Loosely inspired by the film, Once. If someone else has written something like this – I've never read it, sorry. Human names used, Modern AU, USUK. Told from 3rd POV
I do not own Hetalia, Once or any of the other references I may make in writing this.
Recommend listening to Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard from the film Once.
Voices float across the street, carried by the gentle breeze laced with the smell of fresh baked goods and perfume. There is no other place to be than Paris in the summertime. The cafes are open and the patrons mill around the small tables and chairs that sit outside their doors. The streets are crowded with the patter of footsteps and conversation as people go on their way to their destinations, walking in leisurely paces to enjoy the warm weather.
A strum from a guitar occasionally bursts through the noise and is accompanied by a warm voice that rises and falls with the words. The people pass by a young man with golden blonde hair as he sings his heart out to the masses, some looking his way and others ignoring him entirely. A few good people toss a few coins or a dollar into the open guitar case at his feet, but he's otherwise crying out to a deaf world.
His face is young, but beginning to show the signs of a weary traveler. The thick honey-blonde strands falling onto his cheeks, save for one strand that stuck straight up and swayed in the soft breeze. Eyes the color of the cloudless sky above and framed by glasses watched the people pass by with intensity as if he was singing to each man or woman personally. He was dressed casually, jeans and worn out trainers accompanied a white V-neck that hugged the man's toned torso. His appearance would earn him a smile from many women; some of whom would stand and be serenaded before they remembered their appointments and dashed away with pink-dusted cheeks.
His voice was warm and raw as it lifted over the bustle of noise, the notes rising high into the sky and sometimes the passerbyers could hear the American twang in his voice as he sang. Behind him, another man leaned in the doorframe of a café, his yellow locks tied back with a black ribbon with only a few strands hanging around his face. Pale blue eyes watched curiously as the younger man strummed on the worn guitar in his hands. His lips curled into a relaxed smile and he nodded occasionally to the patrons that entered his café, many of whom were drawn by the American singing in front of the shop.
Each day the blonde would come at this time and sing his heart out, only to earn a few dollars and then disappear until sunset when he would return and sing the softer melodies for the evening diners. Francis, the owner of the café, would hand the young American a drink at the end of his set (on the house, of course) and then bid him farewell as the blonde slung the guitar on his back and strode off to wherever it was that he went. Sometimes the Frenchman would grill the American with questions about himself, but he was usually answered with a vague answer or a loud laugh.
With a few final strums, the guitarist would finish off his last song and would begin to pack up his things. Francis withdrew to inside his café, the cool breeze flowing through the open windows as he collected an iced coffee from one of the baristas. Returning to the store front, he stood waiting for the American as he counted the change in the guitar case before pocketing it and tucking away the battered guitar as if it was a small child. Slinging the instrument over his shoulder and onto his broad back, the man turned to face Francis, his lips curled back into a grin that showed a beautiful smile. Francis handed him the coffee as normal and waved off the American's attempts to pay him as they did each day. After all, the man did bring in customers who wanted to relax and listen to the music.
"Thanks man, you have no idea how much I appreciate this." His voice was thick with a warm Southern drawl that only gave the blonde American a higher level of charm, a few ears at the nearby tables tuned into the conversation.
"Ez's no problem; you bring in the customers, so I supply the drinks, qui?" An enigmatic chuckle erupted from the blonde's throat as he sipped on the coffee. Cerulean blue eyes gazing over the clusters of people that surrounded them; some would laugh in the midst of conversation and others would silently read their paper while sipping on their drinks.
"Whatever you say."
"So, thez new song you sang today? Ez for your girlfriend?"
A blonde eyebrow arched curiously behind the frame of the glasses as he continued to sip on the iced confection, "Nah, no girlfriend," he finally replied with a shrug. The café owner eyed the man before him curiously, "Boyfriend or lover?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows at the other blonde which only created a loud laugh that turned a few heads in the conversing male's direction.
"Neither." He chuckled again, running a free hand through the blonde locks of hair, making the strands more windswept than previously. "Just a song."
"That you wrote?"
"Yeah…" A voice echoed from somewhere across the street, thick with a British accent as it conversed with someone on the other side of the street. To Francis, it was just another voice in the crowd – one that he would have never noticed had the blonde before him turned towards the voice like a moth to the flame. Between the people he could make out another male standing by a small café table, his thin hands clasped behind a lean body.
His hair was a darker shade of blonde and looked permanently disheveled, tousled by the gentle breeze that carried his voice across the street. Eyes were the most startling shade of green that the Frenchman had ever beheld, like precious jewels. His skin was alabaster and he looked like the walking image of beauty to the young American who was erupted by the Brit's fluid movements.
Francis watched with a smirk as the other's vision followed each and every move that the man made. The way his red mouth formed the words effortlessly; his wrist flicking occasionally as he gestured towards their "Special de Jour" menu on the curbside and soft voice flowing over the difficult French. Ah, Paris in the summertime is the place to be for someone in love. Yes, that would explain the song that the American had poured his heart on to the unknowing masses. He was in love with a man that he had never met. The Frenchman's smirk slid into a soft smile as he rested a pale hand on the American's clothed shoulder, causing the man to stiffen under his touch. "Go speak wiz 'im."
The man's head turned to look at the Francis, his sky blue eyes wide in shock and his lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with a pink that only announced his surprise and embarrassment. "Wh-what?!" He squeaked out, glancing back to the unaware man on the other side of the crowded street.
"I said, go speak wiz 'im. Who knows? He may be afraid to speak wiz you as well?" The American looked as if he severely doubted what the café owner was saying to him, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief as he glanced once again to the Brit who had drifted to another table.
"W-what are you talking about?"
"Hmm. 'I don't know you, but I want to'?" Francis chided, tapping a slender finger along his cheek. His mind carefully calculated the words of the song that he had come to adore, hearing over and over each day. He was French, it was only in his nature to play matchmaker for a shy American and an unaware Brit, correct? A nervous chuckle that erupted from the American's tan throat regained his attention, another hand running nervously through the thick blonde strands as his feet did an anxious shuffle on the concrete beneath.
"But what if he's not…ya know." He said, eyes turning to look upon the café owner with the nervousness of a small child. He was so young, so unsure. It would have been comical given any other situation, a man who radiated confidence reduced to a nervous wreck at the thought of speaking to a man that he had never met. It was the fruition of a schoolboy crush on the unattainable teacher. The person so close, yet so far away; within throwing distance but across a sea of never-ending people.
"You will never know unless you speak wiz 'im." Francis sighed, as his hand slipped from the broad shoulder the center of the American's back. His skin was so warm beneath the cloth, radiating with fear and passion. He gave a small push. Not hard enough to launch the man off of the curbside, but enough to make him unconsciously propel himself forward. He gave Francis a hard stare, but when met with a knowing look he turned himself to look back at the object of his affections, a heavy sigh escaping from between his lips.
But the man was no longer there.
He was gone.
Francis could feel the disappointment settle into the American's shoulders, the clouding over his eyes as realization that he had missed his window of opportunity fell upon him like a heavy burden. In truth, Francis felt disappointment as well. Such a shame that he had missed an opportunity to be a matchmaker; to witness the blossoming of young love in the summertime. The taller blonde simply shrugged his hand away, his own hands gripping tightly onto the guitar strap that crossed his chest, making the white cotton bunch across his torso and reveal the slightest hint of tan skin at the hem. A sad smile, an attempt to be reassuring was shared between the two men as the lonely American stepped from the curbside and began to join the crowd that flowed through the street. He held his head up high, towering over many of those that surrounded him as his feet carried him through the streets of Paris.
He was almost out of sight when the elusive Brit resurfaced on the opposite side of the street, a drink in one hand and a scone hanging from his mouth. His appearance was even more disheveled than previously, as if he had changed in a hurry – his outfit was still the same except for the removal of the waiter's apron. The emerald orbs scanned the street and eventually landed on Francis, his pale cheeks flushed with slight aggravation as it appeared that what he was searching for was gone.
A visible sigh coursed through his body as dark green and pale blue eyes met across the street for the briefest moment. The waiter scowled and the café owner smirked before nodding his head in the direction that the guitarist had meandered off to. An appreciative smile flashed over the blonde's face before he stepped away from the storefront, his body quickly lost in the pace of the crowd as they swarmed through the streets.
Francis could only maintain his smile before a small laugh slipped through, his head shaking the blonde curls away from his face as he returned into the sweet cavern of pastries and coffees that was his shop. This was a reason why he loved Paris in the summer - it was place where love was fostered and grown in the shadows of awnings, illuminated by sweet music and smell of delicacies. Who knows, maybe the American would be singing a different tune tonight as the stars shone high above the city lights.