Summary: Fourth of July. America is celebrating his birthday, France,however, is waiting for a certain drunkard to stop by at his house, the same way he does every July 4th for the last two hundred years.
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Pairing: FrUk (one sided), UsUk (One sided, and only if you squint).
Warnings: Slash/Yaoi, mention of masturbation (really light).
A/N: My attempt to get a different (or not) light on the events of July 4th. If it sucks... Sorry, but I wanted to try and write France. And give a shot at the July 4th thingy everybody does. This is my first 4th of July here guys, sooooo happy to have joined fanfiction :D
I hope you all like this fic~!
(oOo)
Mon Amour/Mon petit lapin/Mon Angleterre
His slender fingers clutched firmly onto the bowl of the wine-glass when he swirled it, blue eyes observing with a keen interest as the carmine liquid sloshed inside its confines. He brought it closer to his mouth, pale thin lips tightly pressed together while he sniffed the liquid. Château de St.-Cosme, he recognized.
Inès, one of his many maids, stood near the door,stiff posture, with the wine bottle securely wrapped on a white linen cloth, and snuggled in her arms. She was a beautiful brunet, and with a cleavage generous enough that any other day he would be shamelessly flirting with her. Any other day, but not today. Never on this day. He couldn't. His heart twisted painfully just at the thought of it.
"Is there anything else you wish for, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" She asked, her brown doe eyes looking directly at him. The thought that the color was wrong - off - didn't pass unnoticed by the Frenchman.
'Lime green would certainly be better,' He admitted with a faint smile as he finally took a small sip of his wine. 'Much better.'
Resting his chin on the palm of his free hand, elbow strongly nailed onto the armchair's arm, he let his mind wander a bit before his eyes pinned down, once again, on his maid. "Non."
Waving his hand in a clear dismissal, he turned to the windows of his quarters. He stared at the fine curtains, bought in Turkey, and the small sculpture resting on top of the window-sill, a present from Seychelles - the latter, obviously, was infinitely more precious to him than the former. He heard her say a quiet "excuse moi" before leaving, the doors clicking ominously behind her.
Sighing, he closed his eyes, and let himself be swallowed by darkness and scrapes of memories. The sound of laugh, a bit raspy because of smoking so much, bright green eyes - determined, defiant, proud -, blond hair, alabaster skin marred by countless scars - the proof of his worth and strength -, flashed in his mind. All so beautiful, so lovely. All belonging to the same person: his petit lapin, his Angleterre. His spitfire, brave, foolish, cranky, grumpy, foul-mouthed Briton.
Drinking the last drops of his wine, he put the glass on top of the coffee table in front of him. He was an idiot, he supposed. And he could already hear dear Angleterre snorting and asking why did it take so long for him to figure it out. "Oh, mon chèrie," He lamented as the clock chimed behind him announcing the (already) late hours.
He knew it wasn't healthy to pine for someone for so long, so tirelessly. But just thinking of having him in his arms once more - just once more- made him sigh in contentment, heat pool in his navel, and hope gnaw his heart. Sometimes he hated himself for being so weak. To be ensnared by such a sinful creature... He wondered what kind of crime he had committed against God Almighty.
And yet he could never go by a day he wouldn't dream of the blond; of holding him, kissing him, making love to him. It wasn't rare for France to pleasure himself with his image, his body withering beneath him, gem like eyes pleading, his voice a few octaves higher - He would climax to him, the thought of him. He fought with the blond at every turn so his attention would never stray, neither to that fat American brat, nor to one of the others. Spain, Prussia, Netherlands, Romania - He would have to be blind not to notice them. And a complete idiot to boot. He wasn't either.
Sneering at the thought of his 'enemies', he closed his hand tightly, drawing blood when the nails broke the skin of his palm. "Bâtards,"
Breathing in deeply, he comforted himself with the knowledge that Angleterre considered himself, "the frog", one of his closest friends. Also the one drinking buddy he invited along every time he wanted to hit the night/pub. And as he was dragged to all the dirtiest parts of London, he would hide a smile - he truly enjoyed spending time with Angleterre. Even if it was to see the other get drunk until he started to strip in the middle of a fairly full public space. Of course he draw the line at the waiter outfit (which Angleterre seemed to carry around all the time with him, because he always ends up on it one way or another).
The reason he was patiently waiting in his private quarters, however, had little to do with this, no... It was a lie - it had everything to do with it. He was preparing himself. Today was the fourth of July, the date his petit lapin hated the most out of the 365 days of the year (Although France suspected Angleterre got depressed on every day that involved a colony gaining independence from him). And he was waiting. Waiting because he would have to comfort the Englishman as the Brit himself cried for another man's name while in his arms. It was painful, extremely so, but France liked to believe it had brought them closer as the years passed by.
When the sound of wailing and drunken babbling finally reached his ears, he got up and walked briskly to the door. All his employees had been given the same order: If a blond man with thick eyebrows, and green eyes appear, let him in. Simple and to the point. No questions were asked as these orders were always made during this time of the year.
It seemed they followed it to a 'T', for there, at his door, was a battered Brit, eyes puffy and red, flushed (probably from drinking so much) and tear-strained cheeks. "Oh mon chèr," He whispered softly as he carded his fingers through the other's hair.
As he gathered the man he loved in his arms, he felt his hearts strings being painfully tugged at. Not for the first time he regretted helping that ungrateful American - He probably would live the rest of his days regretting the rash decision. He had loved the Brit back them, but the desire to surpass the fast growing British Empire had been bigger, stronger than said affections. "Come on, Angleterre,"
"Let's get you cleaned, yes? Yellow greenish puke is not your color, mon amour,"
To care so much for someone was as much of a curse as it was a blessing. And when Angleterre wailed and cried, his sobs shaking his whole frame, France felt as if he was hurting just as much as the man. His poor chèrie.
"Come on," He said, burying his head in the crook of the Englishmans' neck to breath in his scent at the same time he pulled Angleterre closer to his chest - his petit lapin was far too cold for his liking. "After you have a nice bath you can complain all you want to big brother, oui?"
It was painful to love someone who didn't love you back. But France would never give up on what he felt for his petit lapin - it was, after all, what kept him going during his darkest times, and when he felt like he had hit rock-bottom, it was what pulled him up. "Would you like for me to sing, mon chèrie?"
His lips curled minutely when he felt the slight nod of the other blond.
Being with Angleterre made all the pain he felt worthwhile, all the suffering meaningless in the grand scheme of things - Especially when he looked at France with his big lime green eyes so vulnerable and unprotected, so trusting. His petit lapin. "Do you mind if I choose, Angleterre?"
A weak shake of head was all the answer France got. Then again, it was all he needed.
And sing he did, the lyrics already well known to him, after all, he sung the same music every time Anglettere ended under his care. It was a wonder the Brit had yet to understand his feelings. Well, the island nation was well known for being a bit... Thick, to put it mildly, when it concerned his private life, and - especially - his love life.
(Music)
So I look in your direction,
But you pay me no attention, do you?
I know you don't listen to me.
'cause you say you see straight through me, don't you?
And on and on from the moment I wake,
To the moment I sleep,
I'll be there by your side,
Just you try and stop me,
I'll be waiting in line,
Just to see if you care.
Did you want me to change?
Well I changed for good
And I want you to know.
That you'll always get your way
I wanted to say,
Don't you Shiver?
Shiver
Sing it loud and clear
I'll always be waiting for you,
So you know how much I need you,
But you never even see me, do you?
And is this my final chance of getting you?
And on and on from the moment I wake,
To the moment I sleep,
I'll be there by your side,
Just you try and stop me,
I'll be waiting in line,
Just to see if you care.
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Did you want me to change?
Well I changed for good
And I want you to know.
That you'll always get your way
I wanted to say,
Don't you Shiver?
Don't you Shiver?
Sing it loud and clear.
I'll always be waiting for you.
Yeah I'll always be waiting for you.
Yeah I'll always be waiting for you.
Yeah I'll always be waiting for you.
For you,
I will always be waiting.
And it's you I see, but you don't see me.
And it's you I hear, so loud and so clear
I sing it loud and clear.
And I'll always be waiting for you.
So I look in your direction,
But you pay me no attention,
And you know how much I need you,
But you never even see me.
(Music)*
Having tucked the Brit on his bed, France made himself comfortable on the armchair he had been occupying twenty minutes ago. Looking at the green eyed beauty just a couple of steps away from him, and sleeping on his bed, made France incredibly aware of his desires - of his need for the other blond.
Smiling sadly, France picked up the empty wine-glass and held it up, making sure the light hit it just right to give it an ethereal glow. Just his luck, he supposed. To be in love with a man for centuries on end, share his bed more than any other nation, and, yet, the same aforementioned man continuously kept slipping between his fingers. "Are you ever going to see how much I care for you, mon petit lapin?"
The flicker of green between the long lashes of his guest passed unnoticed by France.
(oOo)
~ Translations (I hope I am not butchering the French language...)
Monsieur = Mister/Mr.
Non = No
Oui = Yes
Excuse Moi = Excuse me
Angleterre = England
Mon = My
Petit Lapin = Little bunny
Chèrie = Honey, darling
Mon amour = my love
Bâtards = Bastards
~ Music: Shiver - Coldplay
~ What do you guys think? Good? Bad?