Hey guys! Alright so I know I haven't updated my other story, but I'm in the process of writing it so hopefully I can get the next chapter done some time this winter break.
But lo and behold! Another story! And this one is actually USUK. Okay I'm not a USUK fan at all (FrUK is my OTP)and I usually cannot stand USUK so my motives for writing this story is actually surprising. But I really like the idea so I'm going to see it through. This is also sort of a manifestation of a complicated personal headcanon so yeah... Well, I hope you like this and stick with me till the end!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Also, I apologize for any grammar/tense issues and for any characterization I get wrong (like I said, I'm not comfortable with writing in USUK shoes yet but I will get better I promise!)
Alfred will never hear the end of it. Dressed in a suit with slicked back hair tucked under a hat and one hand covering the cigar in his mouth with another lighting it, he can't help but roll his eyes as F. Scott Fitzgerald rambles on and on. Paris, he says, is the most magical city in the entire world. It's majestic. It's marvelous. It's miraculous. It's a whole bunch of other M-words that only an author could come up with and Alfred cannot keep up with the other anymore.
"So, Paris huh? Last time I went, it was a mess," Alfred says, taking a puff of his cigar and spitting smoke back into the air. The taste tobacco fills his mouth and he can hear Susan singing on stage about the classiness of American life. He knows she's probably wearing a red dress. This is one of the many nightclubs in New York he is familiar with. The 1920's can't get any better. 1929 had been quite prosperous so far.
Fitzgerald smirks and lights his own cigar. "And when exactly was the last time you visited?"
It takes a minute as Alfred reminisces. He finally shrugs, takes a long drag of his cigar and answers,
"I'd say around 1780. Or 1790. I have absolutely terrible memory. Don't ask me to think about things from so long ago. It hurts my brain."
Fitzgerald's eyes flicker to a very faded scar running from Alfred's right temple down to the tip of his cheekbone but he says nothing of the war that tore the world to pieces. Instead, he only chuckles.
"Well the 1790's are not the 1920's certainly even you understand that," the writer teases, motioning for a glass of champagne from the passing waiter. "Everyone is there! All of your writers and painters and visionaries have all found abode in the City of Lights. You must pay it a visit, I insist."
The images of a very large and animated city flashes through Alfred's mind. Paris, he had to admit, had actually been beautiful in the 1700's in its own way. He has always looked up to Paris. He has always looked up to Francis. And if his own have begun to consider the glamorous city their second home then it is only fair that he go and see what all the commotion is about. Besides, he thinks, Europe has calmed down now. It's probably safe to come out of isolation for a while.
The memory of two blond men invade his mind and he only smiles as recognizes them as his two oldest of allies and oldest of foes. In his head they are smiling but weakly and their faces are gaunt with exhaustion. That is how Alfred last saw them. At the end of the War to end all wars. He has to admit that he's been curious to see how they have been faring in the fine year of 1929. The only person he's really seen in the past couple of years is Canada and it's time he sees a face that has no resemblance to his own.
With his mind made up, Alfred grinds his cigar into the ashtray in front of him and stands up, straightening his coat. Fitzgerald looks up at him in surprise.
"Where are you going?" he asks, though the knowing look on his face indicates that he already has some clue.
Writers. They always act like they know everything.
Alfred flashes him an iconic grin and tips his hat in a gentlemanly fashion.
"I think there's a city called Paris across the ocean that's calling my name. Happen to know where it is?" Alfred answers.
Fitzgerald stands so that he is at eye level with his companion and holds up his drink, slyly grabbing another from a waiter for Alfred who takes it.
"I'll tell you when I finish this drink," Fitzgerald says as he clinks his glass against Alfred's and they both down the glossy champagne in a gulp.
Alfred is currently standing on the deck of a magnificent ship destined for France, feeling the salty breeze whipping his skin. He is not too fond of the smell of the sea but he feels alive nonetheless. It's at times like these when he realizes that he doesn't have to be on the battlefield to feel like a hero.
He had sent a telegram to Francis the morning of letting his ally know of his sudden visit. The young nation smiles. That sudden message must have put the high-ended country's panties in a twist. Francis is like every other European nation. He hates not knowing what to expect. If anything he'll have extra bright lights hanging from his vintage streetlamps just so Alfred won't put down the reputation of his beautiful country.
Alfred slides a hand into the inner pockets of his coat and pulls out his cigar box, taking one out and lighting, all the while pondering the possibility of Arthur being there as well. He doesn't know why he is so curious to know—at least he is not consciously aware—but he convinces himself that his question is a reasonable one considering that he has heard a good deal about how close Francis and Arthur have become. His interpretation of the whole political ordeal is basically this: the two are practically sharing everything but land and culture. Therefore, it is logical conclusion to assume Arthur is going to be somewhere in Paris.
For some reason Alfred can't fathom, the prospect of meeting Arthur again makes his heart race a little faster than normal. Usually Alfred considers this a normal reaction considering most of the times when he thought of Arthur in the past it was because the other nation was bringing him food or making Alfred's blood boil in rage (at least that's what he believes). But right now, it's none of those things. Right now, he's at peace with the other—more peaceful than he has been with him in a while now. So why do green eyes, thin limbs and a conquistador-esque charisma keep invading his thoughts?
Nah, Alfred thinks, shaking his head and drawing another breath from the cigar. It's probably just the fact I'm going to Paris after all this time. Which makes sense because visiting a cultural capital of Europe is always intimidating. Especially when it's France. Alfred never knows what to expect. Then again, it's not like Francis has it any easier when he visits New York. There's always some thug on the streets who wants to beat "pretty boy" up.
Watching the sun set on the horizon, Alfred feels chills only the ocean wind could deliver and his cigar goes out due to the salty air.
"Ah fuck it," he says, casting the tobacco stick overboard when he's sure no one can see. The ship will be docking in France during the afternoon of the next day and then Alfred has a train ride to look forward to in order to reach the capital.
As he stuffs his hands into his coats pockets and turns to head inside, he can't help but wish for the day airplanes become commercialized. That way, he doesn't have to spend days on a ship to get somewhere and see people. People who definitely do not live on an island and speak English in a cool accent and whose names happen to start with a "A" and end in a "rthur." Nope. No siree.
If Alfred's thinking thoughts like that then he knows it's time for him to go to bed. Maybe he should stop smoking those cigars too. Who knows where those came from.
By the time he reaches Paris, Alfred already has an idea of what the city will be like. The train he is on is full of Parisians dressed in sleek coats and brightly colored cocktail dresses. The men carry luxurious looking canes and have their hair sleeked back with pointy moustaches to compliment the fine look. The women wear headdresses and circlets around their heads with the occasional feather sticking out. Their hands are gloved to their elbows and their dresses are short and their heels are very very high. It's fascinating already.
When the train stops at the train station, Alfred is the first one to grab his bags and jump onto the platform. The feeling of standing on land has never felt so great and he relishes the feeling of breathing air besides what he is used to. It smells like perfume and smoke and wine—everything the city smelled like when he visited it nearly two hundred years ago. But it's different. It's…evolved somehow. Everything has evolved.
Alfred's feeling of euphoria doesn't last long as he finds himself being pushed around by rushing Parisians all speaking rapid French as they try to walk around him.
"Hey! Watch it!" he yells to someone who accidentally kicks his bag to the ground and he hears a chorus of "Stupide Americain." Yeah never mind. Nothing has changed.
"Need some help?"
The familiar voice behind him is a relieving sound and Alfred turns to find a gorgeous looking blond man in a black suit with a cane in his hand smiling at him with sparkling blue eyes. It's a face Alfred is unlikely to ever forget whether he wants to or not.
"Hey Francis!" Alfred exclaims as he straightens his now crooked glasses and picks up his bag. "Been a couple of years hasn't it?"
He enthusiastically shakes the Frenchman's hand and Francis smiles his dazzling oh-so-French smile. Alfred can tell, however, that smoking has become a large part of the French culture as well. The same subtle stains that have appeared on the American's teeth seem to be replicated onto the other's, which Alfred can only interpret as a sign of wealth. If you had cigars, you were living the good life.
"Oui, it has!" Francis replies as he takes Alfred's bag from him. The begin walking towards the exit of the station. "I'm sure we have a lot of catching up to do. Though I've been hearing a lot about how you've been doing lately. The Roaring 20's n'est pas?"
Alfred laughs heartily as they head down the steps of the station and stop in front of the busy street. Francis waves into the crowd, trying to hail a taxi. It is here where the sudden life of Paris hits Alfred like a train.
It's almost dusk and the things that stand out the most are the lights. There are lights everywhere from the streetlamps to the small vendors huddled together on the sides of the roads. Cars rule the streets, honking loudly but the well-dressed pedestrians don't seem to mind. There are mimes and other street performers showing off feats that only dazzle Alfred's mind. In fact, he can almost hear the accordion music whistling through the air. It's like New York but Frenchier.
A black taxi finally stops in front of them and the French driver barks for the two men to get in. Francis waves his hand in a chivalrous manner and Alfred steps into the car with the other right behind him. The Frenchman shuts the door, speaks an address in French—Alfred can only guess it's the location of the hotel Francis has arranged for him to stay in—and then he looks at Alfred and smiles.
"Roaring 20's indeed," Alfred agrees as he takes one more look outside the window before facing Francis.
Alfred has to admit, the other nation has really improved since he last saw him. His blond locks are not soiled with mud from the trenches. His eyes are sparkling in a way Alfred has never seen them sparkle before and it is truly dazzling just like the city. There are no dark circles or sunken cheekbones. Only sculptured jawlines and soft expressions and faultless composure and the sight only causes Alfred to suck in his breath. It really is unfair and disarming how beautiful Francis can be.
"So Alfred, why the sudden visit to Paris? You just couldn't stay long without seeing moi could you?" Francis asks, cheekily grinning in the way only Francis can.
Alfred snorts. "Nah, in your dreams Franney. I came because my people wouldn't shut up about you. They said Paris was to die for."
Francis chuckles while pulling his golden spun hair back into a ponytail.
"Well I'm honored that your people think so highly of me," he muses, leaning in towards Alfred. "But I have to say, this city has been reeking of Americans for the past couple of years! Well I guess I cannot help that I am quite alluring."
The American simply snorts, already used to Francis's antics, and pushes him away playfully.
"You smell like cheese Francis. I don't see how that's supposed to be alluring."
Francis merely withdraws and chuckles again, looking through the window at the Parisian scenery.
"You know, you came at a perfect time mon ami," he says without looking at Alfred, who has also taken to staring out the window at the lights.
"How do you mean?" Alfred asks, curiously.
Francis turns away from the window and smiles.
"Arthur sent me a telegram last night saying he'd be on a ferry to Calais in the morning. In fact, he should be arriving around midnight tonight."
Alfred detects something in the other's voice that he can't classify but his mind disposes of that thought when he realizes that Francis just told him Arthur was going to be there soon. Suddenly, he's ecstatic and he can't really pinpoint why.
"That's wonderful," he replies, trying not to let any stray excitement escape him. Either he doesn't do a good job of it or Francis is just really really good at reading the atmosphere because he quirks a fine blonde eyebrow in surprise but says nothing. Alfred decides the latter is more likely.
"Oui. I'll be going to pick him up as soon as I take you to your hotel," Francis continues without acknowledging Alfred's mood. "So I suggest you rest for a bit as soon as we get there. I have a couple of…nightly activities planned."
He says his last words with an amusement that Alfred has always shuddered at because one, Francis has always been extremely unpredictable and two, "nightly activities" plus Francis never sounded decent. For all he knew Francis could be planning an extremely kinky threesome between the three nations (though Alfred surprisingly doesn't find the aspect as horrifying as he probably should because the thought of Arthur sighing contently underneath him is just so—okay no that thought did NOT just cross his mind.)
The two of them say no more for Francis leaves his American counterpart to gaze in awe at the sights and lights of the busier streets of Paris. Alfred, instead of concentrating on the city, focuses his attention more upon his and Francis's steady breathing and not on a certain Brit. It is ten minutes later when the car finally comes to a stop and Alfred sees that it is has parked in front of a particularly lively building situated on a particularly lively and noisy street.
Francis leans up and hands the driver a few bills, thanking him and French and opening his door. Alfred takes this as his cue to leave the taxi as well and by the time he is out and breathing the surprisingly pleasant and smoky air, Francis has pulled his luggage out of the trunk and is waiting for him.
The next few moments consist of the two men entering the hotel lobby (Alfred cannot help but stare at the plush red velvet draping and feel welcomed by the overall vintage feel of everything. Gaping seems to make up the majority of his activities since his arrival and Paris and he knows Francis is enjoying it. That French bastard.)
After yelling at the concierge for a while in frustrated French for God knows what, Francis finally attains the key to Alfred's room, which happens to the largest one in the hotel thanks to the courtesy of the French nation, and the two make their way to the topmost floor.
Once Alfred has settled in (his settling in consists testing the bed for bounciness, checking the shower for warm water—he had felt relieved when he found that France actually had showers when he visited in 1790—and making sure he had a wonderful view) he starts to undress. Sitting on a train in a suit and tie is not really agreeable with the American and the feeling of relief he feels when he loosens his tie is full of elation.
As he is unbuttoning his shirt, he hears Francis clear his throat behind him and he turns to see the other leaning against the side of the doorway. Suddenly he starts feeling self-conscious as he sees the Frenchman smile a small smile because he has no idea what is going through the other's head. But Francis only picks up a small notepad that is sitting on the polished wooden side table next to the large queen-sized bed, pulls out a golden pen from inside his suit pocket (Alfred cannot help but note how he is wearing a three piece suit and feel jealous of the way it hugs his body in the a most seductive way), and scribbles something down upon the paper. He then sets it down again on the nightstand.
"Well then, I'll be off," he says, waving his fingers in an au revoir. "I would treat you to dinner but I have some work to get done and then I must pick up Arthur at the train station. There is, however, a nice little place to eat just across the street so don't hesitate to leave the hotel. Just make sure you come to this place at around midnight. D'accord?"
Francis points to the notepad he has just written on, winks when Alfred nods, and leaves just as smoothly as he appeared at the train station. When Alfred has changed into something a bit more comfortable, he strides over to the side table and tries to decipher Francis's annoyingly calligraphy-like handwriting. Eventually he gives up on trying to figure it out because it's something French so he has no idea if he's even reading right. Instead, he throws himself onto the extremely irresistible bed and his conscious drifts off into the depths of the unknown while he hears the faint sound of someone playing Louis Armstrong on the streets outside. He smiles softly and the thought of food never crosses his mind. Arthur, however, does.
So I'm aware that nothing much happens in this chapter. But I had to break it here because the initial chapter was much much longer. Hope you liked it so far! And please review. I'd love to hear what you have to say. Arthur will be there in the next chapter. And I'm going to try to incorporate some good smut in this. So yeah, lots to look forward to. Merry Christmas!