A/N: This was written as a little birthday present for my amazing friend, using our favorite pairing, and based Violet Hill by Coldplay. I strongly suggest you listen to it as you read. xD Sorry it's so short; I'm planning to do longer ones in the future.
Disclaimer: Violet Hill (c) Coldplay; Hetalia (c) Hidekaz Himaruya.
Francis strolled further down the London street, a striped light-blue and olive scarf wound tightly around his neck. He stepped around a large snowdrift, coming closer to one row of the buildings that flanked him from both sides. In some areas, snow got plastered into the cracks and crevices between bricks, creating a bright contrast with the dark stones.
The man held a small packet in his hand, which he kept close to himself to not drop it. He decided it wouldn't do if it got dirty. Not when he was supposed to deliver it to someone, in person.
Few people milled about the street, most in a hurry to get to their destinations. Others were dashing for their cars, or for the shelter behind the doors of the houses. There was little traffic; some of the snow had melted the previous night, creating puddles that froze into ice in the morning.
Light flakes of snow began to tumble out of the sky, some getting entangled in the Frenchman's blonde hair, others melting on his beige trench coat. He paused for a moment, gazing up at the sky above him. He remembered receiving a phone call from his boss telling him that a couple important documents needed to be personally delivered to England. The rest seemed to be a blur, and Francis didn't bother to try to recall how he got here.
With a deep breath of cold air, he resumed his course, once again avoiding a snowdrift. Several minutes passed before he rounded the corner where one row of buildings came to a halt, and melted into a snowy park. He crossed the narrow street, and entered the path leading into the woodland.
Bare trees stood around him like black skeletons, outlined brilliantly against the blinding white snow. The pebbled path twisted away amid the rows of trees, leading deeper into the captivating park.
Soon, he spotted a dark bench, a single dark figure sitting upon it. With a smile, he approached, calling out and breaking the silent spell, "Bonjour, Angleterre."
Arthur turned his head in Francis' direction with a start. " 'Ello."
"A bit cold, isn't it?" he commented as the man stood up, a slight French accent mixed in his English.
"Mm," Arthur agreed, taking the packet from Francis and carelessly tucking it under his arm. They both began to walk.
"Ca va?" he asked, putting his numbing hands into his pockets.
"Fine. How about you?" Arthur tried to do the same, but discovering that his coat did not have any pocket. He composed his hands into fists, cold. Francis inadvertently took on of Arthur's hands into his own, warming them up. Arthur turned to look the other way to his his slight blush, but didn't pull away.
"As-tu froid?" Francis asked to break the silence.
"...No," he replied, still turned in the other direction.
Suddenly, the Frenchman ducked down, swiftly scooping some snow into his free hand and throwing it at his companion. Arthur let out a startled yelp, stumbling back.
"Oi! What was that for?"
"You are too quiet!" Francis answered laughing as he bent down to make another snowball.
Arthur pulled his hand away, and dove to make one, himself. In a few heartbeats, a lumpy ball of snow was formed and was sent flying at Francis. It hit him directly in the chest, causing him to make a surprised sound.
The Englishman's lips formed a smirk as he reached to make another snowball.
The other blonde threw one more at him, then ducked behind a tree for cover. Arthur's snowball missed, and they both hurried to make more. After a few minutes of their battle, the Briton had tripped and fallen onto the snow. Francis shook off the snow off his scarf, and took a seat beside him. His hair was specked in white, his cheeks were a bright red, and his blue eyes were shining.
"This isn't your victory, Frog! I simply-"
"Simply surrendered?"
Arthur gave him a friendly scowl, scooping some white powder on the tips of his frozen fingers and flinging it at Francis.
The man laughed, feeling too tired to try to avoid it.
Their breathing soon slowed down, and they continued sitting in silence. The rooftops of the old buildings were just visible above the spindly treetops, which were entangled like wooden spiderwebs. Snow clung to some branches, the equivalent of dew on the fragile silk.
Francis looked down at Arthur, his voice breaking the silence, "Si tu m'aime, tu me dirais pas?"
The man frowned slightly- the French was unexpected, and his own knowledge of the language didn't go as far as to be able to translate that off the top of his head. "What?"
"If you love me, won't you let me know?" Francis repeated in English, his voice soft.
Arthur stared at him, slightly startled and caught unprepared. "...O-of course I do, Frog."
After a few seconds of silence that seemed to stretch forever, Arthur leaned up and kissed Francis, hoping to prove his words and stop the other from staring. Right after that, he brought his hand from behind his back and sent a crumbling snowball right at his target, laughing hysterically as Francis was covered in a flurry of white. "I do," he stated again, and scrambled back before the Frenchman got the chance to do the same to him.