Le Cher Rose
Authors note:A gift for finduilaslissesul for the 2015 FrUk gift exchange! Her wishes were: France adoring England. Something with a historical touch. So I decided to combine them! I hope you enjoy, I certainly did writing this! Also thank you to my sister, Katie, and her friend, Katie, who beta'd this and helped a hella lot~ (also any uncommon French will be translated at the bottom for your convenience)
Without further ado, Le Cher Rose~
Francis closed his umbrella as he stepped through the front door. Placing the black contraption on the hall tree to dry, he slipped out of his business shoes and placed them to the side, nice and neat.
Looking into the dimly lit home, France smiled and shook his head. Mon dieu, he thought, this place feels as cold as death. He looked sidelong at the gray walls, Perhaps I can make this sad little house a bit brighter.
Before finally taking a step, the European nation took off his coat and hung it on the tree along his drying umbrella and then rubbed his hands together, trying to get a little warmth back to them.
His first stop was the bedroom at the end of the hall. First floor, 4th door on the left, he knew this path very well. He could probably walk it with his eyes closed. It was Arthur's room, so any decent, self respecting boyfriend would know the way to his love's room.
The room's lighting was dimmer than that of the parlor's, none of the curtains were open, no light filtered in through the windows. France quirked his lip again in disapproval. He made a 'tch' noise before flipping the light switch and stepping in. "My, my, Angleterre," he said to himself, opening the curtains to one of the windows, "has even the sunlight offended your empire?" The blue eyed nation scoffed at his quiet jab, certain that if the Englishman himself were here, he would not hesitate to fire a verbal bullet at the Frenchman in return.
Finishing with the windows, France turned to the laundry basket in the corner of the room by the dresser. It was positively brimming. Sighing to himself, confirming his hypothesis, the blonde man moved to gather a load to clean.
The second greatest conflict the world had ever seen had ended meager months ago. Treaties had been signed, countries had surrendered, nations had once again been brought low and others exalted. Personally, the French nation had been wounded grievously, what with being torn apart, and wrestling with a new, darker personality that called itself 'Vichy'. Being in turmoil as his citizens were forced into Nazi commanded and controlled armies and then forced to kill their fellow countrymen. Others were shipped to internment camps and killed in malicious, inhumane ways. A cold shiver ran down Francis' spine at the memory of the pain he experienced over the past 6 years. Unconsciously, he rubbed his wrists, at the scars of the shackles that had bound him for at least a year¹.
Still, here he was, still standing, a testament to his strength and will, and obstinate determination to live. Not for himself, no, for his people, for their happiness and for Angleterre. Dear, sweet, Angleterre. With his beautiful emerald eyes, his hay colored hair that shimmered in the sun, and his sarcastic tones. And those eyebrows. Oh, those thick, black, bushy, beautiful things. France had never liked them when he was younger. Maybe because they reminded him of the caterpillars that appeared as a harbinger of a harsh winter². Or maybe because they were always pulled into a harsh 'V' because Arthur had always been so angry with him. France stopped to put a finger on his chin, You know, he thought, I never found out why he hated me when we were kids. Ah, well, no use fretting over it hundreds of years later. Francis continued, instead, mentally imagining his boyfriend's body, smiling as his mind roved over every inch, picturing all the perfect lines and angles.
He quietly wondered if the Briton's wounds had healed yet, if he had any new scars from this past war… surely something from the Battle of Britain… or D-Day³?
During the thick of it, Arthur had suffered some pretty serious blood loss. Multiple wounds had opened within his organs, and the proud nation had been found one morning, lying unconscious in his bathroom, a slow drip of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Apparently, he had three stomach ulcers⁴, and he had passed out from vomiting most of his blood up. The island nation had spent four days in bed and on the fifth, refused to return to it.
"Angleterre, please, you're going to kill yourself!"
"Shut your mouth, frog! I refuse to be talked to like a child, especially from you! I am fine," he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Arthur extended his arms and gestured for the taller nation to look at him, as if to show off his health. "I feel much better, now that I've had ninety-four hours of sleep! You know the war doesn't sleep, and I'll be damned if I have to! As long as Ludwig is trying to take over the bloody world, I won't rest! Honestly, do you think I'll just wait idly by as my people get slaughtered by Krauts?!"
"Non, of course not!" The long blond gestured restlessly and looked incredulously at England, "You know neither of us will stop until this war is over and our boarders are again secure, but forcing your body to operate on such little energy is dangerous! Not only for your sake, but for your people's!"
Arthur's nostrils flared, "Do not speak to me of my people, you arrogant wine snob! You know nothing about them! All you know is surrender and submission! How long did it take Ludwig to seize Paris? A month⁵? And you talk to me of not stopping until our borders are secure? How dare you!" he spat. The island nation's eyes moved in a frenzied motion over Francis' face, trying to asses his response to the last verbal abuse.
France cast his eyes downward and to the left, mouth set in a hard line. His fingers curled into clenched fists. That was low, even for England. He knew how sensitive the Frenchman was towards that loss. A rage started to boil in his chest. His mind worked for something equally as biting.
Suddenly, a choked cough caught his attention. The blue eyed nation's vision snapped up to the country in front of him, just in time to see his knees buckle. The anger Francis previously felt fled from his chest in favor of panic as he dove for the falling man.
"Angleterre!"
The kettle whistled somewhere to the right of Francis' ear. He blinked, focusing on a wooden table.
The kitchen.
Standing, he moved to the stove robotically and turned the burner off, removing the boiling kettle from the heat.
Arthur's kitchen was no brighter than the rest of the house. It boasted a cold and distant atmosphere, the flower printed walls doing nothing to illuminate the room. There was one window above the sink, with white curtains pulled to either side and enough dust to prove they hadn't been used recently. Rows of jars and pots lined the back of the counter, labeled with words like 'spices', 'flour' and 'sugar'. Pots and pans hung on hooks above the stove. Dried herbs hung under the cabinets, a small array of cooking flavors that Francis himself had picked out, for when he cooked for Arthur. A vase of dried, dead lilies sat on the ancient heirloom oak table in the middle of the room, with four matching chairs placed around it. Cedar cabinets lined the walls, with brass handles on each door, and a bread box sat on the counter next to the refrigerator.
France poured water from the kettle into a white cup that had a tea infuser in it and reached for a small jar. Removing two objects from it, he placed them in his steaming drink.
Rose petals⁶.
Sitting back down at the table, saucer and cup in hand, Francis inhaled the warmth and felt it spread through him, relaxing his somewhat stiff muscles.
The bed ridden nation sitting before him stared relentlessly into his tea.
"If you don't drink it soon, it will be cold. Then you'll have what Amerique calls 'iced tea'."
England scoffed, bringing the liquid to his pale lips. He barely took a sip before replacing the porcelain cup and setting it down on the bedside table.
After the last incident, the stubborn nation had been absolutely confined to his bed unless he needed to use the restroom, which he was required to be accompanied to, with no exceptions. Doctor's orders. Francis inwardly worried for his safety, but outwardly flashed a grin, one that said "I can walk around as I please and you can't". Arthur saw this and glared at the Frenchman.
"Oh, mon lapin," Francis cooed back, "it can't be that bad. You get to stay in bed rather than be in the blood and dirt."
"Don't start with me, frog," the restricted nation turned his smoldering gaze to the sheets. He picked at the hem of the comforter in silence for a moment before speaking again.
"How much longer do you think this will be going on?"
"Your stomach, or-?"
"I mean this war, you daft fool!"
France smiled at his partner's insult, glad that his neighbor hadn't lost spirit quite yet. Then his smile faded into something akin to deep thought, "You know, the American soldiers are saying it will all be over by Christmas."
"And you?"
"Ah, but of course it will be over by Christmas! We must always remain hopeful, non?"
The Brit's eyes narrowed, "You could quite possibly be the worst liar I have ever seen, you know that Francis?"
"Merci, Angleterre, I take that as a compliment." The older nation's smile was back, this time full of amusement at the younger's reaction.
"You're a bloody great git, too," he sneered.
"Mon cher, such kind words! What has gotten into you today? Is it the new medicine?"
Arthur bristled at that, raising off his pillow, prepared to strike, "I'll do you for that!"
The Frenchman raised his arms to protect his face and laughed, but not before he suddenly started coughing, a pain in his left side radiating throughout his body.
Britain settled on his pillow, content to cross his arms and glare, "Nice try, frog, but it won't work. I'll not start feeling sympathetic towards you, just because of a little fake cough."
But France wasn't faking. He clutched his ribs and bent over, the pain growing white hot, like a knife in his side. "Ah!" The coughing was only making it worse, jarring sensitive nerves, but his diaphragm wouldn't stop seizing. Screwing his eyes shut, Francis barred his teeth.
England stole a glare at the continental nation, and felt his blood freeze. "Francis?"
"N-non, I am, nngh, I am alr-right," like Britain had said, a very bad liar.
Short breaths escaped France as the green eyed nation watched, worry bubbling in his chest. Turning in his place, Arthur reached for Francis' hands, trying to pry them from his side, so he could see what the Frenchman was trying to cover.
"Let me see, Francis." Relenting, the taller nation peeled his hands away to, surprisingly, reveal a crimson flower on his shirt, and it was unfolding rapidly. "Bloody hell," Britain muttered under his breath.
"A-ah, le vichy et maquis, it seems." They were skirmishing again⁷.
France reached down to his side, and brushed the fabric of his shirt. Dry. A ghost of pain and a fading scar was all the physical evidence of the memory that remained.
Of the worst things that ailed Francis during the war, the civil war between Nazi controlled Vichy France and the fierce Resistance was at the top of the list. There is nothing that hurts quite like having your own people kill each other within your borders.
Taking his cup to the sink, the French nation rubbed his wrists unconsciously, and got another white cup down from the cupboard.
He poured a full cup of still scalding hot liquid into it and immersed a tea infuser in the water. Then he moved for the hall again, leaving the tea behind, making his way down the familiar path to Arthur's room. Stopping by the laundry basket for a second load, he noticed a shirt sitting crumpled next to it. "Not like Arthur to be so messy," he commented idly before picking it up for examination.
Once unfolded, the shirt produced one prominent stain directly in the middle of the otherwise immaculate white fabric. Upon closer inspection, France found it was a damp spot of tea, and it was still fresh. "This must be from this morning."
Taking the garment to the bathroom sink, he turned on the hot water and ran it over the marred cotton. After a few minutes of scrubbing and tinkering with a few other methods of cleansing, he shut the water off and frowned.
"This is a losing battle, mon cher. I think it is best we let Angleterre decide your fate, now." He let the soiled cloth fall back in a crumpled heap where he found it. "A pity," Francis muttered, now turning towards the hall again, "that was his favorite shirt."
Passing the kitchen and heading for the front door, he replaced his coat and shoes and turned the brass handle. Opening the umbrella to redirect the falling rain, Francis set out once again.
~ HETALIA!
The wooden door swung open and Francis stepped in, his arms laden with multiple plastic bags and a dripping umbrella. He hung the wet tool on the hall tree for the second time that day, slipped out of his wet shoes, and ignored his coat for now, shuffling into the kitchen to set down his burdens.
France passed items from the bags to the counter, pausing to read the labels and double check what he purchased.
"Pain, pomme de terre, lait, lessive, bougie…"
After he put the perishable items in the refrigerator, the preserved items in the cupboards and pantry, the European nation shrugged off his coat and returned to the hall to hang it up. "Might as well stay awhile, Francis," he commented to himself with a smile as he smoothed out a crease in the black fabric.
Then, after he replaced the dried flowers with a bouquet of red roses and white lilies⁸, he gathered three items, and walked down the hall to the fourth door on the left. With his left hand he flipped on the light switch, with his right he set two candles and a bottle on the bedside table. "Ah, briquet… let's see," France patted from his chest down to his back pockets before he finally found what he was looking for, "Bien."
Flicking his thumb down the metal ignitor with the expertise of a frequent user, Francis carefully guided the flame to the wicks of the candles and set them ablaze. Smoke curled skywards, carrying with it a pleasing scent. He wafted the fragrance towards his nose and took a deep breath. And then exhaled. "Ahh, magnifique."
Now, content with the direction his plan was going in, Francis began to hum. He put a bit more animation in his walk on his return journey to the kitchen. First, he dumped the cold tea down the drain and repeated the process for the tea kettle, before refilling it. Setting the cold metal contraption on the stove, he turned a burner on to start the heating process anew.
France stole a glance at the clock, "Arthur should be getting home in about 10 minutes." Today, like most days recently, had been filled with peace talks between recovering nations. Francis had been lucky, with only 2 meetings early in the morning. England, not so much. It was 4 o'clock now, and meetings routinely started at around 8 am. Doing the math quickly in his his head, Francis felt something akin to sympathy for his boyfriend and all the people who had to deal with his foul mood that day. None of the nations liked working a day of meetings, England least of all.
France smiled at the thought of an angry young England with steam pouring out of his ears as the whistle blew on the tea kettle. Taking the handle, he poured water into a fresh cup with care. Then he retrieved a blank card from the basket on the counter. "I hope you don't mind me using your grocery list paper," the blue eyed nation said as he began to write with a pen he found next to the basket.
Finishing with a particularly flamboyant flick of his wrist, the country smirked at his handwriting, admiring the curls and swoops of his cursive. "Impeccable!" He leaned the note up against the steaming cup of water. "Thé, thé, thé…" reaching for the set aside infuser, he cleaned it out and put new leaves in before submerging it in the cup, watching the color seep out and swirl around in the liquid. "And as a finishing touch," he reached for a ceramic container labeled 'spices' and plucked two leaves from it. "Angleterre, you should really learn to label better…" he replaced the jar next to a row of identical containers that all read 'spices'. Then, like a chef garnishing his master éentre, he dropped the two mint leaves into the hot brew, watching them turn with the slow current of the water. "Parfait," the Frenchman wiped his hands on his pants as though he were wearing an apron.
"Now, one last thing," he said as he started humming, moving toward the hallway.
At this point, Francis was becoming excited. He absolutely loved it when a plan came together.
"Arthur look at this! I've just received the report from our latest attack," enthusiastically, he waved the papers in the Englishman's face.
"What are you on about, git?" Britain looked unimpressed as he snatched up the intrusion. With a deep frown, his emerald eyes roved over the paper greedily for a few beats, and suddenly widened in surprise. "By George, look at this! Why," he laughed, "at this rate, if our boys keep it up, they'll be home by summer's end!" The island nation looked at Francis with a wide smile, his eyes ablaze with spirit, and then suddenly averted his vision back down to the comforter, cheeks flushed a deep red at the adverse emotions he had just displayed.
Shaking off the momentary shock, France cracked a grin akin to England's, and he laughed. The ringing mirth filled the room, making it warmer and lighter. He hadn't seen Arthur that happy in months!
Glaring at the continental country, England blushed further, "Shut it, frog!"
The laughter tapered off, but France's smile remained, "Oh, Angleterre! I am so glad you're happy!" He placed a hand over one of Arthur's that lay on the bed, "I was beginning to worry."
"Worry about what?" England's two thick eyebrows pulled together in confusion, as he moved his gaze from their hands on the bed to Francis' face.
"Ah, nothing," France retracted his hand with a pat and began to stand.
"No, don't get up," Britain frowned. "Tell me what you're smiling like a complete idiot for."
"Well, after you were resigned to bedrest," the longer blond straightened before looking to the latter country, "I was afraid I'd never get to see your beautiful smile again."
"Don't be daft. I would no sooner turn into a depressed child than I would give up needlework," England said with a defiant turn of the nose.
"Good," he smiled warmly at Arthur," because I don't know what I'd do if my Angleterre never smiled again." Before the Briton had time to fire a witty retort, the French nation leaned down and kissed him on the lips, quick and chaste, and then left the room with a farewell, "A plus tard, mon lapin!"
Left flustered, Arthur floundered for words, "N-now, just wait a moment! Franci-!"
The door closed.
France looked up, "Finally," he smiled. Smoothing the blankets on the bed, he felt excitement bubble up in his chest. The candles crackled to his right. Now all he had to do was wait for England to find him.
HETALIA!~~
Ten minutes after Arthur had returned home, Francis was becoming restless.
Had Arthur passed going into the kitchen to simply lay down on the couch? What if Francis had just been imagining things? Had the door even opened?
The European country was considering going and getting the island nation himself, when suddenly he heard a soft voice, "Francis?"
The French nation perked up. The voice was followed by the owner, as the bedroom door cracked open and two bushy eyebrows peered into the room drawn with mild confusion.
Francis smiled at his love, standing with his hands on his hips, cocked just enough to ask "what do you think?" "Âllo, mon lapin," he said, voice smooth with accent.
England opened the door wider and stepped in, nodding to the taller nation, looking around at the changes Francis had made to the room. "Evening," he said, walking over to the candles, "What's all this?"
"I thought you might've had a bad day. No good days begin with tea spilled on your favorite shirt," he indicated the ruined cloth in the corner of the room.
Britain moved over to it and picked the garment up, frowning. The stain was blarringly large, and right in the middle too, not even a tie could cover it up. "Can't be saved," he muttered, confirming Francis' suspicions.
"Désole, when I got here today, it was beyond my skills." If the Frenchman was to be perfectly honest, he was quite the laundryman. Centuries on the battlefield will persuade one to pick up a decent hygienic habit. Have you ever tried to remove blood from a white uniform⁹? Francis certainly had.
Letting the shirt fall to the floor, England sighed, "That's alright." The green eyed nation turned to face his counterpart on the bed.
France could sense the anticipation in the room as he smiled, "Anyway, mon cher, " he patted the comforter next to him, "I have a surprise for you." After a dubious raise of the eyebrow, the shorter blond came closer to the bed.
"Turn around," he instructed. Arthur did, sitting on the bed with his back to the country of love.
Feeling a twist of elation in his stomach, France leaned forwards and kissed the back of the Brit's head. He breathed in the smell of his golden locks, letting the comforting scent of England's hair fill his lungs. His plan was working perfectly.
Untucking the bottom of Arthur's shirt, the Frenchman's hands began to explore the contours of the British nation's back. He felt the the island country unconsciously lean into his touch, shoulders rolling, a sigh passing through his nose.
Francis paused and pulled his hands away, but compensated by kissing Arthur's neck. "Can you take this off, s'il vous plaît?" the command broke the silence.
A nod was the only reply, as Britain began to unbutton his shirt, not having to worry about a tie, seeing as he had already taken it off before he had entered the bedroom. He tossed the dress shirt at the laundry basket, now bare chested in front of Francis.
Seeing the scarred back in front of him, the blue eyed nation felt a pang of guilt, knowing he had been the cause of more than a few of them. In order to make up for it, at least this time, France reached for the bottle he had previously placed on the bedside table. "Tu as prêt?" he asked softly, squeezing some of the cold liquid onto his hands.
With slight hesitation, Arthur nodded. Francis rubbed his hands together, in order to make the oil warmer, and to spread it on his palms. Then, beginning with his shoulders, the Frenchman began to knead the Briton's muscles. The island nation leaned into his touch, sighing.
Francis smiled, satisfied that the adjacent nation wasn't upset that his surprise hadn't been sex.
Making his way slowly down the British man's spine, France pushed deep into his skin, working the tension and knots out of his muscles, which, the older nation noticed, Arthur seemed to have no shortage of. Taking special care to focus on each site of obstruction, he used his nimble fingers and thumbs to move in tight circles on the Briton's skin.
Thinking for a moment, Francis made a softer circle with his right thumb and spoke in a hushed voice, "Would you like to lie down, mon cher?"
Accepting the offer, Britain made a humming noise before flattening out and using his arms as a pillow.
They were both silent as the sapphire eyed nation took up working on his partner's back again, making long strokes, and applying a generous amount of pressure.
France's fingers ran smoothly over a raised bump, a fading scar that extended from Arthur's left shoulder blade to the middle of his back, where it tapered off. A colony, he thought¹⁰. There were several scars almost the same in length running down Arthur's back, however, this one seemed to be the most prominent.
A few years ago, when Canada had gained his independence, France had managed to glimpse a fresh wound on the British Empire's back. Neither of them had mentioned it, but the coincidence was too uncanny.
Shaking the thoughts of losing Matthew out of his head, the former empire resumed massaging, "Feeling better?"
England cracked open his eyes, and blinked a few times before responding, "Quite so," the words were muffled from behind his arms, "You are certainly adept at the art of massage." England snuffed the air out of his nose and closed his eyes again, "Unsurprisingly."
Francis cracked a smile and mimicked the other man's laugh. "Ah, merci, mon lapin." He leaned down to kiss Britain's cheek, placing his hands on Arthur's shoulders to keep balance. Then, pulling back after hearing the shorter blond's hum of agreement, France moved to begin massaging his right arm. The older nation's fingers were strong, but smooth. He made quick work of the kinks he found and switched to the left arm to repeat the process.
However, while he was rubbing, something caught his eye.
"Let me see your arm."
Immediately covering the spot of unmentioned interest, England shot France a suspicious glare, "Why?"
"Don't be an enfant, let me see your arm."
Arthur held on for a moment, staring at Francis' opened and demanding palm, before relenting and uncovering his bicep.
It was bandaged, and blood was beginning to seep through the cotton. "You got another one," Francis said simply.
Arthur set his jaw and looked down at the blankets, "Obviously," he muttered.
"Was it London?" France asked as he reached to begin unraveling the soiled bandage.
"No," England said curtly, "if my capital was attacked, it would have been closer to my heart."¹¹
Francis inwardly scolded himself for forgetting the information, though feeling Arthur's retort was a bit rude, replied with an identical tone, "Oui, you're right. My mistake." The bandage having been removed, silence fell between the two again. France reached for the alcohol and cloth on the table and began to clean the wound. Britain winced at the first touch, and the continental nation uttered an apology.
Francis frowned at the exposed muscle, seeing the torn skin and raised, red edges. A feeling crossed his mind. He wanted to kiss it. Like when they were kids, when a kiss could make anything better. Now, the only thing a kiss to an open wound would bring was disease for Francis and discomfort for Arthur. Frustrated, the French country tossed the dirty rag into a bowl and wiped the cut with a wet sterile pad. Then, putting a dry piece of cotton over the gash, he began to rewrap it.
Looking at the healed scar, Francis ran his fingers over the bump. Then, he leaned down and kissed it. Now he could do it without a second thought.
Spurred on by the action, he began to pepper light kisses on the myriad of marks that criss-crossed the man's body in front of him.
God, he loved him so much. Francis wished he had the power to make all his scars disappear. To erase all the pain he had once experienced. No one deserved that much suffering. If it were up to France, he would gladly shoulder all the anguish, so his beloved could go on without having to worry about burdens.
Disappointed by his distinct inability to do so, the older nation satisfied himself with the thought that he could at least do this for his boyfriend. He could at least take away his stresses for the night.
Finishing the massage with a deep push into Arthur's spine, Francis gazed at his patient. England's breathing gave off the tell tale evenness of slumber, and his eyes were peacefully closed. Unable to help himself, the country of love bent down and placed a kiss on the hay colored locks and inhaled. He could never get enough of Arthur's smell. He smelled like tea and earth. Not in a bland, boring way. When it was Arthur, the smells were vibrant and colorful, bursting with richness and excitement.
Raising back into a sitting position, Francis spoke smoothly, so as not to jar the somnolent nation, "Mon cher, réveille-toi. Wake up," he translated.
The younger nation stirred, slowly opening his eyes, though they remained half lidded by drowsiness, "Hmm?"
France smiled sweetly at the dazed reaction. Obviously he wasn't aware he had slipped out of consciousness. "You fell asleep, Angleterre," he said. "Today must have been exhausting."
Beginning to ascend farther into the land of the living, Arthur started to sit up, "Quite." The island nation reached his arms above his head, stretching. A few satisfying 'pop's reverberated from his back.
"Does your back feel magnifique?" Francis asked, smiling at the contented nation.
Britain exhaled, and turned to smile, though sleepily, at his masseuse, "Oui."
Satisfied with the reaction, and the unnecessary but appreciated French, France rose off the bed, "Bien."
Now standing, Francis put the bottle of massage oil on the table and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands. As he watched the soap sud, the longer blond smiled at the memory of the sleepy man in the other room. Of all the centuries he had lived, of all the people he had met, Angleterre had always been his favorite. Making him smile was enough to make eternity bearable.
Francis turned the tap off and shook the excess water into the sink before using a hand towel to dry his skin. Then, he exited the bathroom, flicked the light switch off, and stole a glance at the bed. Arthur lay in an exhausted pile, eyes closed, arms too tired to even splay far from his body. The sapphire eyed nation smirked at the cute scene before busying himself with picking up the shirts on the floor and blowing the candles out.
A whisper caught the Frenchman's attention.
"Francis," Arthur breathed.
"Oui?"
"I can't sleep."
England's room was dark, now that night had fallen. The bedridden nation was laying on his side, facing Francis, sheets pulled up to his neck.
"Me neither," the longer blond stood from his chair by the dwindling fire and smoothed the creases in his pants. "I haven't been able to sleep very well lately."
"Mmm..."
Francis moved towards the bed, sauntering slower due to the evening cool that had seeped into his bones. He sat down on the edge, just beside Arthur's abdomen and put a hand on the emerald eyed nation's shoulder. "Do you need something?"
England slowly extended his hand towards the other man, "Come lay with me?"
Feeling adoration and appreciation for this opportunity, France smiled softly, "D'accord."
England lifted the covers and slipped his legs under, holding them up high enough for Francis to get under as well. The older nation laid his arm out as a pillow for his beloved and wrapped the other extremity around him, pulling Arthur towards his chest.
Once settled, Arthur grasped Francis' chin and tilted his lips toward his own. "Thank you," he said, planting a kiss on them.
France knew that thank you's were not uttered by the Englishman unless he truly meant them, so as he looked back, his eyes heavily lidded with drowsiness, like his partners, he meant all the sincerity he could muster when he replied, "De rien, mon amour."
Yawning into Francis' chest, the green eyed nation snuggled close, bending his legs into something close to the fetal position. France bent his legs as well, as if to keep the cold away from Arthur.
The pose they took was one of offered and accepted protection, of trust shared between them, of giving and sharing warmth. The pose they took, as both nations were lulled by the calming breath of his companion to the peaceful realm of sleep, was love.
~Fin~
OMAKE!
PAIRED STORY FROM ENGLAND'S POV:
It had been a very long day.
As the island nation made his way into the home, England began to tug at his tie, loosening it. He set his brief case down on the table beside the entrance and hung his coat up in the hallway on the tree.
There were piles of paperwork to go through, no doubt, but the British man just didn't feel up to it. Right now, all he felt up to was a hot cuppa... or four.
Walking slowly towards the kitchen, Arthur sighed heavily, removing his tie fully. "What a rubbish day," he mumbled to no one in particular. For starters, he had woken up late, had spilled his tea rushing out the door, and had arrived late for the first meeting, since he had to change his shirt. His boss had not been very happy about that. Then, his brothers had sabotaged his lunch. Let's just say, fish and chips is not so good with a container of salt all over it. And to top it all off, his pen had exploded.
All over his papers.
He now had to redo every single one. Oh yeah, and he had to walk through the rain because he had forgotten his umbrella.
Yeah, today was a great day.
Crossing the threshold of the kitchen, England made his way to the stove, where he was pleasantly surprised to find a steaming cup of tea already sitting out for him. There was an equally steaming pot of hot water next to it and a note set carefully against the porcelain cup. The handwriting was instantly recognizable; formed from graceful swirls and impeccable cursive. It had a single sentence on it:
Apres you are done, venez to the bedroom.
Arthur smirked at the note and picked up his cup of tea. He sniffed it for good measure before bringing it to his lips. Two mint leaves swirled in a lazy circle. Sipping the warm brew, the blonde nation closed his eyes as he felt a familiar warmth spread down his throat and blossom out into his chest. Already, the stress was dissipating. Damn that Frenchman for knowing exactly what he liked. Although, he supposed, any respectable boyfriend should know, anyway.
Two cups later, Arthur picked himself out of the kitchen chair and deposited his empty dishes in the sink. A satisfied, warm feeling radiated from his body as he made his way towards the hallway. He amusedly wondered if Francis had fallen asleep in the time it had taken Arthur to get done with tea.
Two doors away from his own, the green eyed nation caught the scent of candles burning. Inhaling, he identified lavender and vanilla. His clever boyfriend was at work again.
Taking the handle of the bedroom door, he opened it slowly.
"Francis?" he asked quietly, not wanting to disturb a possibly slumbering nation.
Peering into the room, Britain saw what awaited him: candles on the bedside tables, and a very charming, smiling, blue eyed nation beside the bed. Arthur returned the facial expression, only with a little more surprise.
"Âllo, mon lapin," Francis cooed gently.
"Evening," he entered and glanced around, "what's all this?"
Francis nodded his head towards the crumpled dress shirt next to Britain's closet, "I thought you might've had a bad day. No good days begin with tea spilled on your favorite shirt."
Of course he knew it was my favorite shirt, England thought. He frowned at the stained garment, going over to examine the damage completely. "Can't be saved…" he mumbled. It WAS his favorite shirt indeed.
"Désole, when I got here today, it was beyond my skills."
"That's alright," he let it fall to the floor again, before turning to face France on the bed.
"Anyway, mon cher, I have a surprise for you," the taller blonde patted the bed beside him.
Arthur cocked a bushy eyebrow, but made his way over regardless.
"Turn around," Francis instructed. Arthur sat on the bed with his back facing the man. Anticipation started to bubble in his chest.
The blue eyed nation began with kissing the back of England's head, pausing to inhale what seemed like a reassuring breath to the French nation. Like he was comforting himself with the fact that he had the British nation in his arms. Then, Francis untucked the bottom of the adjacent county's dress shirt, creating an entrance so his hands roamed up Britain's back muscles, playfully brushing the surface.
The Englishman relished the feeling of his hands. They were strong, but smooth. Firm, but gentle. A perfect match for France, as the man could exhibit both fierce strength and gentle care in any given situation.
Retreating for the moment, Francis kissed Arthur's neck, "Can you take this off, s'il vous plait?"
The British nation did as he was told, unbuttoning from the top down. He slid the white shirt off of his shoulders and tossed it aside, next to the ruined one.
Taking a bottle of massage oil from the right bedside table, the Frenchman squeezed some onto his palm. "Tu as prêt?" he asked softly.
Without words, Arthur nodded.
Francis began with his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles, working his trapezius and shoulder blades. The island nation closed his eyes. This is exactly what he needed. Not that sex would have been out of place, but he was maybe just a tad bit too tired today…
Continuing, France slowly made his way down Arthur's spine, flattening his palm to push deep circles into the skin, and his thumbs to work areas of knotted muscle.
"Would you like to lie down, mon cher?"
"Mmm," Britain hummed as he flattened out. He crossed his arms for a pillow, and France went back to massaging.
It was quiet in the room, aside from the even breathing and moving hands. It was so quiet, in fact, Arthur could hear the candles as they crackled and sputtered. The soothing aroma lulled the stressed nation away from his worries to a state of bliss.
He was almost in the grasp of the sandman when Francis spoke again, still gentle and soft.
"Feeling better?"
"Quite so," he said behind his arms, "you are certainly adept at the art of massage." He snuffed air through his nose, "Unsurprisingly."
Francis gave an identical laugh, "Ah, merci, mon lapin." He leaned down and kissed Arthur's cheek before leaning back and moving his hands to the shorter nation's right arm. There he worked the muscles, untangling all the kinks and stresses. Then he switched sides.
Britain began to fade again. His eyelids drooped dangerously low and heavy as he struggled to keep them open. He wanted to feel every moment of this experience. He wanted to savor every motion Francis used to guide him away from anxiety to heaven. But the next thing he knew, it wasn't the blue eyed nation's hands, but his voice that was guiding him.
"Mon cher," he said. "réveille-toi. Wake up."
England cracked open his eyes slowly. "Hmm?"
"You fell asleep, Angleterre," Francis rubbed one hand encouragingly up and down the island nation's arm. "Today must have been exhausting."
"Quite," he replied, starting to rise from his warm position on the bed.
My god, he thought, my back feels amazing! Indeed, every muscle was relaxed and comfortable. Arthur stretched like a cat, extending his arms above his head.
"Does your back feel magnifique?"
Britain exhaled, a sleepy, but satisfied smile on his face, "Oui."
Francis got off the bed, shifting Arthur slightly with the missing weight, "Bien." He placed the oil back on the bedside table before going to wash his hands.
Without the incentive to keep his eyes open, Arthur felt exhaustion grip him tighter. He slouched where he sat, eyelids forced by gravity. Today had really been draining. Maybe an early turn in would be for the best. He could deal with the paperwork, uh… well, some other time.
Shifting from his stooped posture to lying down was as simple as falling. England hit the pillows with a 'whump' and let out a whoosh of air. The light switch in the bathroom clicked, signaling the Frenchman's return. Arthur cracked one eye open and watched as his boyfriend busied himself picking up the discarded laundry and blowing out the candles.
"Francis," Arthur whispered.
"Oui?"
Out stretching his arm, he opened his palm for the French nation to take his hand, "Come lay with me?"
France smiled, "D'accord." He moved towards Arthur with a soft glow in his eyes. The only word the Briton could find to describe it was adoration. He lifted the covers.
England moved enough for his legs to get under the sheets. Francis likewise joined him, laying one arm on the bed for Arthur to put his head on and wrapping the other around the green eyed country, pulling him close.
Arthur tilted the other man's lips towards his and planted a kiss upon them. "Thank you," he said. He meant for the whole evening: the tea, the massage…
Francis looked back, eyes lidded as heavily as his partner's, a small smile said that he understood everything Arthur meant, "De rien, mon amour."
England yawned into France's chest, content with the direction his evening was going. He felt the rise and fall of the blue eyed nation's diaphragm, letting it lull him to back to sleep. There was something about their subdued attitudes that made him very happy. Maybe how he was able to just relax and not worry about retorting and insulting the frog. Because he didn't have anything to complain about.
It was just Arthur wrapped in the warmth of his beloved. And it was all he needed.
~Fin~
Author's note:In case you were wondering, both the tea (mint) and the candles (lavender and vanilla) were flavoured/scented specifically for stress relief and sleep. ;)
This is set in December after WW2, Christmas if you want… but definitely at the tail end of '45
Also the font I typed this in originaly put the 'apres' sentence in cursive.. but not here it seems... sorry :(
The items Francis bought from the store are:pain (bread), pomme de terre (potatoes), lait (milk), lessive (laundry detergent), bougie (candle)
Other French I sneakily put in there (just in case you don't know the translations): mon dieu: my god, briquet: lighter, thé: tea, à plus tard: see you later, tu as prêt?: are you ready?, enfant: child, réveille-toi: wake up, d'accord: ok, de rien, mon amour: you're welcome, my love, apres: after, venez: come
OMAKE OMAKE!
Mentioned subtleties or things you could have caught... lol tidbits I guess:
If you're familiar with chervalierviolet on tumblr, her interpretation of the battle of France, and consequently the liberation of, is what I reference when I mention shackles, meaning, for a portion of the occupation of France, I believe he was captured and most likely tortured. Also, check her out for more amazing work!
According to the Farmer's Almanac, there is folklore in America that says the Wooly bear caterpillar can foretell the harshness of the coming winter, where a "narrow orange band (the rest of the insect will be black) in the middle of the Woollybear caterpillar warns of heavy snow; fat and fuzzy caterpillars presage bitter cold."
I chose the Battle of Britain and D-day as possibly the most taxing campaigns of the war England and his people had to live through
The cause of England's stomach ulcers was the bombing of Britain, basically it was like the bombs burned holes into his insides…
The Battle of France/Fall of France took around 7 weeks to complete, from the initial attacks to the signing of the armistice on June 22… so that's almost 2 months but it sounds lame to say 2 months… that takes away from the argumentative point of interest… ehem.. yeah
The rose petals Francis uses symbolizes both his love for them (he does always seem to have one in the show) and the fact that it is Arthur's official flower… oh and it makes a lovely flavor of tea!
Le Vichy et Maquis translates to the Vichy and the Resistance (they were called the brush/scrub→maquis, by people living in the country). I imagine, in addition to the terrible fighting that went on in France, among the worst thing a personification can go through is countryman killing countryman. So this infliction would probably hurt pretty bad…
This symbolizes the ship of Fruk, basically, the roses are Iggy and the lilies are Franny 3
Check out Napoleonic wars, Louis XIV's guard for white French uniforms
The colony's scar he saw was that of Alfred's, as it was the biggest and probably the worst blow to Arthur's empire.
The wound on Arthur's arm is in reference to the African campaign, which was a tough one for both the Brits (Canadians included) and the Americans.