

"(Name)," he cooed "tell me what wrong."
"M-m-my chest," you choked out in the broken voice of a adolescent boy, the testosterone was doing its job, which of the only things that you were glad for.

His blue eyes searches your topless form, and his expression changed to one of concern.
"Its okay, (Name)," he said taking you into a tight embrace.

Francis was one of the few people that supported you. He was there through every step you took.

When you came out.
Dysphoria.
Three a.m breakdowns.
When you decide you wanted to get surgery.
Your first T shot, and everyone after that.

Francis always treated you with respect, and never forgot.
You were never misgendered, or deadnamed by him, and if someone else were to, he was first to correct them.
He stayed by your side through the entire thing, he was your main support, and you couldn't be happier.

You cried into his shoulder, finding comfort in the way his arms felt around you, and the safety of his colonel encasing you in a cocoon of protection. The way he leaned his head against yours, allowing his blonde hair to tickle the skin of your shoulder.
In him just being him, and being there.

After you had calmed down to an extent, Francis broke the embrace. He leaned back, and ran his hands from your arms to your face, cupping your cheeks gently.
He smiled, as he kissed away the remainder of you tears, making you smile ever so slightly.

"Ne pleure pas, mon amour. Je déteste voir mon beau petit Ami si triste." he whispered softly as he finished showering you in kisses.

"I-im sorry," you say with a sniffle, "I just... I couldn't stand to- to see-"
"Shush, mon prince." he quieted you with a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His blue eyes searched your body with concern,and you knew what was next. You looked away ashamed.
"That isn't healthy, (yn)" he says.
"I know." you reply, "I just couldn't stand it..."

He nodded in understanding.
He always understood.

Your hands went up to the binding you wore, and began to work on removing it.
"Non," Francis said, taking your hands, "Let me."
You let him do as he wished.

You weren't afraid of him seeing you topless, he had see way more of you than just that, and on more than one occasion.

What did scared you however was you yourself seeing.

Cold fingers brushed your skin as Francis worked off all the tape, and bandages, and binding. With every layer shed you found it easier to breath. Not just physically, but also mentally in a way.

When you were completely free, he stared on you with sad eyes.

"He must be disgusted...'' you thought. You caught site of yourself in the mirror, and looked at the light bruises that decorated your (sc) skin.
You took a sharp breath, regretting if after.

"I'm sorry..." you mumble, feeling overly vulnerable in the view of this trusted man.
Your instinct was to hide, but Francis wouldn't allow it.

"Tu es beau" he says softly.
You could feel warm tears prick your eyes.

"(Yn)," he said softly, picking up your binder,observing it carefully, "I love you very much. You are one of the very few things that make my life work living"

He puts the binder on you, working on adjusting it properly, "That is why it hurts my to see you hurt yourself with this."

Guilt rested in your stomach as you heard his words.

"You don't need to try so hard, mon cher," he says finishing the adjusting, "you have no need to push yourself so hard."

He turned you to face the mirror where you could see his smiling face over your shoulder as his arms circled your waist.
"Fore you are already perfect."

Something about the reflection seemed more... Bearable this time. The dysphoria had faded ever so much, and you could feel a slight appreciation for the two men in the mirror.

Maybe it had been the soothing words, or the gentle touches of a concerned lover.

Maybe you had been over thinking the whole time.

Or maybe it was having Francis in the reflection this time that made it better than before.

Either way, it was all better because of him.

"Merci." you say leaning back into him, relishing the safety, and comfort, "Merci."

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Translation:
(French) Ne pleure pas, mon amour. Je déteste voir mon beau petit Ami si triste
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Do not cry my love. I hate to see my beautiful boyfriend so sad