A hetalia oneshot that was cooking up for a while. Probably historically inaccurate in parts, sorry. Please enjoy!
Sitting by the window, Francis had forgotten how depressing the weather in London was. Autumn settled over the city like a heavy, musty quilt, the misty rain the city was so famous for leaving a dull ache in his bones. Even so, the weather fit the mood of the evening: somber— perhaps their people thought differently but for the two of them... Francis new the truth even if Arthur would never admit to it behind his stiff upper lip.
He was too old to be sitting on the floor like this. When he stood, no doubt his back and knees would be protesting loudly. Already his body was gearing up for war, the itch was burning already from behind his heart.
"You're going to catch your death like that," a stern tone in Arthur's voice, one that carried a generally concerned lilt that Francis usually didn't hear. Moments after, the muffled sound of wool hitting his back and shoulders—Arthur had fetched throw from the settee by the fireplace. A sardonic little chuckle escaped without Francis meaning to, "Better now than later, n'est pas?"
Not taking the bait, Arthur lower himself to the floor next to the Frenchman, "Could've at least dragged the settee over. Here, I'm out of coffee."
Now that was more like Arthur. Francis could handle a grumbling Brit better than an attentive one.
"But Angleterre, I was simply enjoying the view and the fitting weather." Francis said. They had slid next to each other, sex warmed skin and respective cups of Earl Grey. Francis could feel Arthur's spine, the drizzly Highlands running the length of his back as the island nation leaned against the other. Absentmindedly with the hand that wasn't holding the cup of tea Arthur had given him, he traced the constellations of freckles on Arthur's side without having to look beneath their blanket. He hadn't had to look for a very long time.
Carefully placing his half finished drink a ways away from them, Francis proceeded to wrap his arms around his lover, feeling the hills and valleys of Arthur's abdominals. "Do you feel it?" Francis whispered into the crook of Arthur's neck. There was a quiet for a moment with just the sounds of the city in the background is Arthur sipped his drink. Finally, "Yes of course I do. I have for a while but it's changed from an uneasiness in my stomach to the itch it is now."
Moving his hands down Arthur's forearms he could feel the pulse of the flow of the Thames and Arthur's wrists. He squeezed slightly and wrapped his arms around Arthur again.
"It's all right. I'm all right."
Francis said nothing, instead choosing to reinstate the red marks on the juncture of Arthur's neck and shoulder. When one healed so quickly, love bites tended not to stick around for very long.
"What do you think of it?" Francis asked against Arthur's neck.
"Of the war? ...Most likely on us this time."
"Hitler—"
"—has been fueled by the Treaty of Paris—our treaty if I remember correctly. Churchill and I have been reviewing a few things."
"Ah, Churchill."
"You don't like him." A statement, not a question.
"Like many people."
There was a sigh. A great heave of the Peak District, the lungs of England. Francis could feel the pain and suffering in that sigh, disclosing Arthur's not so secret thought that they were getting too old for this.
"I'm not saying Hitler isn't to blame for this," Arthur amended, "He's a horrible man, one I hate very deeply and can only hope gets his comeuppance in Hell, but I'll give him this: his love for his country runs very deep and I think that has been our downfall."
"You are saying nationalism is a bad thing?"
"In such a large dose. You remember Napoleon Bonaparte and Peter the Great as well as I do."
Arthur had raised his hand to tangle and Francis's hair. He must be anxious, the other nation mused, if Arthur was willing to seek out physical contact. Taking lungfuls of the scent of musk and sex and the smell of a desperately needed rain from Arthur's hair, Francis held his lover a bit tighter.
"Great leaders do not always equate great men." Francis said. Arthur said nothing but the Frenchman knew the other concurred. "I received a letter from Gilbert the other day," Francis continued. Though from their current position of back-to-front Francis couldn't see the other's face, he knew Arthur's caterpillar brows had risen and he was waiting for Francis to continue. He cleared his throat, "He said in his roundabout way that his brother, both Germany and Ludwig, are absolutely...enthralled with Hitler."
"He's a man of power who promised to make his country great again. All of us are swayed by power." Suddenly Francis was taken back in his mind's eye to a time when every day was a struggle for power and empires fell at the drop of a saber and shield. England, England at the time and not Arthur, was adorned in armor and then a long red coat and a cross hanging ironically on his chest, glinting from the hot sunlight on the high seas.
And then there he, France, was being picked up—bodily picked up—by a man no more than 5'7" and getting whispered the promise of greatness in his ear and even more importantly a bed and a warm meal.
Arthur brought him back from his memory, "And what does Gil think of all this? Of Hitler?"
"Gil" dropped so casually from Arthur's lips. Of course, they were allies once—lovers. "Ah, he put it so eloquently: 'I think Hitler is full of shit' or something."
"He's older, wiser, knows war better than his brother, certainly. Germany is but a child who was made to grow up too quickly."
Francis was surprised when Arthur's voice broke at the end of his thought, "Angleterre?"
"Ah, it's nothing, just silly and sentimental of me. Just ignore it."
"Angleterre."
"Fine. He's just a baby. A baby who has gone through a world war already and gearing up for another one. It makes me...it makes me think of America is all. A boy given so much power and thrown into a great big world too soon. America—America is going to rule the world someday, at the rate he's going."
"He takes after someone, non?" Francis paused, "Do you think we will need America again? Will he join?"
"...I believe that he will. For such a chaotic boy, he believes in a certain order of things."
There was nothing else for Francis to say—Arthur always had a way with words when it came to politics, the Englishman had the head and temperament for it better than he. Arthur, beautiful, wonderful Arthur turned around and his arms and pushed Francis back onto the floor. Oh, how this would hurt in the morning, he couldn't seem to remember how to care now that Arthur was on top of him, looking angelic backlit by London. A leg on either side of Francis' torso, Arthur leaned down and kissed the Frenchman's neck, biting and sucking on the Seine, flowing through his veins.
"D-do you intend to leave a mark, mon ange?"
"Yesss, mine," came out like a hiss. "How I love you," Arthur continued, "How I love you, you beautiful man."
Arthur was trying to make up for lost time Francis realized, as the Brit moved down Francis' chest. He was trying to make up for lost time that hadn't been lost yet in the months that were going to follow when they'd be living in their uniforms and shooting men and boys with families and lives that had nothing to do with soldiering.
While lost in his thoughts, Arthur had settled himself further down on Francis' body, directly over his crotch and rolled his hips so wonderfully that the man below could not help but cry out.
"Merde!" Francis groaned, no choice but to grab Arthur's hips and hang on for the ride. The Brit's head was tilted upwards, mouth open in a sort of silent prayer. As the Frenchman met Arthur in the middle with a twist of his pelvis, he knew the both of them weren't going to last long at all. The night was much too serious and they were much too in love and much too desperate. Sure enough, Arthur was gone with a cry of "God!" on his lips and Francis followed soon after, hips stuttering with release.
They collapsed together, silent as Francis rolled them over so they could look at each other properly. "So you ship out tomorrow." Arthur said, muffled by Francis' chest and clutching his lover tightly.
"Yes, they need me back in Paris, à demain. You will have to give Churchill my best for me."
"Ha, wanker." The smile Arthur wore against Francis' body melted into another sign, "I have been praying every night since the feeling started that Pendragon would rise again in Britain's greatest time of need. It's stupid, wishful thinking but I could use it right now."
"Oh, mon lapin, mon ange," Francis said, tilting his lover's head up so he could kiss him deeply, "the Pendragon is right here, and he never left."
September 3, 1939 was the day Britain, France and Poland declared war on Germany. The Peak District, according to the Internet, is the "lungs of England." I could be wrong so correct me please if I am. Winston Churchill was not the Prime Minister until the following year but he'd been a large political figure in the First World War as well and I'm sure he and Arthur were on good terms. Germany, as we know it, did not come around until the 19th century, really. Berlin is a very old city and the Germanic countries are obviously categorized as "old men of Europe". He's the youngest of the Axis Powers. Both America and Germany became very powerful very quickly, which is what Arthur was referring to. Prussia and Britain were allied during the Seven Years War—against France and Austria. Napoleon Bonaparte basically picked up France after the revolution in the late 18th century. France went from one political tyrant to another, but at least Napoleon got shit done. Napoleon was 5'7", but in French inches was 5'2", and since the French and English can't agree on anything, the English liked to make fun of Napoleon for being so short. But now they both use the metric system and that doesn't happen anymore. Peter the Great is known for bring Russia into the "modern age" or you know, the 18th century, through questionable means. Hence St. Petersburg. The Thames flows through London and the Seine flows through Paris and are very vital to both cities. I took the poetic liberty of making them "veins" in their respective nations' bodies. Pendragon refers to King Arthur Pendragon, you know with the knights of the Round Table and the Sword in the Stone. King Arthur was the king of Britain, not England. "English" is from the word "Anglo" or "Anglo-Saxons", the pagan barbarians who ended up taking over. You can see that in the French word for England, "Angleterre" or "Anglo land". The story goes that in Britain's greatest time of need the Pendragon will rise again and set things right, and Francis says that since Pendragon is Arthur Kirkland's namesake, the Pendragon never really left. Ok, long-ass authors note over, I hope you learned something. All translations are from French. N'est pas- right? Non- no? Angleterre- England Merde- shit Mon ange, mon lapin- my angel, my rabbit (French endearments, don't get me started) À demain- tomorrow
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