Summary: HS AU. Vice President Francis Bonnefoy is planning the 21st century French Revolution. President Arthur Kirkland is not amused. In the midst of it all, athlete Alfred F. Jones comes bearing French fries. Contains light FrUK and USUK. (For Bastille Day/Francis's birthday: July 14 one-shot)
Warning: English grammatical mistakes. French grammatical mistakes. Innuendos. Language. Francis's overuse of tildes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or McDonald's.
A/N: Inspired by: This stupid California heat, my own school meeting a week ago, summer school, ranting English posts on tumblr complaining about their weather, and me wanting to abstain from Fries. Seriously, go read Fast Food Nation. You'll never look at McDonald's the same way ever again. See you at the bottom~
THIS IS THE STAND-ALONE SEQUEL TO MY USUK: Sparks Like Fireworks
French Fry
Bastille Day
They were both trudging along the deserted streets.
'Course, it'd be deserted, Arthur thought. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead, and his shirt was sticking to his back already. No one's crazy enough to walk around in this weather, especially at noon.
Stupid American summer.
Arthur didn't bother suppressing a loud yawn alongside Francis. He didn't even bother covering his mouth. His eyes watered and his mouth moved in a motion akin to a cow chewing grass. Unattractive, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd been up all night typing up reports that last year's officers in charge cocked up.
His bleary eyes can't even concentrate on the road ahead of them. This heat wasn't helping either. He swears the asphalt was being cooked black and sizzling.
He knew if he had only stayed at England, he wouldn't be suffering this heat.
He adjusted his falling rucksack against his back and fought to keep walking normally lest Francis makes fun of his sleepy gait.
("Why're you walking funny, Arthur? Did you do strenuous activities last night? Ohonhonhon~")
He stretched his neck out to his shoulder and heard a crick. He had fallen asleep on his desk in an uncomfortable angle, only to awaken to more paperwork. All he really wanted now is to sleep.
But alas, duty called.
His eyes squinted upwards cursing the rising sun and his energetic, non-stop talking companion.
"Know what we need, mon ami? A REVOLUTION," Francis declared with vigor.
Oh god. Not this again. Arthur groaned. "Enough is enough. Just keep moving. We went through this same damn thing last month." He hiked his slipping backpack higher on his shoulders. He doesn't have energy for this.
"Oui, we did. We tried to make our voices heard and did anything happen? Non. Listen. This is tyranny. We need to band together to finally rid ourselves of this shameful farce. I, for one, cannot stand it anymore." He wailed with gesticulations. He's not even sweating!
"Oh, do shut your trap. It's too early in the goddamn morning for this." He didn't care if it was noon already.
"Arthur. I'm not kidding."
"I know. All the more reason why I can't take you seriously. Now, piss off. I don't care."
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in vain. He was already developing a slight pain in his head.
Anytime spent with Francis comes with a free complimentary headache. No purchase necessary.
Francis gave a theatric gasp. "Mon dieu. Your words wound me, mon cheri!"
"Good. I'm hoping it's fatal." So I'll be rid of you, and my world would once again be at peace.
Francis was quiet for some time. Arthur sighed in relief. He finally got through to him!
Francis had been insufferable lately. It was his time of the year once again. Arthur would joke about him having his annual PMS, but he was a gentleman.
And gentlemen do not talk about ladies' businesses.
Even if the "lady" in question doesn't have the, er, proper equipment.
Francis was no lady, (THANK GOD) but his long hair was enough for the general consensus to jokingly count him as one.
It doesn't help that he dresses like a metrosexual either, no matter how fashionable and "Parisienne chic" he claims he is.
What kind of man has hair that girly anyway? Yeah it's silky as shit, but he already has enough hair on the rest of his body.
He's already filled that quota many times over.
No need to be an overachiever.
And it swishes from side to side, dammit! What is this, a hair commercial? Why the hell does it even have that volume?
"Mon petit lapin, you're glaring at my glorious mane. Are you perhaps jealous? It's okay, many are. Go ahead, wallow in your hair envy~"
"Can you please shut the hell up? Your nasally voice is making my head hurt. Go braid your chest hair or something."
Arthur's pretty sure Francis has enough to make a French twist all the way down to his navel and even tie it off with a bow.
Arthur then shuddered at that mental image.
"But serieusement, though. I cannot stand it any longer. We are third years! – technically, incoming fourth – but I digress. I will march right up to him and demand change! He cannot hide from me in his bastille of oppression!"
Arthur raised his eyes to the high heavens and asked 'why me?' His blood pressure was steadily rising. He can feel the telltale tick on his temple beside the sweat steadily making its way down.
"Christ, Francis. The man's our principal. You can't just come storming in and overthrow the guy."
"Says what rule in the student handbook, huh?"
"Says Principal Vargas when you marched into his office for the third time the previous month, a month which only had two weeks, mind you. For goodness sake, you complained about the bread last time!"
"What good is it being Vice President if I can't even do that? They have no baguettes! C'est un crime! For an internationally acclaimed school, they are quite lacking in the lunch menu department. That low-quality bread they sell is not fit for my gourmet palette! Have you seen the price they charge for those? How outrageous!"
I'll show you rage, Arthur thought. He's about to commit bloody murder. He'll claim crime of passion. Say the heat affected his judgment… Yes… Too bad the only thing stopping him was the date.
Francis, unaware of Arthur's dark thoughts and manic grin plowed on. It was like he knew he was safe from Arthur's wrath today. "You know what pisses me off the most?"
"I know what pisses me off the most…"
"Those abominations: French fries! Those do not deserve to be called "French" in any way, shape, or form! They are Americanized grease! An embarrassment to my people!"
"The French do not need any help in that department," murmured Arthur. "They do quite well enough on their own."
Blue eyes narrowed. Francis heard him. Whoops.
"Sourcils," he barbed.
"Frog," was the counter.
Their insults have both long lost their sting. Now, they're more like affectionate nicknames.
"Rosbif."
"Surrender monkey."
Minus the affection.
The school gate (FINALLY!) loomed over their heads. Arthur could've cried and kissed the pavement if it wouldn't scorch his already chapped lips.
Arthur sighed in relief. Any longer in that heat and he'd be making sweat puddles. Air-conditioning, here I come!
The duo made their way to the Student Council office, passing the football field on the way with its poor athletes forced to stand around in the sweltering heat. Arthur discretely swept his eyes over the figures. Looks like they're barely starting practice. Some were barely finishing their lunch. Speaking of lunch, he hasn't had any…
"He's over there sitting down." Francis pointed.
"Er-what? Who's sitting down?"
Francis rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ton petit ami, mon chou."
"My little what? And stop calling me cabbage! I am not a vegetable. It's not even a good insult."
Francis smiled at his misunderstanding. "I said, your boyfriend is sitting down on the bench, my cabbage."
Arthur followed Francis's finger and came to stop at a number 50 jersey. He sputtered.
"You think Alfred is my boyfriend? Have you been sniffing stuff?"
Francis spared him an exasperated look. "Actually, yes. It's called 'the sexual tension pheromones released by Arthur and Alfred.' The hallways have been reeking all year." He looked back at Alfred. "You should wave to him. Even if he doesn't see your hand, your caterpillar brows are enough to attract attention, given how even the satellites in space can find them."
Arthur turned a worrying shade of red. "You bloody wanker! I am leaving you!" He turned around, and disappeared within their designated building, furiously speed walking all the way up their Student Council office room. He was stomping on his way and almost tripped on the stairs. How cute.
He still waved Alfred over and pointed him in Arthur's direction. Guess those two still need his help even after Alfred's birthday. The boy quickly dashed after Arthur, ("Thanks Frenchy dude!") paused, made a U-turn, grabbed a spare paper bag off his bench, then frantically continued on his merry way to catch up ("He-hey, Art, how's it goin'?").
"Ah, l'amour~"
Francis took his time, giving the two some privacy. He languidly made his way to Gilbert and Antonio, forced to do warm-ups and chatted for a bit.
After being chased off the field by their angry coach in German, ("VIVE LE FRANCE, allemand!") he made his way to the office room, extra-slow enough that Arthur would've calmed down. He heard said boy's mutterings even before opening the door.
He found Arthur in his presidential seat, his backpack left open on the corner of the desk, spilling out more paper. He had started on the paper work for next year.
No Alfred.
Peering over his shoulder, he saw the Brit scrawl out an unnecessarily vicious and big NO across the document.
It was his little brother, incoming Freshman Peter, petitioning for him to "step down and bow down to me, Jerk Arthur."
"What a brat. Is there any way where we can deny him admittance to this school?"
"You can't abuse your power, cher."
"Says who?"
"Says Principal Vargas when you threatened to throttle the Brit. Lit. teacher for 'not knowing his bloody shit.'"
"Like when you demanded the French teacher resign on the claims that he wasn't even French?"
"I swear, I will get that man fired. If I can, I will lock him out of his own classroom and teach the subject myself. I really will."
"Oh I have no doubt you will." Arthur didn't even look up from his work.
"You know the man! You take the same French class. You've heard him roll his R's. What self-respecting French speaker does that? What subject does he think he's teaching, Spanish?"
Arthur thought it was best not to fan the French flame. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go. We need to finish all this before tea time."
In truth, Arthur was only taking French because he can't be in the same room with Antonio in Spanish. They've been fighting about something for years. About a collectible ship? That, and he gets to copy off of Francis.
"Where did Alfred go?" Francis finally asked.
Arthur smirked, but it looked more like a giddy smile. "Oh him? He saw you getting chased by Coach Germania and decided to sneak back to the field. I liked how Germania threw a football at you with impressive accuracy. Kudos to him." Arthur picked up another document before remembering something. He reached for his bag and pulled out a familiar looking paper bag.
"What is that?"
"Here." Arthur dropped the bag on the table with all the grace of a stampeding elephant. How uncute. "Eat. I already ate my half with Alfred. This is yours."
Francis regarded the golden arches logo ominously. Bastardized pommes frites regarded him back. Looking at Arthur in despair, he asked, "Why would you do this?"
"Precisely because of how your face falls when I do. Now, eat. Alfred was kind enough to drop this off, and I know you haven't had lunch yet."
Francis poked the bag with a pen. "How did you even stomach this?"
Arthur looked harmless. "I don't know why you hate it so much. It's pretty tasty."
Francis thought Arthur enjoyed the fries not so much because of the taste, but because of the company he had while eating. "…You, my poor friend, have been Americanized. I pity you."
"I don't know what that means and I don't even care. I'm full and in an air-conditioned room. You will not piss me off. Go eat your fries and get started."
Francis thought about dumping the fries inconspicuously in that potted plant, but he he thought even that would've been cruel to the innocent ficus.
"Oui, oui, your majestic Presidency," was the nasally annoying response.
"Hop to it then, lowly Peasant."
"Fine, but after, you're giving me a proper birthday gift."
"I know, Francis, I'll get you to eat your damned cake later."
Satisfied, Francis opened the bag with revulsion. Merde. The grease was soaking through the paper. "Eughhh. This isn't French at all! Why don't you just feed me your cooking. That, at least, exactly captures your Britishness."
"I'll feed you my fist if you don't stop yapping."
"Oooh~ Arthur, I didn't know you were into that. How kinky."
"I won't even deem that with a reply."
"'Cuz I took your breath away, didn't I?"
"…You're such a Frog."
"That doesn't even sting, Sourcils."
"Yeah, well, consider it my gift to you."
"What a crappy gift-giver you are, then."
"Crappy gift for an equally crappy person. Go eat your French fries."
"So you can give me heart attack too?"
"I thought that was the whole point of gifting them to you."
"Aww, so you were thinking of my heart? Oh, Arthur, you do care!"
"Yes. I care about the easiest and cheapest way to maim you."
"You have too much anger in that wiry body. I worry about you sometimes."
"I worry about you always. Now eat the fries."
"I am sensing sarcasm."
"No shit, really?"
"You hurt my feelings, mon ami."
"I'll hurt something else if you don't shut up. Eat the damn French fries."
"But-"
"I will punch you in the throat - SO HARD. Eat. Your. Damn. Fries."
"...okay, sheesh calm down. No need for violence."
Needless to say, no work was done that day.
Needless to say, Francis didn't eat his lunch. After careful deliberation, the fries were tossed to the poor ficus. Sorry, potted plant.
What needs to be said is that, true to his words, Arthur later got him his cake. Here is what's inscribed:
Bon anniversaire, Francis
July 14, 2013
- From Sourcils
P.S. You're still a Frog.
Off-screen Scene: Arthur and Alfred made their relationship official with each other while eating.
Off screen Scene 2: Why did Art push on the fries so much? He deliberately saved that share for Francis.
A/N: Had to lamely end it there or it could've gone for pages and pages. English is my second language. PM me my mistakes, please? Otherwise, drop me a review! Hope the French wasn't too much. I promised my teacher I'd practice my French.
French allusions/translations you probably didn't catch (because I suck at allusions):
We are third years! = We are the Third Estate!
bastille of oppression/storming in = Storming of the Bastille, hence July 14th Bastille Day
You complained about the bread last week! = The lower class's reason for the French Revolution
Sourcils = eyebrows
Ton petit ami, mon chou. = Lit. Your little friend, my cabbage / Your boyfriend, my darling
VIVE LE FRANCE, allemand! = Long Live France, German!
You've heard him roll his R's! = Speaking the French 'R' is supposed to be done with the back of the tongue, not with the tip, producing a rather choking sound than the rolling R sound in Spanish, says my teacher.
pommes frites = Lit. apple chips/crisps / Americanized: French fries
let you to eat your damned cake = "Let them eat cake," the mythical phrase that Marie Antoinette supposedly said during the French Rev, though there are no records of it.