"Oh, Angleterre?" France's voice sang out as he moved about with the dramatic flair that was typical of the French man. His flirtatious and overconfident smirk turned to a frown of confusion and disappointment, however, as the angry pompous voice of his dear Angleterre failed to greet him.
"Mon cher?" he frowned, tightening his loose ponytail as he glanced about the well decorated manor, "maybe 'e is not 'ome?" He wondered. Another glance about the room told him this was not the case – there was still evidence of his afternoon tea and finger sandwiches lying about. They seemed to be fresh.
His long, elegant legs strode to the table, lifting one such finger sandwich from its beautifully decorated china. While the Frenchman would never admit it, he adored visiting England's manor. It was always so exquisitely decorated, many pieces dating back to the Victorian, Elizabethan and Edwardian era. Of course, if you squinted, you could also see his mod, punk and pirate phases in various places throughout the house, but Francis (how he hated the way his name translated in English… François was just so much more elegant sounding) chose to ignore them, favouring the more elegant décor.
Francis, oh so elegant as he, quickly devoured the sandwich in his fingers. Although he'd be hard pressed to admit it, there were certain foods (the rare and the few that they were) that the Brit was simply brilliant at. Tea-time finger sandwiches were one of these delicious rarities.
But, where was England?
"Angleterre, mon petit lapin, you cannot 'ide from me forever~" he sang cheerily as he walked from room to room. With each empty room, the scruffy bearded French man became more and more frustrated and concerned. He bit his lip anxiously; it wasn't like Arthur to avoid him. Yell at him, argue with him, oui, but not avoid him.
"Arzhur, I am not appreciating ze game," he said in annoyance, "et I would very much like it to end. So! Why don't you come out of your clever little 'iding spot et we can go eat some croissants, non?"
Still no response.
"Arzhur! Fils de salop, come out 'ere zhis instant! You 'ave a guest, et zhis is not zhe gentleman's way!"
Finally, he came across the Briton's bedroom, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. Francis paused a moment, "eh? But what is zhis?" he murmured to himself, peeking into the dimly lit room. "Non, non, zhis will not do." He added, flicking on the light.
He immediately wished he hadn't.
"Angleterre!" He gasped, racing to the fallen blond on the floor, "Arzhur! Arzhur! Réveillez-vous! Êtes-vous d'accord? Arzhur!" He exclaimed in a panic as he rolled the former empire onto his back, "Oh mon Dieu…" he whispered, quickly checking for a pulse as he feared the worst. The steady thrum of Arthur's heartbeat steadied him as he let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, "Dieu merci, il est inconscient seulement," he paused, "but why?"
One look at the Brit's face told France everything he needed to know. His entire face was flushed with fever, his unruly hair clinging to his face with sweat. "Oh, Angleterre…" he sighed, only to shriek when dazed green eyes opened. England seemed to mumble something incomprehensible to the French man, mentioning a rose, before closing his delirious, acid green eyes once more.
"And no wonder you are so flushed! Just look at what you are wearing, mon ami! A trois-pièces suit? In zhis 'eat? C'est trés stupide. Vraiment." He muttered, lifting the younger nation (honestly, they were so old, sometimes he forgot who was the older one. It didn't truly matter to the French male, but it was always fun to tease the Briton about it. His face went a lovely shade of crimson, nothing at all like this horrid red of fever) into his arms with a soft grunt. He swayed a little as he struggled under the weight of his long time closest friend and bitterest rival. Francis carried him into the bathroom, pausing briefly to admire the beautiful claw-foot porcelain bathtub before drawing a cool bath. He gently placed Arthur on the ceramic tile floor, making quick work of removing the man's blazer and waistcoat. He then removed his tie before reaching for his pants.
Suddenly the blond, wearing nothing more than a white button down shirt and black slacks at this point, seemed to come to life as he fended off the Frenchman's hands. "G'toff me, y'bloody git! Fackin' pervert! St'p touchin' me! M' not havin' sex wi' ya!"
Although it disturbed him to the core that his friend thought so lowly of him (yes, he liked to touch. Was it so wrong for him to crave intimate physical contact once and a while? Even being held gently would have been enough for him. People never seemed to understand that.), he couldn't help but laugh a little. Fending him off so feebly, the Brit looked like a little kitten who thought he was a lion!
(One must remember, of course, that at one point not so very long ago for these two ancients, this kitten had, in fact, been a mighty lion, ruler over land and sea. Such thoughts made the French man sad, sad for how low he'd fallen, and so he quickly cast such thoughts aside.)
"Enough, mon Angleterre, I would not touch you in zhat way, not in zhis state et not wizhout your permission. Amor is not somezhing to be stolen so greedily, but given freely et cherished for ze gift zhat it is."
These words seemed to be lost on the delirious Brit. Francis sighed and shrugged, "oh well, c'est la vie, n'est pas?" Once more he started for Arthur's belt and, although there wasn't a possible way for the dazed Briton to understand France's explanation of his views on love, he did not seem to make a fuss this time around.
France paused, his fingers on the hem of Arthur's briefs, before deciding (rather uncharacteristically of him) that removing them would be pushing things too far, and instead decided to leave him some modesty. He was both amused and surprised at the myriad of tattoos, but he didn't have a chance to look at them until he put the Brit into the cool bath.
He brushed Arthur's hair from his face, surprised to find that his ears had many holes in them, evidence of long ago piercings. Upon closer inspection, he found similar scars in his lips and nose and, although the punk rock movement had always baffled Francis, he couldn't help but find it attractive that his prim, proper, stuffy gentleman seemed to have a rebellious bad boy side to him, after all.
His eyes travelled back down to the tattoos. He had plenty of them, ink and scar battling for dominance on his chest, and every single one was done in the traditional style. He had a sleeve on his arm, of deep sea oceans and lost treasure and sharks and a pirate ship fighting the mighty Kraken. Something that completely suited the man, to France's surprise and amusement. He also had tattoos for each of his former colonies, and on his shoulder, a Celtic cross with the banner "The good die young."
But the tattoo that stood out the most?
It was beautiful in its simplicity. A rose over his heart, a banner wrapped around it with the name "François Bonnefoy".
"Do you like it?" Came a scratchy voice, green eyes turned away in embarrassment, "I know you hate the English version of your name, so I made sure to specify that it had to be Français. You were never meant to see it but…"
Carefully, with tears in his eyes, France embraced him, relieved to find his temperature had gone down quite a bit. "Oh, Arzhur…" he murmured into his hair, choked with emotion, "I love it, mon amor. C'est trés belle beacoup."
"I'm glad, Franci—François."
Gently, France's lips met England's, and they kissed.
2 Weeks Later
"Mon cher, can you bring me some water, s'il te plait?" France croaked. England internally giggled as the phrase 'frog in the throat' came to mind.
"Yeah, I suppose you weren't thinking that one through, were you?" Arthur teased good-naturedly,passing him the requested glass of water. France coughed as he drank it down, glaring feebly at his lover.
"Ferme ta gueule," he grumbled, "s'il te plait."
"Still love me, François?" He grinned, "After all, I've got your name written here in a rose tattoo."
"I said shut up."
Arthur laughed.
Just a little fluffy piece I thought of while listening to "Rose Tattoo" by the Dropkick Murphy's. It's cute, n'est pas? A few links for the tattoos mentioned, there's this one that I had in mind for the sleeve ( fc03 . deviantart fs71 / i / 2011 / 012 / c / 1 / pirate_sleeve_by_asuss06-d3706rf . jpg ) and the cross here is ( designs-tattoo collection / lettering_tattoo_designs / lettering_tattoo_designs16 . jpg ). I chose that cross in particular because in the song there's a line that goes "This one's for the man that raised me/ Taught me sacrifice and bravery" and so I figured, if Scotland raised him (which I'm pretty sure he did) then it'd be a Celtic cross and such. Unfortunately, I have no references for the rose tattoo. This fic was originally going to go in my drabbles, but then I decided that I'd rather have it as a stand alone.
Translations:
Angleterre = England
Mon Cher = My dear
Mon petit lapin = My little rabbit
Fils de salop = Son of a bitch
Réveillez-vous = Wake up (or something like that)
Êtes-vous d'accord = Are you okay?
Mon Dieu = My God
Dieu Merci = Thank God
Il est inconscient seulement = He is only unconscious
Mon Ami = My friend
Trois Pieces = Three piece (but you knew that)
C'est stupide =It's stupid
Vraiment = Honestly (lit. Truly)
C'est la vie, n'est pas? = That is life, is it not?
C'est tres belle beaucoup = it is very beautiful (this may be grammatically incorrect, because tres means very but beaucoup also means very much, so I may only need one of these in a sentence)
S'il te plait = a more informal/intimate way of saying S'il vous plait, or "please"
Ferme ta guele = A rude way to say shut up.
Hope you enjoyed!
Thank you Kignon (I swear it said Klingon at first...) for the corrections. My French, although decent, is by no means fluent what so ever, and it's Quebecoise, not Parisian, so there are definitely some differences.
To all those suffering from the Polar Vortex, please stay safe and stay warm. Do NOT go outside if your weather is below -10 C (14 F). You have our love.