For as much as I like Hetalia, I've realized I've never written a fic, and for those of you who no me for other stories, yes I haven't abandoned Roma or STGatTToP. So have some FrUK, because there isn't enough in this world. Nothing belongs to me.
It happened because Francis found my old denims from the late 1970's stuffed into the back of our closet that we share.
Well, maybe share isn't quite the right word, more like I manage to occupy a small part of a vast expanse of colored silks and Egyptian cotton that the frog likes to clothe himself with. But, I suppose, in the frog's defense, he did give me three fourths of the bureau.
But enough about that.
I was minding my own business really. I'd just gotten back from the market because we were running low on eggs and I was down to my last few tea bags, and I had literally just walked in the door and then Francis is yelling to get my arse upstairs pronto. So I drop the eggs and tea and other groceries off in the kitchen and run upstairs and instead of seeing the surrender monkey surrounded in a pool of blood or something, he is sitting on the floor, the floor, with a box of my old punk clothes and the like and the contents spread out around him.
"Look what I found, honhonhon~" says Francis, and he holds up a pair of patched, punk denims that I could've sworn were burned about 35 years ago. So I slap the back of his head and take a seat next to him, and now he's pulled out a Sex Pistols t-shirt and a studded belt. I roll my eyes and ask him where the bloody hell he's found all this junk.
"Junk, Angleterre? I remember you being very attached to zese zings once upon a time," he says with the stupid accent and everything. So I grab to box to look through it myself, and the cardboard is covered in dust and reeks of being stuffed in the back of a closet for 35 years which makes sense, considering that's what happened. I reach in blindly and the first thing I pull out is...a shirt that's more rips and mesh than actual shirt.
I can feel myself blushing and the frog notices, too, because he's laughing again as he swoops down and kisses me, a bit more beard than kiss. I reach into the box again anyways after discarding the sorry excuse for a shirt I must've wore at least once and my fingers brush something smooth and when I take it out it's an old shoe box.
I set it down between the two of us, and Francis does the honors of lifting off the torn lid. It's filled with old earrings, mostly, some necklaces and my bracelets. After some digging I even find my lucky guitar pick, the one I used at every bar I ever played at and the only one I'd use to shred. Francis takes a turn digging through the box as I slip three gold hoops, small ones naturally, into each ear with the help of the mirror in our room, and says, "Do you remember zis, cher?"
He's holding a photograph, a film photograph, of shit quality really, but it looks like it was taken at night outside of a club or something and it's of the two of us, me in my punk clothes and Francis in equally tight clothing of that era, and we're snogging each other's brains out. Right outside some club.
On the back I've written something, but it must've been in eyeliner or some equally smudgable substance because it's all a blur. I can make out a French phrase or two, so I say, "It's in France, I think."
"Oui, I zhought I recognized the setting. We seemed very...happy back zen."
"It was the '70s," I say, "we were all high at that time." He laughs and places the photo on the bedside table. I dip my hand back into the shoe box and this time find my old eyebrow bar and a bottle of green hair dye that still smells of chemicals and may now be radioactive. Francis sees what I'm holding and we lock eyes for a few seconds, and then promptly burst out laughing.
"God, what was I thinking back then? Green hair!? An eyebrow bar?" I say. Francis is wearing a smile that might split his face as he reaches over and brushes hair away from my ears, so he can see the hoops I've stuck in them. He pulls me towards him and kisses my temple, "Don't forget ze tattoos."
"Most of those I still have," I tell him. "Je sais," he says, "I like zem very much."
Deft fingers fly to my button down, and the buttons come undone enough for Francis to see the red rose inked over my heart, and I know he's thinking about the compass on my right shoulder blade, and the Shakespeare quote on my upper left thigh. "I zhink zis is definitely my favorite part of your punk phase." He presses kisses to the rose on my chest and I can't help but chuckle because when are we ever this domestic, this nice to each other. I don't giggle though, no matter what Francis says. I push him away and he complies because as much as we want to continue the boxes of my stuff are calling to us more.
The next thing Francis pulls out is the main reason it happened.
It's a silver wedding band, one I'd forgotten about, a bit tarnished but still very delicate and beautiful. I think we both stop breathing for a second as we stare at the piece of metal in Francis's palm. "I-I gave zis to you...on the day of the signing of the l'Entente Cordial. You...you still have it."
"I forgot I did, to tell you the truth, I could've sworn I lost it." I say, but he takes my left hand anyways and slips it onto my ring finger, and there's something about the small weight of the silver ring on my hand that feels very right.
"Remember what happened the last time I tried zis?" He asks. I splay out my fingers so I can admire the band, "I believe I threw it at your face."
"Oui. I wasn't surprised you didn't wear it, even when I did slip it back into your pocket, it was against tradition back then for men to wear wedding rings. I zhought you had it melted down."
I shook my head, and I couldn't form the right words around the lump that had formed in my throat. "I'd do a lot of things, Francis, but not that."
"You kept it," he whispers and he's kissing me all of a sudden. It's hard and possessive and I don't want to stop but I have to say, "We have to get you one too, then."
"You mean you'll wear it?" Francis asks. I shrug, "We've technically been married for over a hundred years, frog, I suppose it's better late than never."
His fingers are tracing the rose inked above my heart again, something I got a long time ago, for the Wars of the Roses, but I know Francis likes to think it's because of him. Maybe it was, just a little, and suddenly, an idea has sprung up in my mind.
"Isn't there a tattoo parlor on the way to that jewelry store you like?" I ask, and Francis doesn't even pause his tracing when he says, "I believe so, Angleterre, but what does zat 'ave to do wiz anyzing?"
I smile and say, "It's a surprise."
"And that's how you ended up with wedding rings and 'VIIIIVMCMIV' tattooed on your wrist?" America asked around a mouthful of burger. England rolled his eyes at the boy who was practically his son.
"Yes, America, were you even paying attention?"
England couldn't remember the last time he sat this close to France at a meeting without legally having to. France smelled good, as always, and it was nice to look at their entwined hands under the table and see the lines of black ink on France's left wrist. But leave it up to America to notice the slight differences in his former caretakers.
"He was probably still hung up on that great metal picture of you in tight pants, England, kesesese." Prussia laughed, being followed by Germany asking for quiet.
"Ve~ I think-a it's romantic! Congratulations Big Brother France, England!" Italy said, and then bounded over to them and hugged France tightly, still a bit wary of England.
"Are you going to renew your vows?" Hungary asked, with a manic glint in her eyes, and a camera at the ready. There was a murmur of assent among the rest of the countries present, and France looked to England.
"We didn't even have vows in ze first place, did we, mon lapin?"
"I don't suppose we did, I was too busy trying to brain you with this damn ring." England said, and then as an after thought, added, "Does this mean I'll have to dig out my tux from the back of the closet?"
France squeezed England's hand a little tighter, and a rush of warmth spread through the island-nation's body, "Per'aps. Maybe we'll even find a box from your pirate days in ze closet." He leaned over, and kissed England soundly.
Hungary nearly fainted from blood loss.
I hope that was English-y enough to portray Arthur, and I hope ya'll enjoyed it! I don't know if I'll keep writing anything else in this fandom, but I have some ideas. Reviews are love and feed my lonely inbox!