A/N: So this will be a multi chapter fic of one shots, each dealing with different pairings of our favourite Hetalia characters. The shots will mostly be unrelated, although I will occasionally do a multi-shot arc. I will take requests to see certain pairings in the comments, but please do not give me certain prompts for a one shot. For some reason that always gives me writer's block. Kind of like Murphy's Law for writers.
Fountain
Arthur watched the sunlight filter through the spray sent up by the fountain's jets. The rainbows flickered in and out of existence; flashes of colour against the hot Parisian sunshine and the dark marble backing. Personally, this was the only spot in Paris worth visiting; not that that said much, given his opinion of Paris. Still, his boss demanded his presence in this infernal country, if only for a few days, just until this treaty settled. He supposed he could appreciate certain things about the city: the Romanesque arches of the Napoleon era and the lack of rain, but the endless tourists, overrated architecture, and the worst people he has ever met. Shaking off thoughts of arrogant Frenchmen, he turns his attention back to the fountain when he hears a voice from behind him. Further evidence that Francis is the devil: think of him and he will appear.
"It is rare to see you this side of the channel, my friend. Boss's orders?"
"As if I would set foot here otherwise," Arthur sneers, but his heart isn't really in it because he has been distracted by a momentary rainbow.
To his surprise, France does not mock him.
"You like to come and look for rainbows too?" he asks, and Arthur nods, only once. Perhaps if he doesn't acknowledge the man's presence he'll go away. This tactic is not successful.
"Funny how they seem to come and go so quickly. Just a momentary flash of beauty-and then gone so quickly, with nothing but the mist of water and summer sunshine to tell you that they were there in the first place."
The implication hangs between them. Neither will say it, but the unspoken words carry a certain amount of weight. Arthur doesn't bite, though.
Francis has never been a man to take a hint quickly, especially when the topic is his unwanted presence, and instead leans against the fountain's dragon statues, tossing a coin in as he does so.
"For luck," he says casually, and sends a wink towards Arthur that for reasons unbeknownst to the man, amuses him.
"Lecherous-old man!" he says, but he's joking, and Francis can tell.
"Ah, screw you, Arthur," Francis says in return, and Arthur can tell he doesn't really mean it either.
That weird sensation hangs in the air again, the sensation where they're not quite sure what they are to one another. They know something is there; after all, Arthur can't count the number of hours he's spent with Francis over the years even if he used his fingers and his toes ten times over. He remembers a pre-teen boy taunting him and cutting his hair. He remembered having to fight a war with Prussia as an ally just to try and piss this man off. He remembers fistfights on cliffsides and constant bickering at world meetings, for try as they might it seems that they can never agree on public nudity laws. He remembers trying to strangle this man trying to wrest America and Canada away from his terrible parenting skills. He remembers centuries of war, bloody fields and bloated corpses in heaps. How he could even endure standing in the same plaza as Francis, hell, the same country, was a mystery.
But he remembered Francis holding him when he was younger and had just been beaten by Scotland at sword fighting again. He remembered Francis leaving him a pot of bouillabaisse when he was sick and couldn't cook for himself. He remembered Francis giving Matthew Kuma-what's-it's-name before saying a final goodbye; and he remembered Francis clasping his hand and telling Arthur he was a better parent than he could ever be. And he remembered the days of the World Wars, the dark days, where all they could do was hold each other as they lay on the sofa at his house or the divan at Francis's and cry, shoulders shaking as they clutched one another, feeling the pain of all their dead citizens and the broken buildings and the destroyed earth of their lands, holding on to one another so tight sometimes they could hardly breathe, praying for Alfred to come soon. Yes, he remembers those days too.
Francis must have seen those ghosts in his eyes, but for once, that infuriating, senseless, tactless man doesn't open his mouth and say something so fucking stupid it makes Arthur turn that unhealthy shade of puce and punch him in the face-he just smiles.
Arthur knows he should do something-talk about the treaty, talk about Paris, insult him, something, you've been staring at his face for the past three minutes you bloody fool-but he doesn't do any of that. He just looks at Francis and Francis looks at him for a while. And then they both sit down on the lip of the stone fountain and watch the people go by. They watch people on motorcycles nearly getting killed, and they watch people walking with baskets under their arms, going to and from the markets shouting at one another, they watch people watering potted flowers on balconies high above the city. And they watch each other. Arthur watches Francis like he's never seen him before, so happy and content. Watching his people, watching the rainbows, watching Arthur in return. They sit there for a very long time; it feels like several hours but Arthur can't be sure. It is Francis who stands up first, declaring that it is high time for lunch. He extends his hand to Arthur, as if to ask, "Are you coming with me?" Arthur takes the hand. Before he leaves, though, he tosses a coin into the rainbow-filled fountian.
"For luck," he says.
