Some Things Never Change
France found himself reading at a small writing desk in his study. This wasn't his main home; his house was huge, and sat way out in the French countryside. But this small apartment, sitting above a small bakery in the heart of Paris, not two streets down from the Eiffel tower itself. The apartment was fashioned in old french furniture, from the nation's favourite era for furniture; the french revolution.
The notes in front of him spelt out a letter of correspondence from a certain brother nation of his, and frowned at the words in front of him. Something wasn't right with Espagne... The southern nation was complaining more about his own brother, the sweet and simple Portugal and his long formed marriage with Angleterre... The scone eating annoyance in his life.
But this wasn't the normal Antonio complaining about Angleterre and Portugal, or Antonio complaining about Sud de l'Italie... This was Antonio complaining about him. France. Francis Buonnefey, his long best friend, along with their meilleur ami Gilbert, the reformed Prussia, were the three best of friends, in more than one sense of the word.
So why was Espagne complaining about him? Now? To him? About Ecosse of all people?
Pourquoi...
"Francis!" A loud, obnoxious, heavily accented voice filled his apartment, causing to wince as he looked towards the door, frowning at the tall brunette man who stood in his doorway, grinning with his charming way. "They said you were staying in Paris, I expected something more grand for you..."
"This is grand, Ecosse," France insisted with a glare at the taller man. "This was considered the grandest place to live back in the late 1700's. A prominent lady in history would hold her salon in the rooms down stairs, and many a couple would come up here with the idea of making their country proud..." a small smile graced the nation's lips as he thought back into history.
"Ai, but it's still rather tiny..."
"I can name some other things that are tiny in the apartment right now..." The taller man blinked at the blonde nation, before chuckling a little.
"And do tell me, bonnie lass, exactly what I have done to get your knickers in such a twist?"
France couldn't help but glare harder at the Scotsman for calling him a girl... Even if he did like wearing underwear over boxers...
"THIS," he insisted, thrusting the paper at the man, who blinked at it, before taking it and glancing it over. "Why am I getting blamed for some plank you pulled on spain, and then blamed Portugal, who then yelled at Spain, who then yelled at Portugal, who then ran to Angleterre, who then yelled at Spain, who is now running to me! This is far too... barbaric to be something I'd done!"
France's glare seemed to falter as the tall man stepped towards him, his broad hand moving out to cup a pale cheek. France quickly wrenched his face away, frowning at the man in front of him. He hated to frown. But when messes like this were brought about... Well, it is how world wars get started.
"Francis, I didn't blame you..."
"No, I'm well aware of that, I'm only getting blamed because APPARENTLY I can't keep you under as much control as Arthur can with Gabriel! It doesn't matter that Arthur's been making love to that beautiful behind since long before half the countries around here can remember, and I've had to put up with your... Barbaric accent and man-handling since WELL before that, but NO it's MY fault you can't keep your hands to yourself!"
The Scotsman had to raise an eyebrow at this. "Can't keep my hands to myself? That's bloody rich, coming from you..."
"BUT EVEN I KNOW THE ITALY'S ARE OUT OF BOUNDS!"
James looked at his 'wife' for a few moments, before sighing, and shaking his head. "I can't count the amount of times you've tried to bed either one of them on two hands and all me toes."
"Being an affectionate big brother and having people misinterpret it and basically raping Romano are two completely different things, James!"
"I can't say I've seen you this worked up since the last world war, Fran..."
"And don't call me that atroce nickname! My name is Francis, and I'll have you well remember it, you two-timing..."
But his words were cut of by bruising lips pressing up against his delicate ones. The taller nation took his time reminding Francis exactly why he put up with the nation, his lips moving softly but with meaning against the soft ones.
"James..." came a murmur from said mouth, and a smirk could be seen.
"Fran, would for once you just shut up and listen?" His kisses dazed the Frenchman enough to silence him for a bit. "I didn't try to rape Romano." Another kiss, this one slightly harder. "I would never cheat on you, even if I've ignored every single time you've done it to me." A third kiss, this time softer and sweet. "Is brea liom tu..." The final kiss took Francis' breath away, leaving him clutching to the taller man's broad chest.
"Stop talking in your brother's language..." the Frenchman insisted, before giving into the taller man, and opening his mouth to allow his tongue to show just how easily he forgave his 'husband' for every little wrong he did.
"Oi! Not in public!" came a harsh, stuck up voice from the doorway, and Francis' smiling face turned back to a glare as he turned to face the short Englishman.
"Angleterre we were in private till you barged in, no manners as always..."
"Shutup you stupid frog!"
"Ingleterre, stop yelling at Francis, I already have a headache..."
"Sorry, Gab, but he really shouldn't be doing that to my brother..."
The scottishman in question blinked as his arms were suddenly lacking a certain Frenchman. He turned to see the blonde draped over the new brunette that had walked into the room, causing both parties to glare at him.
"Oh, mon cher Angleterre, and what is it you do to my brother behind closed doors, hmm?" the Frenchman chuckled as only a Frenchman knows how, his body somehow moving closer to Portugal as it did. "Gabriel, you could always consider taking my wonderful husband's place, if you ever feel the need to... rid yourself of this annoyance..."
"Oi you stupid frog get your hands off Gabriel!"
James just watched with a smile on his face as the three of them fought. Nothing was new here, just the same old same old... The four of them had fought for centuries, if Spain, Prussia and Turkey had been here it would have been like old times again...
"Ah! James, help me, make Angleterre let go of my hair!"
"Oi! James, put me down this instant so I can kill your bloody frog-wife!"
Nope, things would never change.
A/N Hello all! Hetalia is not mine, and unfortunately, neither are these WONDERFUL Oc's! Gabriel, Portugal, and James, Scotland, both belong to edencomplex (The name she goes by on Livejournal.) She has infact given me her wonderful permission to use her WONDERFUL Oc's so that I can make this wonderful fic! Thank you!