It must be some sort of rule for Parisian graveyards to be much more beautiful than any other graveyards in the world. Arthur sits on a bench that has seen better days and blinks at the stars high above (or that might be the city, he's having trouble telling up from down at the moment) and thinks how fucking poetic, that France completely lacks superiority in any other aspect other than tourism – so more people visit the Eiffel Tower than Big Ben annually, so what, and no that is not a euphemism for anything thankyouverymuch – and now apparently "my skeletons can sleep prettier than your skeletons ohonhohonhonhon" cough cough hack die you bloody fucking French frog.
(Oh god he is so drunk right now it is not even funny.)
In all seriousness, however, there is something about this monument to the dead that is absolutely breath taking, and perhaps it is only in this intoxicated free-floating state that Arthur can truly appreciate it. Which doesn't make sense, considering he is not currently tripping on recreational drugs (never again), nor is he being forced by a boss to be polite and flattering to encourage treaties or legislations or whatnot (which in his book is closer to prostitution than he would wish).
But – goddammit – there is a full moon shining bright in the pitch-black night and the wind blowing through the leaves by the gate and not a single person in sight and it is tranquil and peaceful and maybe someone did slip LSD into his drink because this is certainly too dreamlike and ethereal to be real.
"Mon ami, did you get lost again?"
…forget dreamlike, this is slowly becoming a nightmare.
Arthur tilts his head back and takes in the sight of the tall Frenchman approaching him upside down from the bench. And as if this could be any more fucking dramatic his hair is even blowing in the breeze like something out of a shitty romantic comedy and oh bleeding hell he actually even looks concerned.
"Piss off," Arthur replies, a phrase that rolls off his tongue like second-nature, almost an instinct from centuries of this yours-mine-ours-go-to-hell relationship with this infuriating man. Francis is not even aggravated in the slightest by it.
"I see you are enjoying yourself."
"As much as I can, in this rubbish dump you call a city."
Francis laughs, a sound that the wind carries across the distance between them, one that sends Arthur's blood rushing through his veins, his face a reddish hue in a way that has nothing to do with intoxication.
(Unless one could possibly call Francis "intoxicating". His head hurts too much at the moment to figure this one out.)
"Oh no you don't, don't you even think about sitting down over here, I'm enjoying the peace and quiet and I can't do that if you're over here breathing right next to me."
Francis quirks an eyebrow as he settles into the seat next to the Brit. "It is my bench."
"And it is my air you're breathing, so go away."
Another laugh, one that makes Arthur grip the underside of the bench very hard and try to stay upright as the world around him spins and wobbles and his head is very dizzy right now. The earth is tilting and he can feel gravity begin to weigh in as the ground starts to rise to meet him, closing his eyes and waiting for impact, when a firm hand on his shoulder stops him from falling off the bench completely.
He opens his eyes, and goddammit that frog needs to stop breathing his air so close because now he can't breathe, not with those damn blue eyes searching him as though Francis is actually concerned, not with his hand on his arm keeping him upright and not with the heat he can feel through both of their clothes.
But then again, they are in a Parisian graveyard and it is beautiful and this merry-go-round of yours-mine-ours-ours-ours has gone on since never and will go on til forever and so he leans forward and rests his pounding head against Francis's shoulder and tries to catch his breath.
Damn it all to hell.
"…you are very drunk," the other man points out, almost fondly. Arthur tries very hard not to choke on the laugh that tears out of his throat.
"Really, I had no idea."
This is so old I don't even know what it is. Written for a fluff war once upon a time.
I don't own Hetalia.
Mischief Managed!