This is a short fic idea I had. I only plan on making it 3-4 chapters, depending on how it ends. It's mostly awkward valentine's dating situations for poor Arthur, but it'll get interesting when the love affairs start. It'll be going for the month of February since I can't get four chapters up in... 3 hours, but it'll keep everyone entertained. (I should finish in February if I don't get distracted. Ooh! Butterfly!)
I intended it to be FrUk, with a hint of AmeGland (yes, I did just call it that, got a problem with that? XD ) I just thought tossing in Russia would be funny, and I couldn't think of a third Uk pairing I really wanted to toss in...
As usual, I don't own Hetalia, all that good stuff... wish I did but... you get what you pay for.
Love Loves! Enjoy!
-Mina
Arthur hissed as he made his way down the stairs that morning. The halls were adorned with big pink paper hearts and obnoxious lace in every feminine color he could imagine. Hanging like a banner over the stairs was a powdery version of the Union Jack made completely out of cut out hearts. He wanted to puke at the sight. He was so used to spending every single year holed up in his house, eating microwave dinners, watching old love stories and crying that he didn't have that for himself. He'd always eat till he puked then turn around and eat some more, living like an incredibly depressed Roman, as Alfred had once described it.
It wasn't that he particularly hated the holiday; it's that he didn't have any reason to celebrate it. Ever since Alfred had bucked up and asked Matthew out last year, there was no one to even complain with about the holiday. Usually having his little brother around kept Arthur from being depressed, but after disappearing on his date the year prior Arthur's depression had blown up full scale. Last time he'd had a date for valentine's day was back during the first world war, and even then he wasn't even with a date, more like cowering behind an over eager Alfred while he pulled through all their dirty work after Arthur had already had his ass handed to him. Since then, holidays were a solemn, lonely event in his house.
That was, until this year. After story of last year got out none of his "friends" would let him be alone on such a day as dear February 14th. A few thought he might do something idiotic, like commit suicide, while others were afraid he'd drink himself silly till six the following morning then attempt to drive back home, ("crashing on those backwards streets of his," As Ivan had stated.) Not a one of them was willing to let him just take advantage of the opportunity to mope, complain, bicker and get absolutely wasted. Somehow they all seemed to think that dear England always had to be prim and proper so someone had to watch him at all times. He'd tried to argue, tried to tell them they were all losing their minds and that he could handle himself, but Alfred had been no help for upholding his argument. That obnoxious American just had to say that a number of years back Arthur had abandoned a young Alfred with Seychelles and gone out to get drunk. He'd shown up the following morning without pants, his tie on his head, only his right shoe on, and half his hair dyed purple. No one in the world conference ever wanted to see that.
So, needless to say they'd nearly attacked his house on the 13th with an infinite supply of valentines and annoying heart décor. Afterward, Francis, Alfred and (dare he think it) Ivan, had signed up for watch shifts. Ivan was first thing in the morning, which meant Arthur might be able to sleep through most of the time they were supposed to spend together, or so he'd hoped. But then, Ivan just had to bring some strange Chinese Gong and start banging it at five in the morning, what would normally be a rather late hour for the Russian to wake up. Then he'd followed by spilling a hot cup of coffee all over Arthur's lap when he attempted to bring in his breakfast in bed (an idea he got from Ukraine who said that's what she wanted if she ever found true love). Arthur had jumped up screaming from his bed and ran into the shower where he proceeded to take a very cold shower to cool down his burning legs. Sopping wet, he stomped into the bed room, grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms from his dresser, then went back into the bathroom and locked the door, ignoring the Russian cat calls behind him ("You can unchanged in here, da! You can't be any smaller than America!")
Once changed, the Brit headed back into his bedroom and picked up the tray covered in spilt coffee and headed down the hall and downstairs, where he stood, staring at the obscene thing hanging from the mantel piece of his stairs. Could they be more ridiculous? He shook his head and continued on down the stairs and into the kitchen. Behind him, Ivan was dragging the stained white sheets that he'd tried to bundle in his arms. Even if he was ruining the morning, Arthur was appreciative that he was at least trying to help so he barked out the direction to the laundry room before he made his way into the kitchen.
Already frustrated with the entire morning, the Brit dropped the dishes in the sink, untouched pancakes and all, then scrubbed down the tray with an overly soapy dish towel and stowed it away in a cabinet under the stove where he hoped no one would ever find it again. Why he even had the thing he didn't know, especially when he lived alone ninety percent of the time, and the times he had company it was just Peter who was too small to reach the stove on his own, let alone try and make Arthur a breakfast without burning the house down. Arthur turned to one of the overhead cupboards and found a small frying pan. He then moved to the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs, some cheese, and a mix of peppers in a plastic bag. He turned on the stove, cracked a few eggs and sat staring at the pan, yawning into the palm of his hand every few minutes. He didn't bother adding the peppers till the edges of the eggs had turned brown. Just as he tossed in a handful of god knows how many kinds of peppers, Ivan walked in with his usual smirk, watching the Brit for a moment before a sudden look of horror struck his face, if only for a second.
"You're not going to eat that, da?"
"Yes, is there a problem with me cooking my own breakfast?" Arthur remarked bitterly as he folded his omelet over the peppers and sprinkled some cheese on before sliding the much blackened omelet onto a plate.
"Da, Francis said you couldn't cook." Ivan remarked with a shrug of his shoulders before he turned away and moved to the fridge to grab a water bottle (he certainly wasn't going to trust water from the English Channel, how many people had died in that?)
Arthur rolled his eyes at the comment and blew it off. Francis was always spreading rumors about his cooking, Alfred too when he got the chance. So he wasn't a chef, but his food was not that bad! They just weren't used to it, that was all. He shook his head and turned back to his food, using the side of his fork to cut off a big chunk which he stabbed mercilessly and put in his mouth. Ivan watched with intrigue as the Englishman chewed, his eyebrows twitching in an uncontrolled manner, almost like he was trying to hide his dislike for the taste in his mouth. All the same, he swallowed and cut off another bite, much smaller than the first. He put that into his mouth too, chewed and swallowed, but before he could subject himself to another moment of torture Ivan snatched the plate away and dumped the rest of his breakfast in the garbage.
"Hey! I can't just go hungry!" Arthur complained in a boisterous manner, jumping to his feet as his eyebrows furrowed together, both angered and a bit upset that he couldn't at least be partly respected about his food.
"You a worse masochist than me, da, and I send men to war with only a gun for every third man." Ivan remarked before shaking his head and turning to put the extra ingredients back in the fridge, though he whole heartedly felt he should just dump the entire contents in the trash so the Brit had no inclination to ever cook again. He'd be doing them all a favor. He didn't though, just calmly put everything away while Arthur cringed back into the corner, trying to avoid any slip of the tongue that might result in a plumbing utensil to the face. He may have hated Valentine's Day, but he did not hate it enough to wish for a coma and brain damage in its place.
Hissing and groaning out incomprehensible statements about how everyone doubted his cooking, Arthur grabbed a bag of gummy bears and a beer and walked into the living room where he crashed on the couch and turned the television to the news channel. There was nothing better at six in the morning than a pointless news spot about the increasing cost of a dozen roses and the commonality and repetition in gifts for couples over the age of forty. What a wonderful way to spend the morning. The only thing that seemed to make it better was that sound of a pop when he opened his beer can. It fizzled lightly like a soda, but just as he raised it to his lip that, too, was snatched away from him.
He growled at the huge Russian hovering over him, holding his untouched beer in hand. Ivan had that same old smile, as if he'd done nothing wrong in stealing a man's drunk, but to Arthur it was nearly a crime. He fumbled around on the couch, spilling gummy bears all over the place, losing a shoe somewhere between the couch cushions, tipping the giant love seat over while he tried to climb over the back of it and steal his drink back, but all the Russian did was side step and avoid all his attempts. The Brit hissed and launched again, knocking over a lamp, kicking one of the pictures on the end table to the other side of the room where it hit the wall with a resounding crash. Arthur paused to look at the broken glass, only to see the image of younger version of himself beside a childish Alfred, Francis and Matthew awkwardly positioned a few inches away. Those were the only people that had ever been close enough for him to call family, and Ivan had just made him defile the only picture he had of the four of them together.
Even grumpier than when the morning had started, the Englishman stared daggers at the Russian before he turned toward the stairs, leaving the living room in shambles, "Never, ever, steal an Englishman's liquor." He remarked in a sour tone before he moved a few feet toward the stairs. He took a second to anticipate the coming remark before he responded to that as well, "I'm going to back to bed. You can clean this up; then get out."
With that, Arthur marched up the stairs, his steps thundering through the entire house before the bedroom door slammed shut and he crawled into bed. He pulled the covers up to his neck, covered his head loosely with his extra pillow, before he dozed off once more.
He had every intention of staying that way until the next maniac came to take their shift at watching him, whoever that maniac was.