trenchfoot

I want Murdoc Niccals to have his heart pumping, his eyes sinister, and his blood boiling onstage
I want Murdoc Niccals to come absolutely and unapologetically alive in front of thousands of screaming fans
I want Murdoc Niccals to pump up an audience, flailing his tongue and unleashing the sickest bass solos known to mankind
I want Murdoc Niccals to be utterly enchanted by his creations, to be high off the fact that everything he ever worked for is getting the proper attention it truly deserves
I want Murdoc Niccals to forget his past traumas while onstage, his mind blank on the “trenchfoots” and the “Pinocchios”.

I want Murdoc Niccals to embrace, love, and live through his performances onstage with the satisfaction that he beat his abusers.

darling, it's only thunder

(Note: Anxiety attack occurs during this. Please be warned.)

Title: darling, it’s only thunder
Word Count: 2892
Pair: FrUK
Alternately, on AO3

It had only ever been French land, really, that was torn up by the Germans. While there were some skirmishes on Germany’s side, and some fights in Belgian territory, most battles–nearing 95%–had taken place in France. 

(One hundred years later, he was still finding old shells in the land. There had been risks, for years, of farmers plowing over a mine that had never gone off during the war.)

By population, 4.3% of him had been killed. Of the allies, he’d provided a fourth of the casualties. 

Francis Bonnefoy, to put it midly, had hated the Great War.

And, no, he hadn’t felt more than a dull ache on him during the battles (always on his eastern side, on the border of him, Germany, and Belguim), but he knew what it represented, knew that his men were dying, knew that he would have lost his foot to trenchfoot if he wasn’t a Nation, knew that cannon fire could have killed him, blowing a hole that size in his belly.  No matter the wound, no matter the representative part of him that was prickling, aching, during the war, he hadn’t been too affected. More than anything, they were mild nuisances in trying to hold his gun steady.

Even the more drastic wounds, the ones that had left scars to this day, a century old, some of them, had been a bearable sort of pain–the sort Nations always ended up getting at some point or another.

And Francis, France, could deal with pain. Nations could all deal with pain. It was practically what they were designed for, to feel the pain of their people and work to make their people comfortable instead–later, to voice the pains of the people to the government, who listened to them sometimes. No, what had bothered him most, more than the wounds he was getting but not keeping, more than the aches he was feeling but not responsible for, was the noise. 

The noise.

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