Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

His One True Love

Francis was reading an old English romance novel when he first heard the polite but somehow urgent knock at the door. He knew that particular knock; everyone he knew had their own style of tapping at his door. Alfred's was loud and impatient, much like the American's personality. Matthew's was quiet and patient, and he had to knock several times before Francis would hear it. Michelle, his cute little sister, would knock four times quickly and then a fifth would come just after, a rhythmic and light-hearted knock to signal she was there. And Francis knew this knock equally as well – it was the knock of a polite but opinionated gentleman, the knock of Arthur Kirkland.

Francis glanced at the front door a moment – white with frosted glass in the top half with an abstract rose design weaving through the glass. He could see Arthur's figure shifting from one foot to the other on the other side of the door, and set his book down, being careful to slide his bookmark in between the ink-covered pages instead of dog-earing his spot and marking it for the rest of its life. He had to admit he was more than confused to see Arthur at his door, especially at 10 o'clock at night, but nevertheless he stood to answer it. He opened the door with a pleasant enough expression on his face, but it crumbled when he saw Arthur's state. The other man had fresh tear-tracks that slipped down his cheeks and met again under his chin: he had stopped bothering to wipe them away furiously after he realised it was no good. His hair was dishevelled and his tie had been forcibly loosened, perhaps in anger or frustration. His depressed emerald eyes that had previously flashed dangerously after a slanging-match with Francis were now dull and uncaring. The closest comparison Francis could make to Arthur's appearance was something from a charity appeal advert.

"I know it's late…" Arthur's voice was wobbly but he seemed to be fighting to keep it level as he spoke. "…but may I come in for a moment?" his request was polite enough, but Francis heard the underlying desperation in the other man's tone.

Wordlessly, Francis stepped aside, letting Arthur in through the doorway as he studied the Englishman with concern. They had always had a strange yet strong bond between them, and would go from being each other's best friend to their arch enemy within a matter of hours. But, in times of need, Francis would always go to Arthur in search of comfort and advice, and likewise Arthur would seek Francis' shoulder to cry on.

Recently, however, things had been different, at least on Francis' part. They had known each other since they were children, but Francis as of a few years ago had begun to feel differently towards Arthur. He had begun to seek enjoyment out of their squabbles instead of just a chance to offend the Englishman, although he couldn't fathom why. Arthur had been playing on Francis' mind an awful lot more, and the Frenchman even came to anticipate seeing the other man. And he had only just worked out the reason for this gradual but bizarre change in himself.

He had fallen for his worst enemy, and his best friend.

Francis, after reaching this conclusion, had tried to deny it in as many was as was humanly possible, even going on dates to prove he wasn't in love with Arthur, but nothing had changed his mind, or his heart's mind, which seemed to be more directly linked to his thoughts than logic and rationality ever were. Of course, he had never told Arthur about this, partly because he would never be able to live it down, and Arthur would hate him for it for the rest of his life. But also, because Arthur was already going out with Alfred F. Jones, the loud and obnoxious American. Why, the Frenchman could not understand, but Arthur seemed happy enough and Francis was never one to stand in the way of love – he was French, after all. But Francis was becomingly increasingly agitated by the fact that now, all Alfred ever seemed to do was annoy Arthur, and Francis felt a wave of envy consume him whenever Arthur would brush it off or dismiss Alfred without so much as a harsh word, whereas Francis would be verbally abused non-stop for doing something not even remotely huge compared to Alfred's insistent pratting around.

Francis hadn't ever considered himself to be the jealous type until he noticed the small things in Arthur and Alfred's relationship that were bound to explode into the end of the world frustrations at some point. Things like Alfred's clothes all over the floor whenever Francis visited, despite Arthur trying to clean up after him. Or Arthur complaining that Alfred never lifted a finger to help with the housework shortly after the two had moved in together, and that the American had a habit of taking up most of the bed by sleeping like a 'damn starfish', were the Englishman's words. Francis badly wanted to swear that he would never do such things, but he had had to bite his tongue, because Arthur was already taken.

He stood before the Frenchman now, looking like a street urchin compared to his usual presented appearance, and looking so fragile Francis felt he should wrap bubble-wrap around him. He wanted to ask Arthur what was wrong, what had happened, but he stayed silent, knowing from experience that at times like this, Arthur wouldn't need any probing for answers. Francis led Arthur to the living-room sofa, where the Englishman sat down with a heavy sigh, and Francis perched next to him, ready to listen. They were both quiet for a few moments, Francis waiting patiently for Arthur to explain the reason for his visit, and Arthur staring at the floor, his mind a mass jungle of predatory thoughts he didn't want to be unleashed.

"…I'm such an idiot." Arthur finally declared as he bowed his head lower, ashamed.

"What makes you think that, mon cher?" Francis ventured gently, adapting a tone that Arthur secretly found so comforting that he felt like crying in the Frenchman's arms there and then.

Again, Arthur paused, glancing briefly at Francis, seeing the look of concern and caring that was plain on Francis' face. He sighed, leaning back against the soft, cushioned sofa and passing a hand over his face, as if that would help summon the answer.

"I…I keep doing the same damn thing…I keep…going back to Alfred." was his eventual response, and his voice was filled with so much self-loathing and hatred of himself that Francis' lips parted slightly in shock. Arthur didn't seem to notice, however, and continued to stare holes into the polished wood of the living-room floor.

"We fight…and then it's like we get dragged back together again. It used to be a blessing – turning over a new leaf, you know – but now it's become more of a habit…and I don't know what to do…" at this, Arthur's voice seemed to waver, before breaking into harsh sobs that he tried in vain to quieten.

Francis' brow creased in sympathy for Arthur, and he pulled the Englishman into a hug, which normally would've earned him a slap or a swat, but now Arthur gratefully buried his face in Francis' shirt and wept, his shoulders heaving almost aggressively as he no longer held back such emotions.

"Shh, mon cher…" Francis whispered soothingly as he stroked Arthur's blonde hair gently, hating to see the other man so upset, but admittedly relishing the closeness and desperate need for Francis that Arthur was displaying. Arthur's sobs did not begin to cease for a while, but Francis held and soothed him until the Englishman pulled back a little and gave a wobbly, appreciative smile. Francis returned the smile, but it was filled with worry and strangely made the Frenchman seem more mature to Arthur, more responsible than he was. The thought brought Arthur comfort, but also left him feeling a little enraged that he was being so dependent on Francis when he was adamant he could take care of himself.

That thought completely dispersed though as his emerald eyes met with Francis' sparkling blue ones – had they always been that shade? – and Arthur realised he was still clutching Francis' shirt much like a child. A light blush spread across his cheeks as he began to loosen his grip, before he was stopped by Francis moving with almost incomprehensible swiftness to place his lips against Arthur's. Complete shock shuddered through Arthur at the realisation of what the other man was doing, but it was washed away by the eager sensation of longing, wanting, needing that surged through Arthur like an electric shock. He was kissing back. Francis was kissing him, and he was kissing back.

But he didn't care. Arthur pulled Francis closer by his shirt, before wrapping both arms around the Frenchman's neck, barely registering Francis' own arm slip around the Englishman's waist. Their chest pressed against each other and it seemed so right to Arthur, but then he thought of Alfred. He had never had such an experience with Alfred – none of their kisses that sparked much of a feeling for Arthur, but he was still Alfred's boyfriend, and shouldn't be kissing someone else. Let alone his arch enemy and best friend.

Arthur put one hand reluctantly against Francis' chest, which at first didn't seem to deter the Frenchman, so he added more pressure until Francis was forced to separate. Their eyes met and both men were blushing. Francis' eyes widened as he realised what he had done and started as if he had jumped at a loud noise.

"A-Arthur, désolé, I didn't mean to – " Francis began, terrified that Arthur would hate him for what he did so carelessly.

"…I should go…" Arthur stood, removing his hand from Francis' chest slowly, as if he was in a trance. Francis didn't move, and both seemed as stunned by Francis' actions as neither of them could have expected such a thing to happen. Francis opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, so he closed it again and hung his head apologetically. He did not look up again until Arthur had left, and by then there were tears spilling from his cerulean eyes and he curled up on the sofa and wept, much like Arthur had against Francis' chest. Only now Francis could not cry on anyone's shoulder.

He had just made his one true friend, his one true love, turn away from him.

XxX

Arthur lay awake in bed, unable to close his eyes for very long without getting kicked in the side by a snoring Alfred. The Englishman had crawled back to Alfred after going to see Francis, and had tried to carry on with his life, ignoring the thoughts of leaving the devastated Frenchman like he did. But Francis' face plagued him every time he closed his eyes, and more and more, he began to realise he no longer loved the obnoxious man sleeping next to him. He wasn't even sure he had to begin with. You were supposed to think of the one you loved day and night, weren't you?

But Arthur's only thoughts were of Francis; his prissy, girly blonde hair, his damned beautiful blue eyes…

Arthur inwardly groaned at the dilemma he was faced with. He couldn't leave Alfred – the American had done nothing wrong and it was not fair on him. But he couldn't keep living with someone he now only pretended to love.

He wanted to go to Francis, to talk with him, feel his comfort like he had before, listen to his soothing voice and perhaps share another kiss with him, but he knew he never could.

Arthur buried his face in the soft pillow, his conflicted thoughts not leaving him alone even when he drifted into a restless sleep.

By walking away from Francis, he had just made his one true friend…his one true love…turn away from him.

XxX

A/N: HI! Sorry for the crappy ending and yes I am still alive~

I can write one-shots, I'm just keeping away from my longer stories for now.

But it doesn't mean I'm abandoning them so don't worry~

Please read and review, it would make my day XD

Thanks!