Warning: I'm too much of a lazy ass to think of something funny or creative to put here, so yeah... If I owned Hetalia I'd be one lucky bitch. There you have it, my uncreative, generic disclaimer. Fucking problem, assholes?!
It is a well-known fact that England, also known as Arthur Kirkland, cannot handle alcohol. He seems fated since the dawn of time to fall into drunkenness after only a pitiful amount of beer. You'd think that after all these years he'd have developed a higher tolerance for alcohol, or at least learned to take care of himself when he's drunk. Sadly, neither of these facts is true. And it is because of this that France – or Francis Bonnefoy - gets called to pick up the pieces when Arthur gets completely pissed. It has been this way ever since the night Arthur first drank, and will always be this way. It's a system that works out for everyone… except France. He gets woken up at bizarre hours, forced to drive to unimaginable locations, and the amount of stress it causes him in unthinkable. But he does it. And he has done to for decades. And will most probably do it for decades more.
They are supposed to hate each other. No, they DO hate each other. So why is it that Francis drags his ass to whatever bar Arthur's passed out in then, every time? He tells himself that this is the last time, that next time Arthur's on his own, every time. And every time he comes back. No matter who calls him he comes back. Why?
Because it's Arthur. Arthur who fights him, screams at him, hits him with all his soul. Arthur who lashes out at him with insults that feel as if someone cracked a whip across his face (and believe him - he knows what that feels like). Arthur who refuses to let him, or anyone, see his weakness. Maybe he keeps coming back to see that very weakness, to see that very Arthur passed out and hopeless. After all, they're enemy's, and enemy's revel in each others pain.
But that's not it. That's not it and he knows it but he keeps pretending that it is, keeps pretending that that's all it is. Because what else can he do? He can't very well admit the feelings swirling in the dregs of his mind. He can't admit that he comes back to see Arthur's slightly flushed face and contented smile as he lies unconscious. He can't admit he comes back because thoughts of Arthur - his rare smiles, his brilliant green eyes, his accented taunts - spring to his mind whenever he decides not to go, and make him change his mind. So he admits nothing. He keeps denying himself, but he keeps coming back. And every time he comes back, he finds it a little harder to deny it - whatever IT is- until he finally can't.
He comes back because he loves Arthur. He's spent so much time denying it that when he finally accepts it, it almost doesn't feel right. Almost. But that sliver of hope, that way out, is ruined by the almost. Because it DOES feel right.
So he'll keep coming back. Because when Arthur's drunk and passed out and completely in his care, he doesn't notice that Francis drops the act he's so carefully perfected.
He shifts Arthur in his arms, clumsily unlocking the door (by now he has the spare key - it's much easier then dumping Arthur in the hedge in front of the window while he breaks in). Stepping inside, he walks down the dark hallway he's memorized, and places Arthur gently down on the sofa. He pulls a woven blanket over his sleeping form and makes to step out of the room. But he doesn't. He should have walked out and not looked back, but he didn't. Instead, he looks back, and suddenly he can't look away. He's pulled by some irrational force towards Arthur, and before he can think (although it's not like he does much of that around Arthur anymore anyway), he softly places his lips on Arthur's. And in that one moment, he can't get enough of Arthur, his lips, his taste, his entire being. But it only takes a moment for him to come to his senses. He slowly pulls away from Arthur, trying to make the moment, the mistake, last a little longer.
But the second the warmth of Arthur's lips against his leaves him, reality crashes back into places, pieces of it splintered and cracked. Because whatever hope that this was anything else then love is dashed away, leaving him with the reality that he loved Arthur, wanted Arthur, in a way he hadn't ever loved or wanted anyone.
So how was it? Good, bad? I was going for the confused, jumbled yet organized thought feel. Y'know? Please write your review in the little box and send it my way, darlings! I miss the days when I could say 'click that little button'. Bastard's took away the button! BUT I LOVE THEM, PLEASE DON'T TAKE AWAY MY PRECIOUS FANFICTION!
Begging on her hands and knees for reviews, 69