AN. This story is not meant to be read as a romance. But I've left both USUK and FrUK pointers in there, so depending on what you ship, you can take this story either way.
Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.
Winter, 1994...
The delicate needle wove in and out of the dark grey fabric Arthur was embroidering. The bright green thread complimented the base colour perfectly... clashing to such an extent that it worked.
He was pointedly ignoring the man lounging on his sofa in the far corner of his office: engrossing himself in his needlework so as to distract himself from further conversation.
But England was very bad at maintaining a silence, and the words snapped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"You know that I'm never going to say yes. There's no point wasting any more of your time."
"Ah, but mon cher Arthur! Wouldn't it be fun to go out for once?"
Arthur's green eyes narrowed, surveying the Frenchman suspiciously. "Who else is going drinking with you?"
Francis looked perfectly innocent: blue eyes wide, golden hair waving gracefully around his face. It was the tiny smirk that gave him away, the only sign of more mischievous intentions.
"Allemagne, la Prusse, Espagne, l'Amerique..."
"Absolutely not. I'm not going out drinking with you three and the American idiot."
Francis' eyes perceptibly widened, false tears welling up on his lower lashes. Arthur shook his head in incredulity.
"Y- you're not really that upset, are you? Look, you know how I get when I drink..."
A faux tear slid down Francis' face. Arthur cursed, and quickly looked away.
"Angleterre..."
"Fine," Arthur snapped, caving. His head hit the oak desk in front of him with a loud thud. "What time?"
"Seven thirty, at the usual place," replied Francis, before slipping out the door.
If Arthur had bothered to look up, he would have noticed that the man's tears had disappeared, and had been instantly replaced by a conniving grin.
"Iggy! Iggy!"
Arthur groaned as the tall frame of Alfred Jones came slowly into view. He was standing in a rag-tag group of Nations, comprised of the Germany brothers, Spain and France.
"I told you he would show up," said Francis, shooting America a flirtatious wink. Alfred didn't notice.
"Alright," Arthur sighed, when he reached them. A thronging crowd of teenagers pushed their way around the group, nearly knocking him to his knees. "Are we going in?"
"Hell yeah!" yelled Prussia, pumping a fist into the air. "Ludwig needs his beer fix."
Germany did, in fact, look a bit pale, and was uncharacteristically quiet. He also had a very far-off look in his eyes, as if his mind had wandered off to some mystery location...
"What's with him?" Antonio asked, jerking a thumb at Ludwig.
Gilbert grinned, red eyes gleaming in amusement. "See how he goes red every couple of seconds?"
Arthur looked more closely. Sure enough, his cheeks were now flushing a dull red.
"That means that he's thinking about that little Italian boy."
Antonio's eyes widened. "Feliciano?"
Germany was instantly jerked out of his reverie, and glanced quickly around. "W- what?"
"Nothing, Bruder," Gilbert replied, blithely.
"Shall we go inside then?" Arthur asked, shattering the awkward moment. "My nose is starting to freeze off."
Two drinks later...
Arthur's head was beginning to swim. His eyelids felt oddly heavy, but it was difficult to blink.
"You right there, Arthur?" Antonio asked, concerned. "You don't look too good."
"Don't worry, mon ami!" Francis purred. "Angleterre will be fine after a few more drinks."
Three more drinks later...*
"Alright," said America, with a yawn. "I'm gonna head home. Anyone coming?" He glanced around the group: eyes travelling over the the creepily-flirtatious France and the lightly dozing Spain. They lingered on the now catatonic England.
Unbeknownst to him, a small yet tender smile crept onto Alfred's face.
Gilbert and his younger brother were over in the corner of the bar. Germany had already drank his way through eight beers, and was now sprawled over a table, retelling his life story to a widely grinning Prussia.
Antonio's head jerked up. "Yeah, I'll go. I'm really tired now, so... Francis?"
France just laughed. "Honhonhon... Someone needs to stay here and keep little Angleterre company, oui?"
Antonio looked a little worried – he knew all too well the sort of thing his friend got up to when he was drunk – but left the bar regardless, nodding to Gilbert on his way out.
Two drinks further down the line...
Old England had just re emerged. The wild pirate that had once roamed the seven seas had just been reanimated, much to the delight of Francis.
Unfortunately, this meant that they had been kicked out of the bar (for some reason, the bartender wasn't partial to men standing on the tabletops yelling obscenities at the other patrons).
Arthur stumbled, and Francis caught his elbow, preventing the other man from splitting his head open on the sidewalk.
"Yano wha'?" Arthur drawled, still swaying dangerously. "I wanna... I wanna..."
France raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You want to what, Angleterre? Because, you know I'm always open to-"
"Get a tattoo," England interrupted. "Yeah..."
Francis was disheartened for a moment... but then a wicked idea sprung unbidden into his head.
"Alright, Angleterre. I know a place a few blocks away where you can get a tattoo."
Arthur allowed himself to be dragged around several corners and through a few dodgy alleyways, although he paused every few seconds when he saw something sparkly or shiny. It was a strange – for lack of a better word – kink of his.
The tattoo parlour was easily identified by the flaring neon sign overhead. England paused, transfixed by the flashing orange and green lights, but was pulled inside a moment later by an impatient France.
"Is he drunk?" the girl manning the cash register asked. "We'll need a signature... you know, for legal reasons."
"You don' need my bloody signature," Arthur spat. But he signed regardless.
He was led into a back room, and France followed, for once too excited to flirt with the pretty desk-girl.
The tattoo artist rose a heavily pencilled eyebrow at Francis. "Do you know what he wants?"
He gestured to Arthur, who now lay face down on the working table, giggling every few seconds.
"Oui," Francis nodded. "A tattoo of the French flag, on his right shoulder."
"How big?"
"Oh, you'd be surprised. I know he looks short, but really-"
"I meant the tattoo, sir."
France hesitated, and then grinned. "Three inches tall.**"
The next morning, back at England's penthouse...
Arthur groaned, rubbing at his eyelids before blinking them open. He glanced vacantly around at his room, wondering how the hell he had gotten there. What had he been doing last night?
The answer came to him in a violent wave of nausea. He sprang out of bed, ran to the adjoining bathroom, and puked the contents of his stomach up into the toilet.
After he had stopped shaking, wiped his mouth and flushed away the vomit, Arthur realised that he was no longer wearing a shirt. He quickly looked down, and breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he was still wearing his jeans.
He yawned and stretched, flexing his shoulder muscles, and winced as a stab of pain shot down his spine.
England turned slowly around so that his back was visible in the bathroom mirror... And groaned when he saw the bandages plastered to one shoulder blade.
Then he spotted a bright yellow post-it note stuck to the fabric.
I know that my flag will look very cute on you, Angleterre.
Francis.
AN. Well, there you have it!
*I'm assuming that, generally, Nations can hold their drink a lot better than most humans. They're a country, so...
**3 inches = approximately 8 centimetres.
This fic wasn't supposed to be a romance. So please don't have a shipping war in the reviews column. Danke!
I do not condone getting tattoos while drunk, or getting drunk in the first place. (And I have done neither, myself)