Some French Terms Used: chéris amis – beloved friends / très mignon – very cute / grand frère – big brother / mon cher jeune maitre - my dear young master (I know there're more French terms in there but I'm too lazy to weed through the chapters right now.) Also, all dialogue enclosed in « dialogue » means it is translated from spoken French.

Note: This will be about 4-6 chapters (making it the longest Hetalia/FrUK I've ever attempted so far, even if the chapters will be short). As always, I feel my skills do not do my ideas justice (writing Hetalia is a BIG challenge for me!), so if I don't get all of the chapters up by Bastille Day (which is my target), I do apologize in advance.

Warnings: There will be a sexual assault scene later on. I can't tell you much else, or it will ruin the plot. Just brace yourselves for the M-rating. X3

Disclaimer: Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Cheers!

Story#163:

"Dance With Me"

I
(In England)

~ The Invitation ~

-x-

Every year before Bastille Day, Arthur Kirkland gets the invitation.

That one day of the year where his capital is completely overridden by Frenchness: French music, French liquor, and French festivals! That day of the year when blokes on this side of the Channel are given the perfect excuse to indulge the Francophile in them, by soaking up the Frenchness and gorging themselves on those sinfully delightful macarons… That one day when England's heart is *inevitably and inexorably overtaken by France.

And as if that wasn't enough… he always has to deal with the invitation.

This invitation wasn't just about watching the revelry on the other side of Dover… This invitation was "the" invitation. The one to a more exclusive and clandestine affair that coincided with that same day every year— a one grandiose ball held in some important chateau in France, to honour their human Nation's anniversary –or what we more commonly call a "birthday". Francis Bonnefoy's exclusive birthday party.

But of course, France would have none of it calling his birthday celebration a "party". This was dubbed "the grandiose ball" for a reason. After all, not everyone gets to have their birthdays in real castles under crystal chandeliers with flowing champagne fountains, teeming buffets of the most mouth-watering delicacies, with only the beau monde –the crème de la crème– of aristocracy on your guest list. This was the kind of affair that peasants and commoners only dream of; read in fairy-tale storybooks (or in this case, fanfiction written by flighty-minded fan girls). And who wouldn't be thrilled out of their breeches to be invited to such a dreamy affair?

Well, apparently our quaint little English gentleman.

You see, though he does have an inner Francophile raging deep –very deep– somewhere inside him, Bastille Day or not— he does his best to repress his urges to "indulge" in it. All the time.

Which brings us back to "the invitation".

The one he gets every year, on the dot, first post in the morning. The celebrant insists on being melodramatic like that, even if it was the age of technology, and the more instantly gratifying option to call or text the Englishman was readily available, the Frenchman wouldn't dream of it.

"It will ruin ze mood!" he would say (-or rather, bemoan).

England was not required by his superiors to attend. Nor was he looking forward to bearing witness to a certain foppish, pompous, snail-eating frog named Francis Bonnefoy flaunt himself to his zealous fawners all night. No, Arthur Kirkland had far more important things to do after all, so he always simply chose not to go, one of the few things he was at liberty to not do.

Arthur Kirkland doesn't even bother with opening the envelope anymore to read what's inside. It was always the same cryptic message addressed to 'Monsieur Arthur Kirkland', followed by a date, time and venue, and Francis' personally affixed signature at the lower corner in his usual swooping flamboyant handwriting with the 'kiss-kiss-kiss' flourish at the end. The ball was strictly "by invitation only", and his monogram served as an authentication of each individual invitation. (He used to put kiss marks in shocking red lipstick instead of the 'xxx's, but then he complained that kissing all those invitations made his lips so dry that he couldn't even move them anymore to actually kiss anyone come the actual ball –to which England groaned loudly at that point– so he stopped molesting the invitations since.)

England puts the envelope at the edge of his desk closest to his rubbish bin and prepares to type up his standard perfunctory reply via email –which he won't really 'type' but simply 'copy and paste' from his exact same message last year (and the year before that, and the year before that and so on…)– which contained a very formal and succinct apology in advance for his failure to make an appearance, pressing 'send' without even bothering to add his name.

Even if he had the more instantly gratifying (and somewhat stressful) option to call or text France, he wouldn't. He knew that receiving a reply to such an important personal matter via email would have the maximum effect of annoying the Frenchman. France always thought electronic messaging was the most unromantic thing ever invented. And there are your two good reasons England favoured this particular method of corresponding with the said Frenchman when he wanted to be most unromantic. He then turns his attention back to the lavishly decorated invitation envelope and ceremoniously gives it a nudge, which slips off the desk and swoops down woefully into the empty bin –a tiny ritual he's grown accustomed to relishing each year.

But something miraculous and downright bizarre happens this year. He gives the envelope a second glance (something he hasn't done in almost a decade) and decides to scoop it back out and open it.

Whether he did out of curiosity or something else too grotesque to admit –like having a psychic connection with your sworn frienemy– England didn't know and didn't want to think about it. For now, let's just say that he had a 'gut feeling' that there was something different about the invitation this year. And he was right.

Below the customary message, he was mildly piqued to find a handwritten postscript below: It went something like this in Arthur's mind as he read it:

'Bonjour mon cher jeune maitre! I chose a petit charmant château zis year in my Western part just for you. It 'as a gorgeous English garden and a moat with an "Enchanted Mirror"! Also, zhere will be special macarons l'anglais, zat I know you love widz your tea. Don't let zem go to waste, please come! I'll be wait'zing as always (so for goodness sake's don't keep me wait'zing)! Avec l'amour! (~horrid red-coloured blotch that looked horrifyingly like a kiss mark is here~) Ton grand frère, Francis Bonnefoy xxx'

England was unable to process for some minutes, absentmindedly staring at the note, he slips the card back into the envelope and into his desk drawer; vaguely wondering how long Francis had been adding personal notes to his invitation, or if this was, in fact, the first time he has done it. All the same, his heart was beating faster all of a sudden, and he clutched at his chest in a vain effort to calm the familiar mingled ache and panic that came with it.

He suddenly notices the pop-up message that had appeared on his laptop screen:

'E-mail Sent! Too late to change your mind now!'.

Therefore, as you probably so cleverly conjectured, our little Englishman was left in a bit of a quandary as to what to do. He had been adamant about not going, yes. But Francis' offer was very tempting. His raging inner Francophile had a soft spot for romantic châteaus with moats and English gardens, macarons *l'anglais and numerous other things French (especially ones with shimmering blue eyes, gorgeous flaxen hair, a heart-breaking French smile, and a sexy French body with a sexy French accent to match).

But of course, all that wasn't the reason he was having second thoughts! Oh no. Contrary to popular belief, the English Nation did have a conscience –and a very scrupulous one at that– and it did seem dreadfully rude to respond so indifferently after the pompous Frenchman had gone out of his way to bait him.

Still, he couldn't just take back what he said, could he? Having a conscience was one thing, but contending with his British pride was another. Besides, what would he say? 'Hullo old chap, the message I sent previously was a mishap, please disregard it. Regarding your party, I shall do my best to make an appearance. Cheerio!'

No, that would be awkward.

Arthur shunned parties or gatherings of any sort. Nothing more than pretentious high-society charades where people parade themselves like proud peacocks gossiping about fashion and politics and other things he cared not for. America's loud and juvenile house parties were no different. A senseless congregation of youngsters getting wasted, making out, breaking things, and let's not forget: burping and farting. It didn't matter how 'grandiose' France's parties were. Every year Arthur would stick out like a sore English thumb in the midst of all his swaggering French guests. Every year Arthur would find himself sitting alone in a corner and wishing he had never come. More than once he was nearly molested by some of Francis' 'amis', and he really wasn't looking forward to getting that kind of attention again. Ever. Francis knew this, and yet every year, Arthur finds the same innocent invitation at his doorstep. Perhaps this was all a ruse to publicly humiliate him; some elaborately-staged French conspiracy to antagonize him –the human Nation of England.

True, this year France had gone out of his way to make certain accommodations for him… Would the frog really go to lengths for the sake of making him miserable in the end? Or could this year really be different from all the others? Knowing him, he would never do England any favours without wanting anything in return. And judging by the strings he had to pull to get these extra perks all for his sake, it was safe to assume that the price would not come cheap.

And so our Englishman sat there confounded as to what course of action best to take— when an idea struck him. An idea that was both brilliant and downright bonkers.

Brilliant because it would provide him the perfect opportunity to enjoy the best of both worlds while having something to laugh about in France's face later on. Annoying the French Nation was, after all, his favourite past time, alongside drinking tea and knitting.

The bonkers part was, well… let's just say, it was too foolhardy and reckless.

He knew he was going to regret what he was about to do…

But the prospect of annoying the Frenchman always made it worth the risk.

To risk it, or to risk it not...

That is the predicament.

End of Part I.
(Continued over in France...)

Notes:

*overtaken by France - London celebrates Bastille Day! ZOMG. And I don't mean just acknowledging it or featuring it on BBC, they actually celebrate it, very festively too! SO MUCH CANON FRUK GOODNESS. It's also commemorated in Crostin, the Twin Town of Azay le Rideau in England.

*macarons l'anglais – They do exist. A box of pink and red macarons l'anglais was a gift to Queen Elizabeth's jubilee.