1st A/N: Hello and greetings, fellow Hetalia fanatics! I bring you the wonders of the coupling of FrUK, but only in a horrible fanfic!
2nd A/N: I feel like I'm either going to write this out horribly and abandon it, or do it super-good. Hmm...probably the first probability.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. If I did...Fem!America. Fem!Canada. PruCan! RusAme! FrUK dance party! Hmm...and all the other possible relationships...x5
Noteworthy Note: I revised Francis' French with the help/advice of Croc'Sushi.
Chapter One:
The young Brit, angrier than usual, stumbled out of the doors of his pub and sat down on the curb, careful to make sure nothing stained his bartending uniform. He reached into his breast pocket and took out his cigarette pack.
Personally, the twenty-eight year old Briton hated smoking and smokers in general, but due to circumstance, he had taken up the horrid habit to relieve stress. He found smoking a cigarette to be soothing. For a few minutes, the Brit could feel some peace.
But then, after he breathed in the last of his cigarette and looked across the street, his stress and anger reappeared as quickly as a lightning strike.
His eyes read over the familiar advertising and restaurant's name, Le Cygne d'Argent, and a low growl resonated in his throat. A year ago, that infuriating restaurant had opened up across the street from his English pub, The Lion's Den, and since then, business had filtered from his own fine establishment to the disgusting French place. Now, it was common to only have one customer a day. With that amount filtering in, he knew it would be soon before he couldn't afford his restaurant anymore.
He snarled a bit before standing up, flicking his cigarette into the street, and digging his black boot into the cancer stick. He returned to the empty pub with a scowl on his face.
"Arthur!" an employee of his chastised. She was a beautiful young lady, and a great barmaid, but Arthur had no feelings for her. He thought of her as a great employee, and perhaps part of his family, and was grateful for her work. Once upon a time when they had customers, she had been the one to break up the fights. With a frying pan no less.
"Elizaveta." He greeted with a sigh.
"You shouldn't smoke, Arthur." She whispered. For the past year, she had noticed what had been a dark green light in his eyes change into a dull, emotionless green void. It hurt her, since she thought of Arthur as her brother and her savior, ever since he saved her life and brought her in as his worker.
He didn't respond to Elizaveta, choosing instead to take his place behind the bar and to polish the counter.
"It's quitting time, Arthur. I'll be going now." Elizaveta smiled softly as she took off her apron. Once the girl left, Arthur proceeded to lock the pub up. There hadn't been a late night rush in a long, long time.
Above the pub was his loft, and he loved it. It was perfect and comfortable, just right for a man his age. He changed from his uniform to his pajamas and took a look in the mirror.
His blond hair was disheveled and messy, his green eyes were tired and had dark bags under them, and he was much to thin. He was stressed and tired, he knew, but he didn't think it would affect his health to such an extent.
His eyes wavered over to the few pictures on his wall. His family, his mind registered.
His brother, Peter, still a young lad in school now, stood in the front. He himself stood behind Peter, his hand resting on his annoying little brother's shoulder. Next to him was his younger brother, Wynn, the only of the children to be born in Wales, and his younger twin brothers, born in Ireland, Ian and Nathaniel. The eldest of the siblings stood behind them, his elder brother, who was born in Scotland, Samuel.
He looked at the picture of his family and felt a pang of longing. But nothing could be done about it; he was too poor to buy a plane ticket to visit.
His gaze brushed over one picture, and even though his mind nagged at him to look at it, he refused. Looking at the picture of him would make him even more depressed. And yet as he walked away, he couldn't help but turn around and take the picture down from the wall.
In it was a young child, a boy of about five years, his face twisted in a laughing smile and his bright blue eyes, the color of a cloudless summer sky, shining brightly. His blond hair, so much like Arthur's, sparkled in the English summer sun.
His heart twisted in pain. The child, his only remembrance of his long-forgotten marriage, seemed to mock him.
Arthur had married his childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty, and his beloved his borne him a healthy son when he was twenty-three. Unfortunately during childbirth, his wife had perished. He couldn't take the heartbreak, and had then handed his child off to his parents to rear. Instead of taking the duty of fatherhood, he had fled to his wife's homeland, America.
He grimaced at the thought. Even though he had voiced he wanted nothing to do with the child, his parents still felt they had a duty to send him pictures every few months. Whenever he looked into those sky blue eyes, he grimaced.
He took the picture out of its frame and tore it up. He couldn't bare the thought of looking at his dead wife's child any longer than he had to. He tossed the shreds in a wastebasket as he made his way to the bedroom.
Tomorrow was always another day.
"Oui, oui! C'est bien, Mathieu!" the little boy, about five years old, peered up shyly at his over-doting father. The pale-haired, violet-eyed boy smiled. He had just finished making the pancake batter for their breakfast (with his papa's help, of course.)
"You, mon petit, are a prodigy, a genius in the making!" the young man, around twenty-nine years old, praised once again. He had shoulder-length, wavy blond hair tied over his shoulder with a green ribbon, and bright blue eyes.
"M-merci, Papa…" Mathieu whispered shyly. The father simply smiled and ruffled his son's hair.
The proud father just so happened to be one Francis Bonnefoy, the proud owner of Le Cygne d'Argent, an up-and-coming French cuisine-specialized restaurant. He had moved one year ago to the United States after already securing several restaurants in Paris and throughout France. The man was quite successful, to say the least.
"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" his secretary inquired.
"Yes?"
"Señor Fernandez and Herr Bielschmidt are here." The Frenchman smiled at the thought of his best friends.
"Kesesesese, is that the awesome Mattie and unawesome Francis I see?" Gilbert Bielschmidt laughed. His friend Antonio Fernandez simply smiled at Gilbert's fail at humor.
"Bonsoir to you as well, stupide prussien. Bonsoir, Antonio, what brings you to…mon humble demeure?"
"We thought we should take you out tonight, for a drink. You've been to busy. So, you're going to lock up the restaurant early and go drinking." Antonio said.
"What about Mathieu? And what about your brother, Gilbert? And the Vargas brothers, Antonio?" Francis questioned, cocking his eyebrow in the process. At the premature death of his parents, Gilbert, at the age of twenty-three had gotten custody over his younger brother, the six year old Ludwig. Gilbert alone had doted on and raised Ludwig since he was three months old, raising him for six years by himself.
And Antonio, he had been the distant relative of a couple who had died in a car accident. He had gained custody of their twin boys when they were just four months old, the now five year old Vargas twins, Feliciano and Lovino. Antonio had raised them since they were four months old and he was twenty-four, the same age as Francis when he and his late wife had their son, Mathieu.
The three twenty-nine year olds high school buddies had banded together quickly when they found out they were all raising children. Between them, they had three five year olds and one six year old.
"West? I have my old friend, Eliza, looking after him. She also said she would look after Mathieu, and the twins." Gilbert said as if it was completely obvious.
"Well, I suppose a night out wouldn't hurt…"
"Yes!"
How, how wrong the Frenchman was. His two friends had taken him all over, ranging from the several German bars Gilbert frequented to some shady places.
"And now, my lovely friends, we shall finish it off! There's once place I've been dying to go!" Gilbert slurred. Francis laughed with Antonio at Gilbert's insane hand gestures.
The three were in Francis' limo (because none of the daft fools wished to be the designated driver). Francis' eyes widened as he noticed his surroundings.
"Why are we heading towards my restaurant?" he asked.
"There's an old-fashioned English pub around here! Haven't been there in a year or two…" Gilbert slurred again.
The limo stopped a block from the restaurant (and supposedly, the nearby pub) and the three poured out. They stumbled awhile before they reached the pub, which was right across from the restaurant. How had he never noticed it before?
The three stumbled into the cozy pub, which smelled like cigarette and stale peanuts. They seemed to startle a bored-looking bartender.
"Can I help you? Are you lost?" he asked warily. Francis couldn't help but notice he had lovely, messy blond hair and eyes the color of a bright emerald.
"Beer!" was all that Gilbert could hiccup out. Francis couldn't help but laugh at that.
The three sat down on the barstools and drank their beer happily. The bartender moved to the other end and stood at the corner, reading a book and smoking a cigarette.
Before the three left, Francis spared a glance at the blond Brit. He couldn't help but become entranced by the young man. He looked so much like his lost wife, after all.
The same entrancing emerald orbs…
3rd A/N: HAHAHA! Horrible. Utterly horrible. (Yes, I beat myself up over fanfics.)
4th A/N: Just for information, I wrote this over a year ago. But I decided to chop it up and have so far decided on the first chapter. After this, the original one will no longer exist basically and it will take a new twist. Basically, angsty and long-awaited FrUK (with an aprehensive ((and hateful)) Artie and Francis). I already have a great idea on where to go with this (including a VERY unforgiving, VERY dark Alfie). There will be plenty of obstacles. Do I smell my first long fanfiction? My first commited one? Do I sense a series? I dunno. I want to write it out, just because I want to create dark!Alfred. He was basically abandoned by his daddy-o, he should be pretty cruel. ;)
5th A/N: Oh! I totally forgot, I have no idea if Wales, N. Ireland, Ireland, and Scotland have "human" names (either a basic one that fans have created, or that the creator decided on), so I just made some up. I basically used the first letter of their nation for the first letter of their name. Dunno why, but I like the name 'Wynn.'
6th A/N: YES! ...anyway, if anyone didn't notice there are two parts to this chapter. First is one day, centering around Eliza and Artie. The second is the second day, centering around drunk Franny. I did say 'Tomorrow was always another day.' So, hopefully ya'll understand that.
Thanks for reading! (And if you actually read my extremely rant-like A/N's...your the best) and don't forget...
Review!
VVVVVVVVVVV
VVVVVVVVV
VVVVVVV
VVVVV
VVV
VV
V