Hello! This is my current baby and obsession, so hopefully I'll have this all written before the end of the year. This is going to be a couple of chapters long, I'm not sure how many yet, but probably around 7. Most of it is planned out, it's just a matter of writing it down. This is also cross-posted on AO3, if you prefer that format. Although this isn't intended to be a romance by any means, I do intend to explore a couple of relationship dynamics, so this is my caveat if you don't like any of the following:
FACE family dynamics; Frying Pangle friendship; Bad Touch Trio friendship; PruAus.
That's just off the top of my head; I don't have the entire thing completely fleshed out just yet, so some others may pop up. This all started because as I was browsing fanfics I was asking myself, "Damn, England was a pirate and the the Top Dog in Europe for a while...why can't I find any fics where he's a badass?!" And then my love for Prussia kicked in, and then I was like, "To hell with it, I want to see Badass!Old World powers proving to them youngsters that they still have it."
And that's the story of how this was born.
Full Summary: "You either die a hero...Or live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Arthur never thought he'd be applying a quote from Alfred's movies to his life. He didn't like it.
After a series of attacks, the Old World Powers find themselves in a position where they're on the run together, fighting for the right to live in the new era despite the sins of the past. However they won't go down easy; empires may crumble and names may change, but the people at the heart of them remain the same.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Oh, how I wish. I'd have money, for one thing.
"How come you're always the one leading the meetings? I think the hero here should be the leader!"
England sighed irritably, rubbing his temple with one finger as he watched America interrupt poor Canada (again) in order to challenge Germany to leadership rights (again). Germany for his part just stared back at America exasperatingly before responding.
"Because I don't interrupt other countries when it's their turn, America. Now sit down and let, um," he paused, brow wrinkling in confusion. "Whose turn was it again?"
"Does it matter?" Prussia drawled, balancing on the last two legs of his chair so precariously that England found himself vehemently wishing it would tip over, if only to knock that self-satisfied smirk off his arrogant face. Honestly, why he bothered coming to these meetings was beyond him; all he did was doodle, make snide commentary, and distract America whenever he finally got serious. "It's lunchtime and the awesome me is starving." To England's great disappointment, instead of falling, his chair righted itself onto all four legs. "I'm feeling like pasta. What do you think, Italy?"
"Ve~!" Italy cooed happily, hopping out of his seat. "I love pasta!"
Prussia's smirk widened. "I know." He pushed back his chair noisily and started to saunter out of the meeting room after Italy. "You coming, West?"
Germany rubbed his face tiredly and sighed, resignation written across his face as he organized his papers. "Fine. We'll break for lunch. Everyone report back to this conference room in no less than," he glanced at his wristwatch, "one hour and thirty minutes. We will pick up with, um, whoever America interrupted."
"It's Canada," the blond huffed softly, hugging Kumajiro tighter to his chest as America laughed loudly and hit him on the back.
"Sorry about that, bro. I forgot you were even here!"
"What else is new?" Canada muttered under his breathe.
"Anyway," America continued unrepentantly. "You wanna grab some lunch? I'm dying for a burger. I'm sure we can find a good burger place if we hurry." Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Canada's arm and dragged him out of the room.
"Eh? A-America, I don't want-!" the closing door silenced the rest of his sentence, but England didn't imagine it was hard to guess what he had been about to say.
A glance around the room confirmed that the only people left were Germany and Japan, who were already on their way out to catch up to Prussia and Italy, so that left-
"Mon Angleterre!"
France.
England closed his eyes slowly and counted to ten. However, when he opened them again he was still met with the sight of France's leer less than six inches from his face. Irritated, he pushed him away. "What do you want, frog?"
The other blond just smiled in what England supposed he thought was a charming manner (it definitely wasn't anything close, especially with England's hand still pressed into the center of his face). "I was just wondering if perhaps mon Angleterre would be interested in catching up to the boys with me, hm?"
That made England pause and remove his hand. "You want me to spend my lunch watching America force those atrocious hamburgers onto Canada, with you?" He sneered. "I would actually like to be able to enjoy my meal, France."
"Don't be like that, Angleterre," England absolutely hated the way he purred that, "I was thinking that perhaps, if we were there, we could distract America long enough to let mon petit Canada actually eat something befitting his sophisticated inherited palate." He ushered England through the door, -when did they start moving? - before continuing. "Of course, I know you know nothing about those sorts of things…"
"Just wait one bloody minute, frog!"
England just knew this was going to be a horrible lunch.
To his great, bitter disappointment, he had been right. Lunch had proven to be a disastrous affair from the moment they walked into the restaurant America had whisked Canada into, only to realize it was the same place the others had gone to get their lunch as well.
When the distinct "kesesesesese" rang through the air, England was sorely tempted to turn around and walk out. He almost did, but France had grabbed his arm in a surprisingly iron hold and had dragged him to the table where the North American twins were –thankfully- sitting apart from the rest of the G7.
The relief was short-lived however, once he realized that America had managed to somehow strong-arm Canada into an eating contest while Kumajiro judged. The only help France, the treacherous snake, had provided was in talking them into ordering from the entire menu instead just hamburgers. He then got to spend the rest of their lunch break steadily getting more and more nauseous watching the youngest blonds at the table devour plate after plate of Italian food, with the occasional desert thrown in for variety.
His headache had only increased once Prussia had wandered over, beer in one hand and a bottle of wine for France in the other. Then he got to enjoy "keseses's" and "honhonhon's" along with sounds of half masticated food being swallowed until Germany had marched over, Italy slung over one shoulder and Japan besides him, to inform them that Italy had eaten too much gelato and he had to take him back.
When England had protested about the rest of the meeting, Germany had slid his gaze to the rest of his table and commented dryly on how he was sure "Italy wasn't going to be the only one unable to continue today." Glancing back, England had had to agree with him. Canada had been face down on the table, arms clutched tightly around his middle, groaning pathetically. Even America was looking a little uncomfortable, making drowsy pained noises every time he moved in his seat.
France and Prussia head been surrounded by empty bottles and well on their way to being uproariously drunk, their conversation a bastardized mixture of German and French, with a random Spanish phrase thrown in every once in a while, as if they kept on forgetting they were short one idiotic bad influence.
In the end, England had been very put-upon to gently lead Canada into a taxi and not-so-gently throw America in along with him, instructing the driver to take them to their hotel; they could find their ways to their rooms from there.
After abandoning France and Prussia to their debauchery, he had headed home, where he continued to ignore his grumbling stomach and had passed out in an undignified sprawl on his couch.
Now he woke to the morning sun shining cheerfully in his face, courtesy of the curtains he had forgotten to draw the day before. Grumbling, he stumbled off the couch, cursing colorfully when he stumbled into the coffee table.
"Of all the sodding inconvenient places…"
Rubbing his shin with one hand, he squinted at the grandfather clock tastefully placed near the opening into the hall.
"Nine forty-three?" He sighed, abandoning his shin to rub aggressively at his face. "I'm already behind today's bloody workload and the day hasn't even had the chance to properly begin. Brilliant." He stretched, letting a self-satisfied "Ah" once his back popped, and then dragged himself into the kitchen to snatch up a scone and set his tea kettle on the stove before heading into his study.
Entering the room, he sighed once more at the sheer size of the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated while he had been preparing for the G7 meeting.
"Of course, why I'm even arsed to do this anymore is beyond me. Bollocks is what it is," he muttered to himself as he flopped gracelessly onto his chair, listlessly shifting the papers into piles based on the immediacy of the attention they demanded, absently munching on his admittedly crunchy scone. Damned if he ever admitted it though.
Halfway through the first pile however, he looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. He could have sworn that he heard something underneath the crumbling of his pastry and the rustling of paper, something that sounded suspiciously like the floorboards in the hall giving underneath someone's weight.
And there it was again, the subtle shifting of aged wood whispering tellingly to his alert senses. Whoever this was, they were trying to remain unheard. Someone had broken into his house.
The blond gently placed the papers back on the desk, steadying his grip on the remains of the scone. Alfred had once said they would make good baseballs, and unfortunately, the only other things he could use in his immediate vicinity were office supplies. Office supplies, didn't he have an old letter opener around here, one that Antonio had given him once as a gag gift?
"Un regalo, amigo, to remind you that you used to defend your people with a different type of sword, once."
Like he could forget, he mused as he started rummaging through his drawers. His cutlass was one of his prized possessions. He still polished it monthly and liked to pull it out every once in a while just to run his fingers along it, remembering the way the sunlight used to dance on its edge like fire.
His fingers were just grazing cool steel as the doorknob began to turn, causing him to still with his hand hopefully out of sight. He turned his upper body to face the opening door, steeling his expression. The last of his hope that he was just overreacting disappeared with the appearance of the person in his doorway; they were dressed in black clothes and heavy boots, but the most alarming aspect of their appearance was the simple black half mask covering their eyes and the leather gloves on their hands. This person meant business.
"Who are you," Arthur began coolly, "and why are you in my house? This is private property." He made a show of flicking his eyes up and down their person. "I should advice you, that there are more, diplomatic, manners of bringing my attention to personal agendas. My secretary is very good at getting messages to me promptly."
The figure in the doorway just took a steady step into the room and closed the door with surprising gentleness. The click of the lock was finite in the silence that followed Arthur's words.
"This is not a matter that I would take up with your secretary, or any human you employ." Arthur's eyebrows almost met his hairline. He hadn't actually expected this man, -definitely a man, their voice was very deep- to answer him, let alone with such eloquence. He was dressed like a common cat burglar, for crying out loud, but he sounded like Roderich when he was on a roll.
"Surprised?" the stranger chuckled, adding even more to Arthur's confusion. "I suppose you would be. You have no idea who I am, or what I'm here for, and yet here we are, having a nice chat in your home" there was something off about the emphasis he placed on the word, "office, while you brew tea downstairs. I'd ask if you would offer me some, but I much rather we cut to the chase, shall we?"
"For someone who wants to 'cut to the chase,' you have done a fine job of dodging my questions," Arthur snapped, feeling his scone slowly turning into ash in his hand as he tightened his fist. "I do not want to repeat myself again; who are you and what do you want?"
"Who I am isn't your concern, and I don't want anything at all. I'm merely here to right a wrong." With that statement he drew a long knife from a previously unseen hostler at his hip.
Arthur couldn't help jerking back a little, stunned at the sight. "'Right a wrong'? Are you mad?" He narrowed his eyes. "You can't kill England with a ruddy knife."
"No, I don't suppose I can." The tilt of his head hinted that he was admiring the flat of his strangely dark blade even though he couldn't see his eyes through the whited out eyeholes. "So it's a good thing this knife is meant for Arthur Kirkland instead."
Arthur had heard enough. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, bending his knees slightly, and waiting for the other man to make the first move. He didn't need to wait long; his attacker apparently truly meant business because he wasted no time in flipping the knife in his hand into a reverse hold, rushing at him around the wider opening to his desk. He was trying to back him into the bookcase on the narrow side, Arthur realized, where it'd be harder for him to run quickly.
Well, it was a good thing he didn't plan on running. Arthur whipped the remains of his scone at his assailant's face, using the momentary distraction to pull his hand out of the drawer, blocking the drastically slowed upward swing with the recovered letter opener. He had thought it a bit of a gaudy thing when Antonio had presented it to him, a nine and a half inch steel replica of a common pirate cutlass, with a mother of pearl handle carved with the image of a storm-blown ship, and bas relief crossbones decorating what little space was left on it. Now however, he was just thankful that the Spaniard had gone the extra length to get him something made of a sturdy metal, although the jolt he felt up his arm as he pushed his opponent's knife to the side let him know it probably wouldn't stand for too much brutality.
He shifted his grip on his weapon and readied himself not a moment too soon, hand already up to block the next attack. He could feel the muscles in his arm tensing in anticipation of the shock of metal meeting metal, his feet automatically adjusting and distributing his weight evenly to compensate for his weaving upper body. It was a dance he had never forgotten and he was glad for it.
He smirked slightly as he swiped another blow out of the way, taking an offensive swing at his attacker's leading arm, catching part of the sleeve before he took a step back. Arthur didn't give chase, choosing instead to ready his stance for a leap. Whether it be at this man or over his desk he had yet to decide.
"Right a wrong, you said?" He asked keeping his green eyes locked on the eyeholes of the black mask. "I don't think I recall ever having met you before. Certainly I couldn't have slighted you; you're human, aren't you?"
The masked man simply flipped his knife into a forward grip, squaring his shoulders. Arthur gritted his teeth. He wasn't sure his letter opener would be able to stand blows with the amount of strength a few of those swings could deal.
"If you're so insistent on killing me, the least you can do is tell me why."
The man merely lunged forward, bringing his weapon down with a force that could surely shatter bone. Arthur leapt forward, right into the cradle created by the man's outstretched arm and chest and sliced into the arm, catching him from mid-forearm to shoulder, before shoulder checking him as hard as he could manage. The man cried in pain, but to his credit tried to catch Arthur with his uninjured arm as he slipped past.
Arthur avoided it with all the slipperiness of an eel, pivoting on his heel to face his opponent once more from a safer distance, his letter opener in a defensive hold in front of his face, edge dulled with red.
"Next one is for your throat," he stated calmly.
The intruder seemed to be assessing him with a calculating look, but it could have easily been scorn; it was impossible to tell with that mask.
"You don't fight the way I expected you to," he finally said, fingers tightening and relaxing around the dark hilt of the knife in the first show of hesitation that morning.
"Oh?" Arthur asked lightly. "And how did you expect me to fight?"
The man ignored him in favor of rushing around the desk for him again. This time however, Arthur was expecting him. He jumped onto his desk just as he got within arm's reach, immediately swinging a leg out at his head, and bringing his letter opener down across his uninjured shoulder when he predictably dodged. This time when he stumbled, Arthur grabbed the back of his head and brought it down with his entire body onto the desk, staying in a crouch as he howled in pain and scrambled back.
It had been too long since he had felt so much bloodlust, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relishing it, savoring the way the adrenaline flooded his system and his senses turned razor sharp. However, the man's next words cut his reminiscing short.
"You've just proven to me that our purpose is a true one."
"I have no bloody clue what you're on about," Arthur snapped.
His intruder sneered. "You have tainted ancient blood in you, abomination, and you have sullied this world long enough with it. The time has come for a clean slate."
Arthur just gaped at the man, at an utter loss for words. What the bloody hell was this lunatic talking about?
"'A clean slate'?" Arthur was starting to feel like a parrot. "Killing me won't destroy England; this land will continue to exist without me-,"
"I'm not talking about England," the man was clutching his injured forearm, blood glistening on his leather gloves. "The time has come for you, Arthur Kirkland, to pay for your sins. All of you who took and pillaged what didn't belong to you and plunged innocents into misfortune. You have all existed unpunished for far too long." With that he lunged at Arthur again, catching him by surprise around the middle. Arthur felt the air leave his lungs, cursing vehemently for letting himself be caught off-guard. The force of the tackle slid them right off the desk, and in the moment they were airborne, Arthur was sure he caught the glimmer of something around his attacker's neck, but they met the ground again far too quickly for him to spare it much thought.
He could feel the scrambling of the man above him, seeking the weapon he must have dropped. Quickly, Arthur wrapped both his arms tightly around his bleeding shoulders, throwing his weight back, planting his feet firmly on the ground. The man immediately arched into the hold, trying to ease the hold on his shoulders and separate the rest of his body from the dangerous one beneath him.
Not missing a beat, Arthur dropped his hips and curled his legs into the gap momentarily created between their bodies, unfurling his legs into a powerful kick, launching his opponent over his head, and straight out the window behind his desk.
Ignoring the glass falling over him, Arthur stumbled onto his feet, throwing himself at the windowsill just in time to see the quick-moving black shadow speeding away from the house.
Arthur slumped against the wall next to his broken window, allowing himself a moment to pant and assess his injuries. His arm felt heavy and his fingertips tingled, and his back and shoulders were still throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His face and palms also stung from the glass, but that hopefully wouldn't prove to be anything more than an irritation. All in all, he had walked away from that better than he could have possibly hoped for.
Now though, he had time to reflect on what had just happened. A stranger had just broken into his house and attacked him with intent to kill. But why? Arthur grunted as he pushed away from the wall, absently recovering his letter opener and sticking it in his waistband. He had made it sound like he was part of a group, with talk of "our purpose." A group that had sought him out, specifically him, Arthur, not England. This had been personal.
Distantly, his tea kettle began to whistle.
"All of you who took and pillaged what didn't belong to you…"
Arthur froze. "All of you," he breathed, eyes widening in panic. He wasn't the only target.
Abomination.
Tainted ancient blood.
Arthur ran out of his study, practically jumping down his stairs and skidding into his living room. His jacket was still where he had left it the day before, thrown absently over his armchair. He dove for it, dirtied fingertips leaving smudges of red on the cloth as he dug into the pockets for his cellphone. A few quick swipes found him holding it to his ear, muttering under his breath as he listened to the ringing on the other side.
"Come on, Francis, pick up, pick up…"
Francis hummed softly to himself, setting the flour onto his kitchen counter. He took a step back and admired the spread with a critical eye.
"I should add some nutmeg," he murmured, turning to the cupboard, rummaging for a bit before retrieving the correct bottle with a soft, "Aha!" Setting it on the counter, Francis let a content smile spread across his lips. Now he had all the necessary ingredients to make the perfect breakfast puffs.
The blond glanced at the clock on his oven as he pulled his hair back into a low ponytail. Nine-thirty, plenty of time to make the puffs before he had to meet Antonio. And, if he timed himself correctly, he had just enough time to take some to a certain grumpy Englishman before he finally killed himself trying to eat one of those atrocious scones. Francis shuddered at the memory of watching Alfred eat burnt and undercooked scones indiscriminately, Arthur smiling smugly as he nibbled on his own charred concoction.
Francis could only be thankful that Mathieu was more scrupulous about what he put in his mouth, even if he did have an unfortunate penchant for smothering everything in maple syrup.
Perhaps he'd save him and his brother some of the breakfast puffs, if they could stand to stomach anything after yesterday. Francis chuckled. Two of the world's strongest nations, yet they still fell victim to such silly childish behavior when they were around each other for too long. Not that Alfred needed much encouraging, but it always lightened his heart to see his Mathieu shed his bashfulness and get feisty. It made Arthur's influence stand out much more clearly in his personality.
Thoughts turning to the older blond-haired nation, Francis frowned slightly as he began sifting his dry ingredients together. Arthur had vanished not long after Ludwig had left, not even bothering with a "by your gone" as he herded Mathieu and Alfred ahead of him. Not only had it been incredibly ungentlemanly of him, he had stuck Gilbert and himself with the bill for the boys' eating contest as well!
He turned on his mixer, watching the butter and sugar mix for a beat before adding an egg. Honestly, Arthur was still every bit the ruffian he had been years ago underneath all that stiff upper lip posturing he did. It was just a matter of badgering him just the right amount in the right atmosphere to get him to reveal it. It could be terrifying, Francis mused, smoothly alternating adding the dry ingredients and milk into the mixture with just a dash of vanilla, but at the same time it could be riveting to see those green eyes shining with the threat of violence. It made teasing him all that much more fun.
Francis poured his mixture into the greased muffin tins and promptly slipped them into the waiting oven. There, now he had twenty-five minutes to clean up a little bit. It wouldn't do to have anyone see him like this, hair messily tied and sleeves wrinkled where they were rolled up, flour streaked across his pants. He was wiping his hands on a dishtowel when he heard the kitchen door opening and closing behind him.
"Tonio, you're a little early, mon ami…" Francis trailed off as he turned around. This man wasn't Antonio. He was the right height and he appeared to have brown hair, but that was where the similarities ended. This man was quite broad across the shoulders, and he stood at the other end of his kitchen with an aura of danger around him, only emphasized by the suspicious black mask he wore and the long knife he held in one hand.
"I'm not the conquistador."
"I take it you're not selling delicious girl scout cookies either, monsieur?" Francis asked lightly, slowly setting the dishtowel on the counter, eyes not leaving the intruder for a moment. He kept his hand on the counter as casually as he could, quickly estimating how long it would take him to get to the knife block on the kitchen island versus how quickly the man's admirably thick legs could get him across the kitchen. It would be a pretty close call, he mused grimly.
"No, I'm not," his unexpected visitor grumbled, and the tensing on his frame was the only warning he gave before he was coming at him at full-speed. Francis' eyes widened at the lack of preamble, but he threw himself over his kitchen island and out of the way of an outstretched gloved hand just in time. Rolling on his shoulder, Francis stuck his hand out and thankfully felt his fingers wrap around a cool wooden handle, landing on his feet lightly, the sharp shlitk of the slicing knife echoing in the kitchen.
"Now, let's not be rash," Francis started, "I don't even know your name and I would hate to bloody my floors." He flicked his free hand around. "I just had them cleaned, you know, and Gilbert won't be so easily fooled twice."
"Your kind never takes anything seriously."
Francis blinked. "My kind? Les Françaises?"
"You nations," he hissed the word like a curse.
Now Francis was even more confused. "I take it you must have not met Germany yet."
"Enough talk!" the man snapped. "Your tyranny ends now."
"Monsieur Bonaparte died almost two-hundred years ago," the blond dead-panned, adjusting his grip on the knife, "I believe there may be a misunderstanding here."
"There is no mistake; the time has come for the ancient regime to fall."
Before Francis could say another word, the man rushed around the island, bringing the knife down over his head. Francis ducked to the side, bringing his knife up to block the redirected swing coming at his ribs. He gritted his teeth against the shudder the impact rang up his arm, and threw a punch at the man's face. He felt his fist make contact with the soft flesh of his cheek as he turned away, but the force still had his attacker stumbling back a step. Francis almost laughed at the sound of surprise that escaped that mouth, but didn't have any time as he gave an enraged shout and lunged at him again, this time aiming the long knife straight at his stomach.
Francis turned on the ball of his foot, feeling the flat of the blade skim his shirt as ran his own knife across his attacker's upper arm, jerking back in surprise when the man executed a surprisingly nimble turn to grab his forearm. Francis grunted as he was thrown into the island, the marble surely bruising his back. His attacker didn't give him any time to recover his breathe before he fell upon him, one hand immediately going for the wrist that held the slicing knife, the other bringing the long knife towards his neck. Francis grabbed for that arm, stopping it a scant few inches from his pounding pulse.
They stood like that for a moment, neither man giving an inch to the other. This close, Francis could see the sweat beading across his assailant's upper lip, the snarl twisting his thin lips and the surprisingly straight white teeth behind them. However, Francis' eyes were drawn further down, where he could see a ball link chain gleaming at the other man's throat. It was tucked underneath his black collar, but Francis could just make out a thick golden band. Too asymmetrically thick to be a wedding band, but familiar nonetheless.
Francis paid for his momentary lapse of attention when the man pushed the knife with a sudden renewal of strength, skimming the pale skin of his throat before he managed to stop it once again. He could feel the blood oozing out of the shallow cut with each beat of his heart. Looking back up at the man, Francis could see no hesitation on the uncovered portion of his face. This man intended to kill him, doubtlessly.
Well, greater men had tried and failed as well.
The blond flipped his knife through his fingers, -a littler clumsier than he would have liked, but they were going numb- and flicked it as hard as he could with his limited mobility. To his relief, his aim proved true and his knife sailed into the injury he had caused earlier. It wasn't an incapacitating attack by any means, but it was enough to startle the man into loosening the hold on his wrist, which was enough.
Francis wrenched his wrist free and threw another punch at his attacker's face, landing his fist into the same place he had before, this time with a satisfying crack. Ignoring the howl of pain, Francis threw his hand back and grasped for the mixing bowl left on the island, slamming it into his attacker's face as well.
The force sent him tumbling a little before he released his own hold on the dizzy man's wrist, but he turned his stumble into a spin, ending in a firm kick that sent the other across the floor.
"Now, monsieur," Francis panted a little more harshly than he would have liked, picking a boning knife from the block this time, other hand still gripping the mixing bowl, "would you like to enlighten me as to why you're here?"
The other man just spat at his feet. "I owe you nothing," he intoned. "I'm just surprised your kind bleeds after all."
Francis raised a dainty eyebrow. "Of course I do. I'm alive, oui?"
"For too long," he sneered, sitting up. "But that will change soon enough." Francis watched wearily as he slowly got onto his knees, his eyes once again being drawn to the glitter at his throat. This time he could see the ring, for it truly was a ring, had slipped out of his shirt, laying in sharp contrast to all the black. It was a thick ring with a flat head, the type worn by university alumni.
"That is a lovely ring," he gestured with one of the fingers holding the bowl. "To what university does it belong to?"
The man froze suddenly at the question, the visible parts of his face paling. Before Francis could ponder this any further, he suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the abandoned slicing knife on the floor and hurling it at the nation with full-force.
Francis yelped and brought the bowl up, both hearing and feeling the force of the knife skid across its smooth surface, nicking one of his fingers in the process. He heard the kitchen door slam, and he knew without looking that his assailant was gone. Lowering the bowl he was proven right when the only thing that met his sight was a still trembling door, and a smear of blood on the floor. Regardless of the severity of the situation, Francis couldn't help the pang of irritation that shot through him. "My floor…"
Striding across the room, Francis locked the door and cautiously peeked out the window, not knowing how to feel when the only thing that met his eyes was his own undisturbed lawn. Nothing gave any indication that a mad man had just assaulted him.
Sighing, Francis turned back to his kitchen, surveying the discarded knives and the thick leftover batter that had splattered when he grabbed the bowl. The electric mixer stand was lying on its side on the island, covered in flour from the upturned bag. A true mess.
His musings were interrupted by the shrill ringing of his cellphone, surprisingly untouched by the chaos in the rest of the room. He made his way to where it was charging on the counter, absently dropping the bowl into the sink next to it. Picking it up, he ignored his shaking fingers as he brought it up to his ear. "Allo?"
"Francis! About bloody time you answered me! What the hell were you doing?"
"Arthur?"
"No, it's the blasted Queen of England," the voice on the other end snapped.
"I'm sure you look dashing in your gown," Francis laughed forcefully, running a hand through his tangled hair.
"Francis? Are you okay?" Arthur didn't phrase it so much as a question as a demand for a positive response.
"Honestly, mon cher? I have no idea," Francis turned to survey the room once again, eyes hesitating on one specific spot.
"Were you attacked too?"
Francis paused. "'Too?' You were attacked, Arthur?" His heart picked right back up. "Are you alright?"
"I could hardly be speaking to you if I wasn't, don't be daft."
Francis let out a breathe of relief. "I'm glad. This man did not appear to be playing games when he came in."
"So it was a man as well?" Arthur's voice was sharp. "Black clothing? A mask?"
The Frenchman had made his way over to his oven. "Oui, and a peculiar long knife."
Arthur swore. "Same here. What time?"
Francis tucked his phone between his ear and shoulder, opening his oven gently. "He just ran off not two minutes before you rang."
"So not the same man, then."
"Non, I do not believe that would be possible."
Francis suddenly let out a laugh, startling the blond on the other end into fumbling with his phone. "What's wrong?"
"Rien, rien," Francis continued to chuckle, "It's just that despite everything, my breakfast puffs are still perfect."
"Be serious, frog!"
"Desole, mon cher."
"And stop calling me that," Arthur snapped. "Did the man that attacked you say anything useful? I don't think this is going to end with us."
That sobered Francis right up. "Why?"
"Because the man who attacked me said it was time for 'all of us who pillaged what wasn't ours' to pay, and for a cleansing of 'tainted ancient blood.'"
That made the hairs on the back of Francis' neck stand up. "The man who attacked me mentioned that it was time for 'the ancient regime to fall,'" he said slowly, casting his memory for more little details he may have missed. "He called me a tyrant, said our kind didn't take anything seriously."
"The French?"
Francis could feel his lips twitch upwards at Arthur's weak attempt at humor. The other man knew how well he took the subject of tyranny. "Non, although I asked the same thing."
"Anything else?"
Something tickled the back of his mind. "When I heard him come in, I thought he was Antonio. He said he 'wasn't the conquistador.'" Dread pooled heavily in his stomach. "You don't think-?" But Arthur was already cursing up a storm.
"Bloody hell, this a right cock up," he exclaimed. "Is Antonio supposed to be headed your way?"
Francis busied his hands mechanically dipping the puffs in cinnamon sugar, ignoring how his trembling was making the coverage uneven. "He should be; we were supposed to meet at eleven."
"Well see if you can get him to hurry up," Arthur paused, his breathing causing static to buzz down the line. "And then both of you head back here."
Francis' eyebrows flew up. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"The Ritz continues to employ the security measures from the G7 meeting for a few days afterwards," Arthur explained impatiently. "We can stay there while we sort this out, at least for the next couple of days."
"Somehow, mon amour, I don't believe this will be over that quickly."
For once Arthur didn't snap at him for the pet name. "No, I don't think so either, but it's what we have to work with for now." There was another pregnant pause. "I-I'm going to check in on Alfred and Matthew."
Francis felt his heart leap into his throat before frowning pensively. "You couldn't possibly think they would be a part of this; they're too young."
"I just want to make sure," Arthur bit back. "Francis, what we know right now is, quite frankly, nothing. We don't know who these men are, or why they're doing this. The only thing we do know is that they would have happily killed us had we been less prepared.
"And if they intend to try again," he continued, "then it's in our best interest to be overly prepared."
There was a beat of silence where the only noise was the soft slithering of cinnamon sugar sliding together before Francis broke it. "In that case," he sighed, "it would be best to check up on the rest of the G7; perhaps we can get a better idea of who exactly is and isn't a target if we start with who's already there."
Arthur made a noise of approval. "That's actually a good idea. Alright, I'll call Alfred, Matthew, and Kiku. I'll leave Gilbert, Ludwig, and Feliciano to you."
Francis nodded absently, forgetting Arthur couldn't see him. "I'll call them after I call Antonio, mon cher."
"Of course," Arthur conceded. "Keep me updated. And," a pause, "keep safe, alright, Francis?"
"I don't think I've ever heard you say my name so often, mon amour," Francis teased lightly. "It sounds magnifique."
"Shut up, you git, I'm serious. Don't let your guard down; the last bloody thing we all need is to have to hold the doubtlessly distasteful funeral you have planned."
Francis chuckled. "Very well. I'll stay on my guard, just for you."
"I'm hanging up now," Arthur said flatly, already sounding far away.
"Wait Arthur!" Francis cried. When the phone continued to display the continued connection, he let out a breathe. "Just, let me know how the boys are? S'il te plait?"
Arthur let out an irritated hiss. "Of course I will, stop asking stupid questions. Call me when you're on your way." Francis opened his mouth, but was met with the dial tone before he could respond.
Huffing softly, Francis wiped his hand absently with the long abandoned dishtowel before plucking the phone out of the cradle created by his ear and shoulder. He stared at Arthur's contact name for a beat –"Rosbif"- before scrolling down on his call log and hitting Antonio's name, holding his breath as the line rang.
"Hola, Francis!" Francis closed his eyes, his breath escaping his chest in one long, thankful sigh.
"Dieu merci, Antonio, are you alright?"
"Um, si, I just left my house. Is everything okay?"
Francis rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I'm afraid not, mon ami."
"Did Gil get arrested again?"
Francis laughed shortly. "Non, at least, he hadn't been when I last saw him. He would probably be safer in a jail cell right now, however."
"Francis, what's wrong?" Antonio really wasn't the type of person suited for being worried, and it made the blond hate to be the cause of that wary note entering his voice.
"We may have a bit of a complication on our hands right now, Tonio."
"How much is 'a bit'?"
"Big enough that we're going to the airport as soon as you get here. Which you should be doing as quickly as you can. And possibly don't venture far from well-populated streets on your way, if you can."
There was a pause on the other end, teeming with all the questions Francis knew Antonio no doubt had by now. However, he only asked one.
"Should I bring my axe?"
Francis could have kissed him. He probably would, actually. "Oui, mon ami," he admitted quietly, eyes falling onto the drying red streak on his floor. "That's probably for the best right now."