Summary: Its Valentine's Day again and Arthur Kirkland is in a saddened mood. Preparing for a night getting hammered at the bar, he is instead surprised when he gets a special Valentine from someone unexpected. This is a little FrUK for everyone for Valentines Day. Taking a leeeeetle different approach on this pairing at first, but don't worry, it's rated M for a reason ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters, they belong to Hidekaz Himaruya
Valentines Day was upon the world. This meant what would most likely end in the Brit getting drunk as a sailor at the local bar alone, perhaps with the lonely bartender to pour his miserable woe into. Arthur particularly hated this time of year. More than Christmas, which was another holiday that only meant sadness for him.
If anything, the only joy he ever got from these sort of occasions was a bittersweet visit from the frog. Bittersweet because although Arthur hated that mongrel, he always eventually gave into the Frenchie's games, either that or was (not quite as unwillingly as he put out to be) forced into them. However this left an unpleasant taste in his mouth the time after that, knowing he'd been used as just another sex tool once again.
But that was generally the way things went on holidays for Arthur Kirkland. Always getting ridiculously hammered, practically raped, or a mixture of the two. The worst part was that after being taken advantage of, he knew that that was all it was. Sex didn't mean anything to Francis Bonnefoy. Hell, he didn't mean anything to Francis, or anyone for that matter. Not once in all these years that had come and gone had Arthur received a single Valentine from anyone.
That might've been why it was such a surprise when the blonde opened the door to his house to find the mailman had come to visit with something much different than just junk mail.
"Here you go Mr. Kirkland. Have a wonderful Valentine's Day." The young, and rather dashing mailman beamed at Arthur, probably a little overly happy about the lovey dovey bullshit that was in the air. Snatching the delivery out of the lad's hands, Arthur scowled at the brown haired fellow, and shooed him on his way. Looking a bit bewildered, he lowered his head and scuttled away from the house.
Letting out a sigh, Arthur turned on his heel and examined the letter as he walked through the doorway of his house and into the kitchen. As soon as he saw the overly fancy and curly script on the delicate looking pink envelope, so fancy in fact, it could've been considered calligraphy, England knew it was from Francis.
Not to say he didn't think it was pretty, Francis's handwriting was actually quite beautiful. Plopping down in a chair by the window table of his kitchen, the blonde further investigated this letter before even going as far as to open it. Getting a chance to actually read the somewhat hard to decipher name on the front of the thing, Arthur saw to his surprise and somewhat endearment his name. And upon better attention to detail, the blonde found it written a whole lot prettier than in some of Francis's other countless love notes he'd given to many(MANY many) other people over the years. How he'd seen those, well on other country's tables, of course.
Now, opening the envelope with gentle care, something never bothered with other packages before, he pulled out a creamy pink note, the outside embellished with lacy hearts and detailed roses. You could always count on that damn frog to go over the top. Unfolding it, Arthur began to read the Valentine from Francis.
Dear Arthur Kirkland, the Handsome United Kingdom of the wonderfully beautiful Great Britain and (not so handsome or nearly as pretty) Northern Ireland,
God how Arthur despised his long name and damn brother. And the flattering was rather unnecessary too. It seemed a bit obvious at first of how hard Francis was trying to get in the Brit's pants.
I know you probably hate me. No, scratch that, you do hate me. But even after all my devious rampages, and generally successful attempts at invading your personal space, and my blatant insults at your cooking, and your general lack of style, (which I'll have you know is a lie, you always look damn sexy in whatever your wearing) you should know that I do care about you. Even if you choose not to believe it.
And I know you think that I'm just a flaming horny pervert trying to have sex with you (again) through this flattery and gorgeous scrawl, (it took over an hour to write this until it was okay in my eyes for you to see)
Huh. So England was right about two things.
But I mean every last word I say in this letter, and am being very serious when I say this.
I love you.
I have always loved you, even from when we were still children. I have watched you and know all your quirks, and how your eyes sparkle when you offend America, hell, I even know exactly how you like your tea!
All the teasing and the bullying, that was all to hide this one simple fact.
I love you. And I have just been too scared to say it. I've been afraid you'll reject me, and go flouncing off into Alfred's arms, whom I know has his eye on you as well, believe it or not. That's part of the reason I despise him so much. But now you can't even recognize that I do care for you, that your not just a sex tool. That's mainly my fault. Now I may not be in love with you, I know I'd be a horrible partner due to my incredibly active sex life for that, but you're the only one I've ever deeply cared about.
So, Arthur Kirkland, I have one question. Will you be my Valentine?
If you'll accept me as more than just something to do on Valentines Day, then come to my house at eight o'clock tonight.
Je t'aime,
Francis Bonnefoy
Arthur let a single tear roll down his face and onto the paper, water seeping onto the ink of the "ai" in Je t'amie.
That night, at eight o'clock precisely, Arthur pushed the doorbell of Francis Bonnefoy's house.
