Romances and Clichés
I always found love songs and stories repulsively deceiving. It was always the same story with just different words and clichés to dress them up, but each melody or every novel was laced with lies and fancy phrases to screw up another ordinary person's previously ordinary feelings and thoughts. I was determined to strip away any feelings expressed in such fantasies, I guess it was a defense mechanism I had gained. I refused to be swayed like many others had been.
Well, that was until he came along.
His perfect golden locks framed elegant cheekbones and stunning light blue eyes. He would scratch the short stubble on his dimpled chin and sturdy jaw when he found something either particularly amusing or particularly stressful and when he walked into a room it seemed that it lit up and everyone felt... free.
He would flirt like a cat on heat. He rubbed up against a victim of choice, murmur into their ears and flash them his magnificent smile and more often than not he would do it in front of other people as if to make the poor person feel even more flustered than they would have if they weren't being watched. However, many people were only able to blush and give him an inferior smile. It was like a game to him, he liked to watch how people reacted and almost gain extra tips or methods on how to make their faces go completely red.
The first time he targeted me was after a meeting we had with the other nations. Just as I was about to leave he pulled me back and sat me on the conference table before cupping my chin with one hand and resting his other just next to my leg. He tilted my head back and smiled,
"Mon amour, you have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" I made sure I kept my face stern although my head was reeling and my pulse racing. He gave a bemused little chuckle and stroked my cheek with his knuckles softly; he put his face very close before pulling away and walking out of the room.
"I like the look of you…" I sat there with the same placid expression on my face as he left. When I was sure he was out of earshot, I sighed and adjusted my tie, trying to regain composure. The thought of his sweet face only a few centimeters away from mine was bliss.
He came after me again a few days later, this time he had me against a wall. He smiled and when he breathed I could smell his exotic yet gourmet cuisine on his breath, I looked up, my face stony once more and simply said,
"After something, Frog?"
He began chuckling and pressed his face up against mine so that our noses were touching and that our eyes were locked with each other's. He ran a hand through my hair and let out a shuddered breath,
"You know what I want, Arthur."
I wanted it too. However, whether or not I was going to admit it was up to me, and my mind still ruled over my feelings. His own eyes bore into mine as he awaited an answer; I straightened up and once again adjusted my tie and closed my eyes in what I hoped to be a gentlemanly fashion to show I was too mature for his tomfoolery.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you but I should really be going."
I pushed past him and walked on down the corridors, my face flushed and my head pounding with every step I took. I heard him chuckle before yelling,
"I will have you, Britain. I swear on it,"
Then was his last attempt. The perfect man stood only a few feet away from me as the rain pounded down on my windows outside. He shivered slightly and wrapped his wet coat tighter around himself. I let out a tut and stride over to him, my heavy brow furrowed in what I wanted to look like frustration.
"What on earth possessed you to travel in this weather, stupid Frog? Here. You can borrow a blanket and some clothes just get those things off before you freeze to death. Head up to the bathroom."
He looked at my face for only a fraction of a second before nodding and heading up my stairs, "Take the second left!" I yelled up to him before sighing and waltzing to my airing cupboard and taking a warm blanket and heading to my living room to wait for his return. As I stood in the centre of my all too familiar sitting room, I looked into the fireplace and at the dancing flames. I was unsure what to do in the situation I was placed in, the man made my heart pound and my body tremble with longing but I utterly refused to be as stupid as the people in books or ballads.
"Merci beaucoup," turning, I caught sight of him. He wore one of my shirts, it lay tightly on him so he kept it unbuttoned but my trousers seemed to sit fine. His touselled golden locks shone in the firelight and still dripped slightly. I chucked the blanket at him and he caught it with one hand effortlessly before wrapping it tightly around his torso. I nodded and started to walk out,
"I'll make tea," it was just an excuse to escape from the atmosphere. I took as much time as I possibly could when boiling the water and adding milk, when I couldn't buy any more time I walked out to find him sat by the fire and looking into the flames like I just had. I went to lay the tray of the teacups and sugar on a small table but he shook his head and motioned for me to bring it over.
I hesitated before taking a few steps to him, when I decided that it was 'safe' I lay the tray down.
"I-I'll go get a towel for your hair," I was just searching for excuses to leave the room now.
"No need," he said lightly. I raised my eyebrows,
"Don't be stupid, you'll catch a cold if you keep it dripping like that…"
"Britain," his voice was still light but he had raised the volume so that he could cut me off, "Why do you hate me so?"
"Now you're just being ridiculous. Here, has the cold done something to your head?' I tried to turn it into a joke, into a light conversation but when the man turned to face me I saw that his face was deadly serious. I gulped and he shook his head,
"All the way through those stupid conferences, I'd watch you and hope that you'd notice and flirt with everyone in order to see how you'd react. Then when I practically throw myself at you, you just stand there staring at me or calling me stupid."
I shook my head, trying to comprehend what was actually happening. The great France was… confessing? It was unheard of, if I wasn't witnessing it myself firsthand I wouldn't have believed it at all. He let out another small chuckle and turned away,
"And still you say nothing."
I paused and gulped before turning away slightly, "I-I don't hate you, Frog."
Then he rose to his feet, the action was so sudden that it knocked the tray over and the tea tipped all over the floor with the sugar following it. I opened my mouth to object but once again he cut me off,
"Then how do you feel, Arthur?" he exploded his body still shivering, "Because I sure as hell don't know!"
"Can you calm down?" I yelled back, about to duck down to pick the tray up. My pretense was slowly melting away; I could feel it as my face grew hotter and hotter. He dashed over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist,
"How does it feel for you?" he yelled, "How does it feel knowing I'm pressed up against you with you in my arms. How does it feel knowing that I'm doing this and loving you? Yes Arthur, I fucking love you."
I let my mask shatter. I stopped his lips moving with my own, my mouth crushing against his with a dire urgency and passion. His eyes widened slightly but he soon realised exactly how I felt before returning my kiss with as much passion as I had delivered. I pulled away my cheeks burning hot; he looked at me for a moment before sneezing quietly. I rolled my eyes,
"Francis, you idiot…" I looked down at the crumpled blanket on the floor and the tea. He started to grin and rub his stubble, as I walked away and picked the sheet up and thrust it at him.
"Mon amour, remember when you got a cold last time I looked after you?"
I knew where it was going, I knew how it would end up but even so I furrowed my brows and put up a fight even though we both knew exactly who would win.
And well I guess that was how I succumbed to the irrevocable annoyance of love. It was all thanks to a pushy Frenchman whom stole to my house late at night in the pouring down rain and decided the best way to make me notice his feelings was to flirt with other people. I don't suppose it's the most typical of love stories.