A/N: Okay, so it's February. I know, a little late for Christmas. But you'll all forgive me in light of the fact that this is FrUK, right? .
Warnings: England's potty mouth (apparantely "bloody" is a really bad curse word in England- I just found that out yesterday), exactly one "F-word," used as a verb and as defined by Dictionary .com, and France... lots of France.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. FrUK would be a major part of the storyline if I did. (That and Itacest...) I also do not own the store mentioned in this fic. Or the gift that France gives to England, although I wish I did own one.
Anything else you really can't complain about (like yaoi), because, well, why are you reading Hetalia fanfiction if you have a problem with it?
Many thanks to Shinigami's Brush for betaing this story even though Hetalia isn't her forte, and to Nyuuuk for all things French~!
The Perfect Christmas Gift
Hetalia FrUK
France paused in the middle of the shopping center, unsure of where to go next. He had saved this particular Christmas gift for last, partly because it was a special gift for a special nation, and partly because he had absolutely no clue what to get for his… friend. Yes, they were friends this year. That, of course, could change, but France was quite glad it hadn't just yet.
Deep in thought, he ignored the gaggle of girls passing him by, giggling like idiots and glancing back at him, obviously interested in his looks. Any other time he might have stopped them and engaged them in conversation- and perhaps a few other things- but this was important! His relationship with a very dear country to him was at stake!
He relented a little bit to himself with a pout. Okay, maybe it wasn't that dramatic. But the wish to please his on-and-off-bedmate-slash-lover was foremost in France's mind. He remembered spending more than a few Christmas nights on the floor or even outside, neither experience very pleasant as he would much rather be on top of his green-eyed blonde, fucking the living daylights out of the man as-
Focus, France. He stopped his train of thought before they descended too far into the gutter. Focus on Christmas shopping. It would not be acceptable to think that way in the middle of a mall. He mentally ran though all the things the nation needed (Note: needed, not wanted or even liked). Good food was the first thing on the list, as always. Once again, he knew he had to make sure an excellent meal was served; who knew what would be served up in that kitchen for the rest of the year?
Continuing through his list, he only realized that it was very short after he'd gone through it three times. France's food (although the eyebrow-bearing nation wouldn't admit to it), roses, tea, and peace and quiet. What could you get for a eleven-hundred (or so)-year-old-country? He had received his share of joke gifts from le pays de l'amour, more often than not kicking the rose-bearer out of his house (or, more importantly, his bed) for the impertinence. (Like the time he had bought an eyebrow plucker. That had gone over very well.) There had been serious gifts, make-up gifts, and useful gifts. One year, France had even gifted himself, slightly as a joke, and had been accepted on the stipulation that he would not be "dominating" the evening. Feeling more-than-a-little horny, quite cold as he was wearing very little, and frustrated because of their abstinence for the entire month of December, he had immediately agreed. He grinned perversely at the memory. Oh yes, that night was most definitely not disappointing.
However, dwelling on past "conquests" would not help him find a gift for 2010.
Sighing, and about to give up for the day and fight his way out of the crowded public space, France turned around in the direction of the exit. As he did so, a particular sight stood out to him, seeming to call his name.
Sporting a decidedly evil grin and a sudden interest in the store in front of him, France crossed the other lane of foot traffic and entered into the store, the automated bell ringing out as he did.
Across the Channel, many miles away, England spilled the tea he was pouring, feeling a definite chill. He shivered and stood up, intent on raising the thermostat. Perhaps the heat was accidently turned off…?
It was finally the early evening of Christmas day. A contented sigh arose from a well-worn armchair in which sat the sole occupant of the house, drinking tea. England was grateful to whatever fates had allowed this Christmas to pass by without interruption. Many years he would be bothered incessantly by America to come to his Christmas party, or burst in upon by a very shameless (and very naked) France begging to celebrate Christmas "in the only right way, mon amour." Even when Canada stopped in it was a bother, even though he was quiet, not at all like his older brother. Sometimes it was Peter, there simply to call him a jerk, and sometimes another country. For example, one year Feliciano had decided the entire world needed to celebrate with a gigantic pot of pasta to be able to get along, and the first country he visited just happened to be England.
Thank goodness Germany had put an end to that idea very quickly; it was unfeasible, mostly for the reason that a good number of the nations did not eat pasta and still hated each other. Actually, it was all about the hatred. Switzerland was still angry at France for violating Liechtenstein decades earlier, and there is no party France couldn't invade, so they (mostly Switzerland) refused to show up. There also was the convenient fact that Italy had decided to bring his idea up only seven years after World War II. All in all, the idea had not gone over well.
At any rate, England was satisfied, a cup of hot tea at his side and a good book in hand. Soon, he'd need to prepare dinner for himself, but for now-
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A vein popped on his forehead and he almost growled at the interruption, half tempted to leave his visitor out in the cold. He thought for a moment of all the possibilities of who could be knocking on his front door. Too quiet to be Alfred. Besides that, the energetic man would have busted down the door already in his impatience. Canada would have knocked and come in already, unnoticed. Who else visited him? His mind skidded to a halt and the tome in his hand shuddered as his knuckles turned white. Wait, could it be-
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. "Mon cher, open up. I know you are 'ere. You never go anywhere for Christmas."
-him. Great.
Against his better judgment (and also because he knew Francis wouldn't go away until he at least opened the door) England put down the book and steaming tea, regretfully glancing at the page number, knowing he probably would not get to finish it that night.
He reached the door just as France began to knock again, opening it on the second bang. France looked slightly down into the eyes of his frenemy, ocean blue eyes twinkling. Snow had begun to fall, making his hair- England gulped at this thought, and then rapidly shoved it into the back of his head- look gorgeous, speckled with the tiny white flakes.
England glared, the slight moment of weakness completely covered up. "What exactly do you think you're doing here, you bloody idiot?"
France's eyes twinkled even more with mirth. "I am 'ere to make zure you eet a 'ealthy dinner, cher. 'Oo knows what you would eet on your own."
Fuming at the taunts, England made to slam the door. "Go away, frog! Eat dinner by yourself. I can certainly cook for myself!" Waving a hand in front of his uninvited guest's face, he started to pull the door shut, but was blocked by France's advance. The older nation had stepped forward into the doorway, closer to England than "sourcils" would have liked, but not so close that he felt he was about to be violated.
"Mon cher, do you always 'ave to be zo ztubborn? Just zink, you don't 'ave to cook tonight. Accept it and be 'appy." England, stunned slightly by the closeness, barely registered the hand brushing away his bangs before France pushed past him and calmly headed in the direction of the kitchen.
A split second later, he reacted. "Hey! You git! What are you doing? Why are you even her-"
Francis pressed a wrapped gift into his hands, kissing his forehead lightly. "Just accept eet, mon cher. A gift eez a gift, non? Especially ze gift of ze presence of moi." He closed the front door gently, noting England's cheeks turning the tiniest bit pink. As he headed off into the kitchen, two bags full of food he planned to cook with in his hands, he tossed a last comment over his shoulder. "Do not open eet yet, Angleterre. Zere will be time later. Come and 'elp moi in ze kitchen."
France almost missed the muttered, "But you hate my cooking." It brought a smile to his lips.
France's dinner turned out wonderful. (No thanks to England. He was forced to stay seated at the table, on pain of losing his Christmas present.) Perfectly cooked, of course, and just the right temperature. Afterward, he sat sipping wine on England's couch, looking perfectly at home. England wouldn't tell him this, of course, but while he was cooking he pulled his long hair back and-
"-and zo I told Amerique zat 'ee zhould come over tomorrow evening to zee you, instead of today. I would not want 'im to burst een on our wonderful evening-"
No wonder. It was that stupid git-face France, of all nations, who had told Alfred not to show up. Just his luck.
"-but Mathieu eez doing well, I ztopped by yesterday to zee 'im. You know, after you ztole 'im from moi I did not get ze chance to zpend very nice Christmas wiz mon petit lapin. But anyway- Angleterre, are you okay? You zeem distracted."
England looked up from his embroidery, frown on his face. "Of course I'm distracted, you git! I'm paying attention to my project instead of your useless chatter!"
France put a hand over his heart dramatically. "Ah, pardonne-moi! I zhould 'ave known. Well." He clapped his hands for emphasis. "Where eez zat present I picked zpecially for vous? Come on, open eet. I want you to wear eet."
England paused, hands holding the mentioned gift. Something had struck him funny with that last sentence. "Wait… You want me to wear it? France… Did you get me some sort of clothing?"
Blue eyes regarded him over the rim of his red wine glass, leisurely taking in all aspects of his form. England shuddered. Oh, God… Don't let him have gotten anything embarrassing…
"Do no worry, mon amour. Zere eez nozing to fear. Just open eet."
Green eyes pierced blue, attempting to find a lie hidden in the ocean depths. Finding none, they bent to the task at hand, literally. Once the pressure was removed, France let them glint with delight and lust. (Please don't be surprised. We are talking about France, here. How long did you expect him to go without ogling England's perfectly formed ass?)
(Not that I'm looking, either. But I'm definitely not blind.)
Anyway, by this time England had ripped off the wrapping paper as if it was France's clothi- his throat. Yes, his throat, because you see, he had gotten a glimpse of the box underneath, and it was…
"You're kidding."
"What do you mean, mon cher? Why would I be kidding?"
"It's just… You can't be serious with this gift."
France leisurely took a sip of his red wine, deliberately stretching out the moment to annoy the Englishman. He raised delicate eyebrows over the rim of the glass, eyes barely concealing his internal mirth. "Pourquoi," he purred innocently, "would I not be zerious? I went zrough ze trouble of getting you a gift, Angleterre, and zis eez ze way you treat moi?"
England had (in France's opinion) the decency to look offended, for a split second, before his face took on a decidedly furious cast. "What the bloody hell? You git! It's not that I don't appreciate the trouble, you wino, but the fact that you got me a gift from… from…" He found himself utterly unable to continue, gesturing mutely at the box in his lap.
Stretching his powers of acting to the limit, France kept up a neutral face. "Oui, Angleterre? S'il vous plaît, explain what 'as you zo upzet."
An invisible barrier seemed to have surpassed its capacity, as the man exploded. "YOU GOT ME A FRICKIN' PRESENT FROM VICTORIA'S SECRET, YOU GIT-FACED BASTARD!"
France just looked at the Englishman demurely, and said, "Oui. Et…?"
England felt at that moment like he could punch the man straight back across the Chanel. Of course, with his exceptional skill at controlling his anger only a tic showed itself on his forehead. He decided to vent by opening the hated pink box.
France took this as an opportunity to let loose his obscenely large grin which, had England seen it, would certainly have gotten him sent back to his own land, along with a restraining order. He watched with anticipation and waited for the inevitable rush of fury from the Brit.
He didn't have to wait very long.
The voice was deadly quiet when he heard it. It was the kind of voice England used when he was casting [potentially] dangerous spells, the one when he was furious at America but didn't really want to show it.
France greatly feared for his welfare at that moment. Well, not really his welfare in terms of overall health, just his sex life for the next couple of months. And he thought the present would be a nice gift. Oh, well. It was an honest mista-
"France."
Okay, maybe not an honest one, per se, but a mistake nonetheless. "Oui, Angleterre?"
"Please answer me honestly, alright?"
"Bien sûr, mon coeur. What eez eet?"
"Did you, or did you not get me these-"
"Oui, I did," he answered quickly.
It earned him a glare. "Let me finish my question before you answer, git. Is that clear?"
France felt a slight chill go down his spine for a moment. "Like crystal."
"Now. Did you, or did you not buy me a pair of red women's lingeriewith the words, 'I love French Kissing' on them?"
"I-I may 'ave." He managed to stutter out, shrinking back into the couch.
The glare was turned on him full force and France shivered in the gaze. "Don't you ever get me something like this again, do you hear me?"
"I understand, Angleterre." As he felt the tension leave the room, his trademark perverted grin made a return on his face. "Did I find ze correct zize? Becauze I would love to zee you wear zem."
He found out that night that England had a swing with his right arm to rival Hungary's.
It turned out that France really did have reason to worry about his welfare. Besides a very, very large lump on the back of his head, he developed a case of "blue balls" that night, sleeping on the couch. It was comfortable, but not nearly as comfortable as England's bed. Of course, not many things are, or so I'm told.
Both problems, however, were resolved the next morning, when after wooing the irate country with some pains au chocolat freshly out of the oven England decided to forgive him. Of course, this caused an awkward situation when Canada and America came over to visit England and found the two in a… compromising position on top of England's coffee table.
New Years wound up being a much better holiday for France: they were snowed in.
Certainly, though, you may wonder what became of the lingerie? England won't tell, but I've heard in a tiny, tiny whisper from France- who looked very smug as he said this- that they weren't thrown out.
We can only wonder what that means.
Time for my review policy: If you liked it, then by all means review! If you didn't like it, then please, by all means review to tell me why! And if you happen to be lazy person then sorry, I have nothing to say to you.