This. This is my first Hetalia fanfiction. I swear to god be nice. ;_;
Summary: Francis barges into Arthur's country home and begins to make macarons. Not that Arthur's objecting.
On April 8th 1904, the countries of England and France formed a treaty to officialise the (semi) peace that had existed between the two nations since the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815. At the time, it wasn't as such an important treaty as it seems to be, a simple agreeance to leave each others colonies as it was and stop trying to rape and pillage the others people.
So yeah, awesome.
"Angleterre!" The door slammed into the back wall of Arthur's front hall, resounding through the manor. From his place on the sofa Arthur frowned, his eyebrows furrowing.
"I am here! Did you miss me?" Francis exclaimed, bursting into the lounge with an enthusiasm that Arthur hadn't seen him muster up in a long time, "that's a silly question, of course you did."
"What the hell do you want, frog?" Arthur stood up from the sofa, collecting his empty mug from the floorboards and walking straight past Francis and into the hall then down to the kitchen. Francis simply followed, saying "Not even a hello?"
It was as Arthur was pouring water into his kettle that he noticed that Francis was holding two overstocked plastic bags in his hands. He dumped them onto the island and began digging through them.
"What're they for?"
"We're making macarons!" he said as he unloaded ingredients into the counter, "what's a better way to spend your anniversary?"
"I don't want your French foods. And what do you mean anniversary?"
"Don't be ridiculous you love my macarons. Dear look at the calendar."
Arthur's eyes flickered to his calendar on the fridge. It was covered in dates and notes, with every month adorned with a scenic picture of places around the world that Arthur didn't much care for anyway. The titled boldly declared it to be April and oh shit it's April 8th.
"You forgot didn't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous I didn't forget let's just make your bloody maca-whatevers and get on with it then, frog."
Francis smiled slightly, and they began to burn cook.
At first Francis allowed Arthur the pleasure of helping, but after he demonstrated his inability to separate the egg from the white – "Why do we even need to separate them anyway? It won't make the bloody difference." - he was banished to the corner of his own kitchen, where he sat on a stool and grumbled about how macarons are far too sweet and he'd rather be doing something else, like sleeping, or watching Sherlock.
This was a tradition the two had upheld every single year since the signing on the treaty between the two, a day of sitting around, eating and not fighting but then immediately after they pretended it'd never happened, slipping back into their routine of strangling each other and quick fucks in the back of cars whilst drunk.
Last year they had a picnic , it was nice, although Arthur would insist otherwise.
Arthur looked up when he heard a bang as the door to his much worn cooker slammed shut and saw Francis toying with the ribbon in his hair and staring out of the window onto Arthur's garden. His garden was his prized possession, a creature he spent many a summer nights tending to.
"What're you doing, Francis?" Arthur asked.
"108 years of peace," Francis said to seemingly himself. There was a sad tone to his voice, "do you ever miss it, Arthur?"
"Don't know what you're talking about, Frog, we still argue like old men even now."
"But we are old men," Francis turned around, slowly walking to where Arthur was sitting and crouching in front of him, "we've been through so much together."
"S-stop being so sappy, you damn frog," Arthur tried to shuffle away, but Francis was pressing down on his thighs with the palms of his flour covered hands, "what's with that look on your face?"
Then everything was Francis as he closed the last couple of inches and captured Arthur's lips with his own, pressing their foreheads together as he did so. Arthur didn't resist, curling his fingers into the holes at the top of Francis' shirt where he hadn't buttoned it fully, pulling the man closer against him. All thewhile his mind was muttering a mantra of this isn't happening you're not enjoying this damn frog can't kiss bloody francis I'd rather be elsewhere what's the time his macarons will be terrible this isn't happening why aren't you resisting, man?
"Mm," Francis mumbled, pulling away from a flustered and wide eyed Arthur, "Mon cher Angleterre~"
"F-Fuck off!"
"Hey France, dude! What's with the shiner?" Alfred asked the following Monday when they met to discuss exportation of Francis' food, "looks wicked ugly."
Francis smiled slightly, "Oui, but it was worth it."
THE END.
FUCK.