Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
- Story Of A Love -
Mon histoire c'est l'histoire d'un amour,
My story is the story of a love,
Ma complainte c'est la plainte de deux cœurs.
My lament is the wail of two hearts.
Un roman comme tant d'autres,
A romance like so many others,
Qui pourrait être le vôtre,
That could have been yours,
Gens d'ici ou bien d'ailleurs...
People from here or somewhere else...
.
The moon reflected on the wet pavement of one of the less traveled alleys in one of the less popular neighborhoods in all London.
The air was cold. The footsteps of a pair of black loafers made a strong echo in the silence of the dark night, poorly lit by a lamp whose bulb flickered intermittently. A British man was heading to an iron door that in better times could have been red, but now was covered with rust and dirt moistened by the rain.
Trash cans waiting for a truck that would never pass by surrounded it next to a few old cardboard boxes hiding the usual rodents.
'An empty and abandoned warehouse.' the bystanders would say, people who abstained from approaching the alley in order to avoid the sometimes unbearable stench of garbage or the casual image of a drunken man leaning against the wall.
A very unclean place, one might assume.
But that red door was, in fact, the entrance to one of the most exclusive and private bars in the country.
A gloved hand turned the knob and once he was inside, closed the heavy door behind him.
He slowly descended the stairs in front of him; the brick walls showing him old posters of circus tours, bands of the 60's and 70's and antique advertising in general. At the end of the stairs a tall, muscular man dressed in black smiled at him, nodded in acknowledgment and stepped aside to open another door; this one made of clean wood and decorated with elegant engravings.
The place was obviously bigger inside than it might seem on the outside.
There was a long bar and at least two waiters tending it. A considerable number of chairs and tables were adjusted strategically to be in front of the stage where five cheerful musicians played some jazz with a brown-haired woman singing in front of them.
The man walked to one of the front tables, one that gave him a perfect view of the performers. A few minutes later a young waitress approached him and he politely ordered a glass of rum.
He removed his black gloves and placed them upon the table. No more than five minutes later, the drink was being placed in front of him. He thanked the girl and she walked away, not before telling him to call her if he needed anything else. He nodded with a smile and his eyes went back to the stage.
The Brit watched as the woman who was singing before bowed calmly and leave while the people in the place applauded her. Then he felt a knot in his stomach, the feeling between nervousness and anticipation that the youth often calls "butterflies".
And he waited.
Finally, after a few eternal seconds later, a man came off to the stage.
His long golden hair fell gracefully over his shoulders and slight stubble overshadowed his chin. He wore a suit, but he was not wearing a tie and the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned.
Beautiful sapphire eyes under a pair of blond, long eyelashes looked at him, and he could felt his breath leaving him and for a second his heart seemed to have stopped beating. The other smirked, like if he was fully aware of what he could cause in the green-eyed man.
The aforementioned frowned, as if knowing this, and turned his gaze to his drink, sliding the tip of his index finger over the side of the glass, breaking a drop of water that exuded from it.
The piano notes began to play and the man's voice made him look at the stage again.
His voice was deep, but soft and melodious.
Long, slender fingers gently caressed the microphone, as if the object might break otherwise. The other hand was moving slowly up and down along the pedestal whilst he sang with his eyes closed, feeling the words -the Brit could have closed his eyes as well, to focus solely on that voice, but such thing would have been embarrassing-, when opened, however, those blue eyes were always focused on the man with sandy blonde hair, bushy eyebrows and jade eyes.
They stared at each other, and while the Englishman, at times, showed the briefest of smiles, the singer smiled openly between each verse and even before the refrain.
The song ended, and the blond disappeared behind the stage after bowing to the public.
The other man stood up, taking his gloves; his now half empty glass and walked to the bar.
.
C'est la flamme qui enflamme sans brûler,
It's the flame that inflames without burning,
C'est le rêve que l'on rêve sans dormir,
It's the dream that is dreamt without sleeping,
Comme un arbre qui se dresse, plein de force et de tendresse,
Like a tree that stands, full of strength and tenderness,
Vers le jour qui va venir.
To the day that will come.
.
After ten minutes of being alone in the bar with his second glass of rum almost finished, the Englishman was about to order another one when he felt someone sit on the stool next to his. He heard him order a glass of wine and turned after recognizing that voice.
The man smiled at him, although he spoke first.
"Good performance..." he began, and gave him a half smile, pointing vaguely towards the stage.- "...to sing in such language, that is."
The other raised an eyebrow, amused, as if he was actually waiting for that kind of comment. "Merci..." he answered, remarking the word with his perfect accent and bowing his head a little. - "So you assume, then, that it would have sounded better in English?"
"No." the Englishman smiled, watching as the bartender poured the red liquid in the other's man glass. - "You'd probably ruin it with that silly French charm, anyway."
A grin never left the singer's face as he lifted his drink to his lips "Ah, then you accept that my people are... lovely, oui?" he concluded with a wink.
His companion shrugged and replied nonchalantly before hiding his blush behind his own drink "They have filthy ways to know how to get what they want, that is all."
A rich, velvety laugh stroked his ears, and for a moment it silenced every thought in his head, where crazy ideas about what other kinds of sounds he could get from those lips occupied his mind.
"Francis Bonnefoy" the man finally introduced himself, outstretching his hand.
The British man lowered his glass slowly and grabbed it. "Arthur Kirkland."
And so the night began.
They talked with the liberty and prudence with which one may speak on a first date, even though this was not the case.
Casual comments and heartfelt laughs, occasional taunts and half-hearted insults once in a while; because somehow, trying to be friendly towards each other seemed merely impossible.
And terribly boring.
Francis played with the waves of his hair; he approached the glass of wine to his lips in a discreet, seductive way. From time to time he casually rested his hand above Arthur's, just for a split second, to emphasize a comment. A minimum friction of skin that left the Englishman wanting to turn his own hand to feel the other's warmth, wanting to feel more, sensation that grew when his knees met by chance and his whole leg seemed to burn at the touch.
But like a gentleman, Arthur remained calm, with his elbow resting on the wood of the bar, shaking his glass as he spoke with an accent that Francis finds so attractive, being that, and those wonderful green eyes the only distractions that helped the Frenchman to not look at the fingers holding the drink, gentle fingers that he would like to see in other places, maybe a little more aggressive.
His back or his hair, for example.
Then and only then, they both could taste the sweetness of that feeling called nostalgia that one recalls, they assume, when thinking about how one met the love of one's life for the first time and how one would like to repeat the experience.
Something so impossible and human.
But they could do it, don't they?
It was tempting in a lot of ways: the excitement of pretending not knowing anything, the notion of disappearing with a complete yet very familiar stranger and become strangers themselves, the bittersweet naivety to believe that maybe this time they could start a new story, its own unique, finite and irreplaceable story; to forget for once about the world just to feel, feel and touch and love, to endorse the other and belong to the other too.
Just a silly couple flirting in a bar, right?
"Hey," Arthur said, resting his hand on Francis' knee after the last casual touch. - "Do you want to go to my place?"
The man smiled and stood up, holding his hand.
"I'd love to."
-
C'est l'histoire d'un amour, éternel et banal,
It's the story of a love, eternal and banal,
Qui apporte chaque jour tout le bien tout le mal,
That everyday brings all the good and all the bad.
Avec l'heure où l'on s'enlace, celle où l'on se dit adieu.
With the times we embrace or the times we say goodbye.
Avec les soirées d'angoisse et les matins merveilleux.
With the nights of anguish and the wonderful mornings.
.
When Francis felt his back hit the door and a pair of soft lips wandering around his neck, he couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"Excited, are we?"
There was no answer.
Not a bite or a punch. Not even an aggressive comment telling him to shut up.
He smiled and lowered his face, tilting it just slightly to brush his cheek against Arthur's and resting his arms on the Brit's lower back; who sighed against the delicate skin of his neck, resting his hands on Francis' chest.
"Are you okay?" the Frenchman whispered in his ear.
Arthur nodded slowly, resting his forehead on his shoulder.
Francis lifted a hand to stroke his messy hair.
He closed his eyes and for a moment felt like he was on that meadow once again, so much younger than today; sitting on green grass with his back against a tree; singing lullabies to the younger nation sleeping in his lap.
He appreciated those moments because they weren't very usual.
England was a savage kid, untamed, and France liked to taunt him, make him angry because it felt like it was something completely natural to do.
But there were evenings in which the little boy was crying, perhaps because of his brothers or some other powerful nation.
On those occasions England didn't mind that much if France was sitting beside him, saying nothing; and then France would felt a small head resting on his lap. England would cry, trying to make his sobs silent so the other would not notice.
He always knew, however, and slipped his delicate fingers in his unruly hair while singing a tune he had heard back in his own country.
The next day, both of them would pretend not to remember anything.
Arthur backs away and looks him in the eyes, removing some strands of hair of the Frenchman's face, a face that he has seen form countless expressions: From the sweetest and kindest, to the most vicious and spiteful ones.
Francis is smiling at him, but his smile looks abnormally sad. Because France is, always, all charm and beauty.
England slid his thumb over the soft skin under one of his blue eyes, as if trying to restore the brightness that they suddenly seemed to have lost. Runs his fingertips down his cheek and holds his chin, pulling him close to kiss him fully on the lips for the very first time that night.
And he kisses him because unlike him, England doesn't know about lullabies and sweet talks.
He's blunt and whenever he tries to speak the words he says are not really what he meant.
Most of those times he doesn't regret them, though, because France also knows how to hurt. He knows the weakest points of the island and uses this knowledge when necessary.
England would be a hypocrite if he says that he has never done something like that to him, too.
It's maddening, how your supposed worst enemy knows so much about you.
It's even worse to know that you love him with all your heart and soul.
Things are good for now, they've been together for more than 100 years and it is like stay afloat after spending hours underwater. Being able to visit each other; to not have to hate because of some stupid military conflict; to be seen together no matter what their bosses, their people, the others might think.
But it seems that, for some reason, the others are not particularly surprised.
No alliance lasts forever, they know, so they embrace every moment, every minute remaining until the very last day.
There, they know they may possibly be together, too.
Arthur pulls back smiling tiredly, takes Francis' hand and leads him to his room, where they make love like it was the first time of a couple of novices in love but secretly better, because they have done it so many times before that they've lost count and know by heart every muscle, every curve, every vanished scar and every soft spot in each other's body.
They'd repeat that kind of nights again and again, every day if necessary; until they were both so tired and sick of love that perhaps the world would give them the opportunity to start over once again.
One could always dream.
And France believed in love.
And England believed in magic.
.
.
.
.
"I'm starting to believe that you love my hair more than me." Says France, lying on his stomach with his head buried in a pillow; arms hidden under it as he feels England playing lazily with his golden locks.
"I might," the other answers calmly.- "Your hair does not talk."
Francis turns his head to see Arthur lying on his side, facing him.
"Hm, I could say the same about those" and he points to a spot in between the other's eyes, the green eyed nation rises an eyebrow- "Although hideous to others, those things are... indéniablement beau pour moi." 'Undeniable beautiful to me'
The hand that was on his hair seconds earlier is removed to take a pillow and hit him in the head.
"Shut up."
Before England can take another similar object to hit the Frenchman, a pair of hands take hold of his wrists, rather carefully, pinning him against the bed.
"Make me."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "If I knew you'd be this annoying, I wouldn't have bothered to invite you to my house last night".- He states with a smile.
"You know you would, anyway".- Francis answers smiling back at him, and leans to give him a kiss.
England declines to answer because he knows it's true, and decides to focus on the lips that are sliding slowly upon his own.
And because that is, by far, the best method he has to shut him up.
.
Mon histoire c'est l'histoire qu'on connaît,
My story is the story we know,
Ceux qui s'aiment jouent la même, je le sais.
Those who love play the same, I know.
Mais naïve ou bien profonde,
But naïve or very deep,
C'est la seule chanson du monde,
This is the only song in the world,
Qui ne finira jamais.
That will never end.
Author's Note:
(writing again woot)
So, this is a (very, VERY belated) birthday gift for my favorite Frenchman...
it's already August I know x.x but I was ridiculously busy the past months. *sighs*
Song: "Histoire D'Un Amour" ( youtube dot com /watch?v=sDrDRiGjHck )
Thanks for reading and I'll see you in the future!