Francis has always, always been his whole world. Francis has always been at the center of it all, at the end of the day. The one he fought through hell hurt and hunger to face, charging through the battlefield and facing anyone, anyone who so much as dared stand in his way. Francis was the one he grabbed by the collar. The one he pushed down into the mud in hopes of...
Drowning him? Raping him? Taking him and owning him and kissing him and fucking him and–
Francis was everything.
And when he did see him. When he jumped off his horse, sword, arrows, spear, gun, whatever, drawn to face him down. Oh god, those were the sweetest moments. Those were the moments he tasted on his tongue and lapped at because it was Francis. It was on his skin, seeped into his flesh, and he had to taste it.
It was always the same scene. No matter the king or the war or the century or the alliances or the double crossings or the spies. No matter the reasons or the lies or the propaganda, it was always the same fucking scene.
See him. Go blind with fury and power and lust. Charge. Grab him by the throat and smash his skull until he was bleeding and the blood was mixing with the tears, but he couldn't even hear silent sobs.
Francis doesn't cry. He can't. He's not human enough.
It's always the same scene. Whether he's wearing silver armor, hair billowing, looking like an angel, a god of war. Or a ragged navy blue gilded jacket, tricorne hat with it's fluffy plume long ago lost, or even a smart uniform with blue and red that gets crusted in filth that he didn't drag him through.
It's always the same fucking scene, and he craves it. Wether they're in his country or Francis's or at sea or in America or in India or in Africa. Wether they're fighting with cannons or muskets or information to drag the other down, it's the same fucking scene.
Oh, and he wants it, those times when Francis snarls so viciously that he's not Francis. He's a monster. He's the dark place in Francis's heart that he is always trying to reach, the poison on the inside. And he loves it when that monster breaks him down. Tears him apart, eyes blazing so gloriously that he
Those are the times he grins. He laughs. He howls with the laughter. And then he beats Francis. He holds him down and beats him so hard that he can still feel his jaw on his knuckles, his hips jerking beneath his for days later. Groans at the thought and imagines those hips jerking for different reasons.
Imagines his body bare and covered in bruises (the bruises he makes. Not Ivan not Antonio not Ludwig not anyone else but him) and his moans and his screams and his lewd smile. Because he would smile, the whore.
And no matter what his face, an atrociously and hideously beautiful face, is always bloodied. Even in his fantasies.
Francis has always, always been the product of his nightmares. There in the night to take him by the throat and wrap slender fingers around his neck and choke him with just the scent of him. Grinning thin and white and sharp in the swathes of night. Francis has always been the monster in his dreams.
Francis was his darkest obsession. He couldn't chain him down. Couldn't catch him because the last time he'd tried, he'd fought so viciously, so insanely, he was like a dog gnawing off his own arm for freedom. And he had to have him whole. He would never ever ever ever ever– he would never be without a piece.
Not unless he ripped it off himself.
Francis was the taker of his hatred. Francis ate it. Francis thrived on it. And he was happy to give it to him.
More. More hate. More for you to devour so that I may devour you. More reasons to whip you. Stretch you. Corrupt you. More reason for me to take you and break you and beat you and–
Francis was his everything. His universe. His god and idol to smash. Over and over. His idol to hate hate hate. If Francis were to fall. If he were to destroy him irreversibly, who would he hate? Who would he crush? Who would be his reason to fight and grin and destruct?
Who would he love so much that he wanted to tear him apart?
What would he do without him?