You guys probably won't believe it, but in addition to Franada, I am a massive FrUK shipper. In fact, I RP it vehemently. Actually, the only FACE/CAFÉ pairing that I don't actively ship is FAme, because I don't really think the characters would get on that well.
Francis had arrived early to the world meeting, which was not particularly unusual. That he wasn't laughing with his friends or flirting with the other countries was quite odd, but most of the world's nations weren't unduly fussed. Today, perhaps, their vital regions would be safe. That was some small measure of comfort, and reason enough not to ask the Frenchman what was wrong.
The United Kingdom walked in not long after that, his chin held high as he stalked past his mainland neighbour,
"Bonjour, cher L'Angleterre," Francis said, brightening and sitting up straighter, almost in spite of himself. He watched with a faint and eager smile playing about his mouth.
"Oh. Hello, frog," Arthur said stiffly, barely sparing a contemptuous glance at the suddenly cheerful Frenchman. Francis' face fell and he tilted his head in confusion.
"Cher? What did I do to offend you?"
"You exist, France, how much more offensive do you really need to be?" the Englishman snapped venomously. Taking his seat, he silently cursed that E came before F in the alphabet and he was thus seated beside the man he had just insulted.
The Frenchman's face crumpled. What had he done? Had his proposition that they have dinner together gone down that badly? It didn't have to be a date if Arthur didn't want it to be, he just wanted to spend some time with the shorter man.
The meeting was a disaster. A complete catastrophe. In fact, while it was still in progress, America had taken to calling it Hurricane Jane.
Things came to a head just before the break for lunch when, after a particularly biting remark from the representative of Great Britain and Ireland, Francis had jumped to his feet, shaking with hurt and rage.
"England, what exactly is it that I have done wrong?" he demanded, enunciating clearly to stop himself blurring into his mother tongue.
"I don't have time to list your faults, you French whore, sit down," was the dismissive reply, and the other took a step back, recoiling as though he had been slapped.
"Fuck you," he hissed before turning on his heel and storming out of the conference room.
"Not even in your wildest dreams, frog!" Arthur hurled after him, prompting the door to be slammed and an enraged scream to pierce the wooden barrier.
America whistled, "You two haven't got it on yet? Damn, I thought that that's what you were fighting about!"
~====o)0(o====~
"You should apologise, you know."
"Who're you?" The Englishman snapped, dropping a sugar cube in his tea.
"Canada. Ex colony, poor substitute for my hoser of a brother and son of France."
England curled his lip, "No offence meant, lad, but if you're that Frog-face's offspring then I hardly want to be taking your advice now, do I?"
"Yes, actually," Matthew said sternly, "You do. I was your colony too, and I know how you feel about my Papa."
Arthur flushed beet red, "I haven't a clue what you're on about, lad."
"I've picked you up off the floor enough times to know that when you're drunk, you get upset because Alfred ran away from home, and when you're really wasted, you confess your undying love for France. And other things that I really would rather not repeat."
"I – you – What? I never!" he spluttered helplessly.
"More importantly," the Canadian's soft voice commanded his attention, "I know how my Papa feels about you."
"How he-? Canadia, lad, how does he feel?"
"Canada, and you're going to have to ask him yourself."
~====o)0(o====~
Unfortunately, the infamous Bad Touch Trio was down to two that day, Spain and Prussia lounging about and having a laugh.
However their smiling faces were replaced with dangerous sneers as England approached.
"Have either of you chaps seen France? I appear to have a spot of apologising to do," he asked, hoping that he looked suitably chastened. Spain he knew he could take any day of the week, even though the Mediterranean nation was bigger, and always could, but Prussia? For all that he was only a micro nation now; he was still a vicious warmonger, and a bloodthirsty berserker who could turn any scrap into an out and out battle in minutes.
"You've done enough damage for today, Brit-sticks," the Germanic nation said quietly, his voice deadly soft.
"I want to apologise-"
"You called him puto in front of the entire world, Inglaterre; that had better be a damn good apology."
"Look, I don't know why he got so upset about that, I'm practically the only country he hasn't shagged. Well, Lichtenstein, too, but I don't think even old France is that crazy."
The albino barked a laugh, "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"
"I'm sure that I don't know what you're talking about, Prussia."
"Not everyone who says that they've been; what's that thing he says? Ja, Not everyone who says that they've been Pris par le loup is telling the truth. I know Western is lying about it. How many other people are doing the same?"
So that rumour about those two shacking up during German occupation was false? Suddenly a lot of things that England had believed as truth were being questioned.
"He's the country of amor, Inglaterre," Spain drawled, "He doesn't just jump into anyone's bed."
"But-"
"You're confusing lust for love, mouse-brows," the albino joined in maliciously, "My man, Antonio here; he's the country of passion, and damn if he doesn't get around! Francis is practically a virgin by comparison. Holle," another sharp, cruel laugh snapped from pale lips, "Artie, even you're a whore compared to France. I remember your pirate days. Who haven't you fucked?"
France.
England bristled, "That was a long time ago. I was young and reckless," he said primly, brushing off his blazer.
"Young and reckless still owes me an armada, amigo," Spain scowled.
"You can't claim debt over a century old!"
"Says who?"
"The rest of the sane world, look, that's not the point. I need to apologise to France, and I need to ask him something. It's quite a pressing matter, so if you could please just tell me where I might find him?"
"Men's room," Prussia yawned, giving the British nation an eyeful of his tonsils and a rather astonishing amount of scar tissue (What could he possibly have done to get that many bladed weapons shoved down his throat?), his red eyes challenging the other to stay and object to his lack of manners.
England nodded shortly, striding back into the building with a look of determination etched into his face.
~====o)0(o====~
It was stupid of him to be crying, the Frenchman knew that even as he sniffed at his blotchy, raspberry-ripple coloured reflection. He shouldn't be crying over that uncultured, bushy-eyebrow-ed, tea drinking – but his lack of culture was made up in his refinement, he wouldn't be English without those endearingly large eyebrows, and Arthur's favourite tea tasted mildly of roses.
And England had never gotten drunk enough in his presence for him to dare risk stealing a liquor flavoured kiss.
He hated that he wanted to stoop to that level. He was the country of Love for Christ's sake!
And now the only country he was even vaguely interested in romancing thought him no better than a common prostitute. A whore. A slut.
As he wiped his eyes, he let out a damp hybrid of sigh and sniff that was somehow loud enough to drown out the faint creak of the bathroom door.
"Hello there, France, old boy, I've been looking for you," Arthur said nervously. The bottom had dropped right out of his stomach as it always did when he saw the mainland nation, coupled as it usually was with the oh-bollocks-I've-made-him-cry feeling of deep remorse.
"Fuck off, Angleterre;" France snapped darkly, mortified at having been caught with tear tracks on his cheeks, "I'm in no mood to be insulted any further today."
"It's just as well that I'm not here to insult you, then,"
"Well you already did, so I'll thank you to find another restroom or wait until I'm done here."
"I'm afraid that that isn't going to happen, old chap, I came here to apologise to you, I've been a right tosser today."
France stared at him incredulously, wondering who had put the Englishman up to this and what kind of blackmail material could possibly be bad enough to convince the stubborn island to apologise.
"You have been that way since you were known as Albion," he sneered, "I hardly expected you to change."
"I guess that I deserved that," England sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The other man looked on disbelievingly; was he actually nervous? Stop the press!
"You're serious about this apology, aren't you?"
"Deathly serious, may I finish it?"
France regarded him warily. He desperately wanted to believe that this apology was the genuine article, but he knew that he shouldn't get his hopes up, "If you must," he said stiffly.
"I must," the island said, taking a deep breath. Humble pie had to taste good, didn't it? Or else why would so many people eat it? He cleared his throat,
"France, as one country to another, I am sorry about the wars, I'm sorry for not helping you out of scrapes when you needed me, I'm sorry about the whole empire business, I'm sorry about the invasions and the battles and – Everything. I apologise for all of it."
The Frenchman scowled, "That-"
England held up a finger to silence him- "As a person, I am sorry for all the hurt I have caused you over the years. I apologise for the bar fights, the insults to your country and your character, the teasing, the pranks, the resentment, everything. Most recently, I am deeply, deeply sorry for having questioned your reputation, on which matter I have been set quite firmly to rights. Even though I don't always act it, I count you as my closest friend,"
The elder blonde felt his jaw drop, 'closest friend?' That was simultaneously the kindest and most hurtful thing that had ever been said to him. A friend? Only a friend? If only.
"And I feel that I must explain my appalling behaviour, today and in the past," best foot forward, stiff upper lip, "I was jealous. You've always had good international relations, and when I thought that you were sleeping with other nations . . . Well, it wasn't my proudest moment. Yesterday, I saw you talking to America and kiss him on the cheek. I was beside myself. I'd just gotten your invitation, and I was- Ok, as a potential lover, partner, boyfriend – though I'm sure we are both too old to use that – what do you think of me?" Arthur could feel the blood throbbing in his veins as though his entire body had been slammed in a door. The hurt was going to come flooding in at any second, he could feel it. Why had he listened to that stupid boy? Whatever his name was! The look of utter shock on the French nation's face was enough to make him feel like a fool. Of course. France was more refined than that, more elegant. He was a romantic. He wasn't going to accept some school-boy confession in the men's bathroom of a world meeting! What had he been thinking?
"You know what? Never mind," he said, turning to leave, unable to straighten the faint slump from his shoulders despite centuries of practise. He was therefore surprised when a strong hand seized his arm and yanked him back. The Frenchman's face was livid, and the Englishman found himself a little afraid. France could be particularly bloody when he felt that way inclined – see The Revolution – and the look on his face was borderline psychotic.
"You- Vous- Tu!" He spluttered, his grip on the United Kingdom's upper arms was vicelike, "Incroyable! Imbécile!" France shook the younger nation, jerking him around like a doll, "You were jealous? Of Canada? Matthieu es mon fils, my son, Angleterre! You were jealous of nothing! "
"But-" England's surprised objection lasted only the second it took the other nation to transfer his hands from his arms to his lapels, pull him forward and lock their lips.
Shock froze his lips, only to have the warm heat of the other's defrost them. The kiss wasn't as desperate, hot or needy as the action that preceded it would suggest. It really was quite sweet. Sweet was exactly what Arthur Kirkland, the personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland wanted, and it was what he was getting in spades.
Francis pulled back a little way, pressing a chase peck on England's lips before releasing him and brushing past him. Halfway out the door he paused,
"Shall I pick you up at seven, Arthur?"
"If you would, Francis," he smiled.
Ok, so I don't have an OTP, but FrUK is definitely in the top three. If you like this and feel that there should be more to it, drop me a line (Or a review) and let me know. Somehow, this feels like the beginning of something.
Cheers!
~RutheLa