It had been a while since Francis had last been to Arthur's house, which is understandable when you think that Arthur, being the embodiment of the entire United Kingdom, had to deal with the political, social and economic problems all at the same time.
Yes, it had been a very busy year for the Briton and, not being the most social country even when he wasn't having problems, it was no surprise that no-one that any conversation of more than five seconds with the man was impossible before he had to race off to do something.
Even at the after-parties for the Olympics and Paralympics, Arthur had always been hurrying around making sure all the cues were on time and that everything went off without a hitch.
Much of the same had been predicted for the winter months and Francis had been content with holding back his masterfully executed (in other words perverted) advances until his sweet Angleterre would have enough time and energy to respond to him and instead sit in his house enjoying a good few bottles of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild 1869.
That had been, however, until he had gotten the letter. It was so rare that Francis got a proper snail-mail letter that wasn't a bill that he had instantly become interested, even more so when he had seen what was written on the inside of the rather plain card inside. The words were thinly scrawled onto the parchment cream of the card, written in an oddly cursive style in an attempt to look old-fashioned.
Dear Frog,
I am sending you this letter as an invitation to a party at my house.
Date: November 18th 2012 at 10.00pm (English time)
Food and drink will be provided and it will be sweet.
From,
Arthur Kirkland.
Francis had lightly chuckled at the insult the Briton had been calling him for almost all the time they had been alive, which is a pretty long time. It had become so familiar between the two that to Francis the word which would normally denote something slimy and undesirable had become as affectionate as calling someone their sweetheart or darling.
He had thought some of the language was strange for the self-proclaimed gentleman but had ignored it, noting it down as lack of sleep turning his mind to mush.
And so lead to now, with Francis walking down the ever-busy and polluted streets of London, wearing one of his stylish winter coats and silently cursing British weather, to the place where il anglais cher ate and slept. He didn't expect that he had been the only one invited, but that didn't stop his fantasies of the Englishman, alone and horny in his house, sitting in a wanton position in a maid's outfit, demanding Francis put his huge, throbbing di-
Francis stopped himself, noticing that his mind had started to go from erotic fantasy to erotic memory.
Yes, I said that right; Arthur and Francis had once been dating. Of course, it had been anything but the lovey-dovey kind of lack-lustre dating that most couples seemed to enjoy. No, it had been one of claws and fangs, harsh words thrown around a-plenty and rough and unforgiving sex. That had been ages ago though and Francis wasn't bothered at all about it.
After all, he had been the one to dump Arthur when the Briton had found out that he had been having an affair with about three of so other men and women at the same time. Francis still faintly remembered the look of shock, anger and misery that had crossed the Englishman's eyes and the few tears that had fallen down his face before he had kicked the Frenchman out in an attempt to gain the last laugh, though all Francis could remember was quiet sobbing behind the door.
He decided to get his mind off the subject by wondering what he would say to the Englishman for a pick-up line.
Maybe tu dois être fatigué parce que tu as trotté dans ma tête toute la journée? Non, too plain… oh! What about Il fait chaud ici, ou c`est juste toi? Non, too overused… ah! I know a perfect one; si je te disais que tu as un beau corps, tu m'en tiendrais rigueur?
Francis smiled at his supremacy in the language of love and now noticed he was close to Arthur's house. He turned a few corners before he found a fairly modest house squished in between two modern flats. He was early, though just slightly at 9:55pm.
The windows were new and double-glazed but the rest of the front was fairly old, not much better than it had been in Victorian times. He walked down the stone path to the front of the house, where there was small step up and a welcome mat to the front door, made of expertly crafted oak, and a few plant pots hugging the front of the house.
He was about to knock on the door when suddenly he heard an extremely loud and indignant shout from very familiar lips.
"You wanker!"
Oh, it's Arthur, I wonder who he is shouting at.
Francis thought, pushing his ear silently against the door and listening in, the fact that he was in plain view of anyone who walked by forgotten.
Another familiar happy voice of a certain American chimed in response to the Briton, only slightly wavering at the other's tone.
"Come on Arthur! You need to relax dude and this is the best way to do it!"
"Alfred" came the biting response, "for one thing; I do not need to relax, I am just fine. Secondly; having a party with all of those raving lunatics is not going to make me feel better!"
"But Arthur~" a voice whined back, so much that Francis could almost hear the squiggle at the end, "shouldn't you celebrate you getting out of your double-dip depression?"
"It's 'double dip recession' you idiot and if you really wanted to use that as your excuse you should have done that weeks ago, not now!"
"Oh, come on, you know I was busy with the elections, I couldn't take a break until a few days ago and I had send mail to everybody too, I even hand wrote them with your old feather pen and used all the language you do."
"You what!?"
Francis could hear the situation was getting out of hand by now and was about to knock on the door to distract the Englishman from tearing apart the American, though part of him wanted Alfred to get a small bit of punishment for having called him a frog (even if he was his second favourite American colony), when suddenly it became very quiet.
For a moment, Francis feared the worst and moved his head away from the door, moving to the left to peek into the window from which you could see the living room. He was surprised, and yet somehow not, from what he saw.
Arthur was being held, not away so that he couldn't reach the American with his fists, but close, pushed right up next to Alfred's body, and they were kissing, not extremely passionate but not dull either. Francis wondered whether this was just some way the American had learnt to halt the rampaging beast that was Arthur when angry (had he taught him that?) but suddenly he noticed the Brit's hands, once frozen in an attacking position, relax and wrap around the younger's neck, returning the kiss.
Francis's eyes may have widened just a bit then. The kiss lasted for a short while, then ended and Francis released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. In doing so his body also relaxed and he ended up kicking over one of the flower-pots next to the door, causing a small crash as it smashed on the hard floor.
He moved his head back just in time that the two didn't see him and waited at the door, trying desperately now to stop himself from what he thought was laughing.
He heard a few grumbles, though he couldn't tell who from, and then the door swung inward, Alfred F. Jones standing at the door with both a twinkle of happiness and annoyance gleaming in his eyes. He put a good face on though and greeted Francis.
"Hey Francis! Dude, you're a bit early aren't you?" The American's eyes quickly flashed over to an old grandfather clock in the entranceway which read 9:58pm.
Francis, in an attempt to cover up any possible suspicion the other may have had, said, in his normal accent
"Ah, pardon the intrusion, mon ami, my watch must be slightly off."
Alfred's eyes flashed again with suspicion but that quickly disappeared into their normal glow of self-confidence.
"Ah, no problem Frenchie, come in, come in."
Breathing a small sigh of relief in his mind Francis walked in and looked around for the Brit. He saw him standing a little ways down the entrance hallway which spanned into the kitchen, living room and stairwell which lead to the other rooms. His face had adopted it steely quality but Francis knew the other well enough to know he was feeling slightly annoyed and disappointed.
"Bonjour, mon cher, and how are you this fine night in winter?"
"Better than you, you perverted frog, did your slimy skin get any goosebumps on the way here?" Arthur said sarcastically
"No, my skin is as refined and luxuriant as ever, thank you for the concern though" It wasn't the pick-up line Francis had planned but it was enough to ruffle the Englishman's feathers.
Before an argument could ensue however cars started pulling up in front of the house, all of various makes and models, and the other guests started to arrive. It seemed most every country had been invited, from the gruff Ludwig who didn't seem at all bothered by the cold to the sweet Feliciano who was hugging the former closely to try and gain some warmth.
They all started to come inside, all saying their greetings and giving Alfred their coats, who hurriedly dumped them in a nearby cupboard, taking Francis's as well and then going somewhere else to turn on the music. In the confusion Arthur had escaped somewhere and Francis, knowing he most likely wouldn't be able to find the other in the great mass of countries, walked to the living room where a table of snacks and drinks from various origins had been set up.
There was even some red wine there, though it was the cheap stuff you could buy at any corner store. He decided to let that slide, knowing if the Englishman had been the one to actually organise the party that most likely he would have only had some of his terrible and unrefined beer to drink and his sarcastic comments to eat, or even worse his ill-famed cooking which could kill the entire planet twice over.
Francis poured himself a champagne glass of the wine and hurried over to a nearby armchair which was as of yet unoccupied by the other nations. Sitting down, barely listening to the music, he took a sip of the wine and winced at its sheer mediocrity and made small talk with some of the other nations who had gathered around him, chuckling at Gilbert bragging about his new boyfriend and Antonio reminiscing about the time he had gotten his partner, the feisty Lovino, drunk and riding him the whole night.
Soon minutes became hours and after a rather drunk Canadian had come to collect his boyfriend and Antonio had gone off to see how drunk and horny his little tomato was, Francis was left alone, swirling his drink in the glass and looking through it to see the rose tinted version of all the nations.
Now he started to wonder again at where the Brit was and, as if by magic (maybe one of Arthur's spells was poisoning the Frenchman's reasoning), Arthur came out of the crowd of nations- no, more like running through the crowd, knocking down anyone who got in his way- singing one of his old Celtic songs off-key and wearing… an angel costume?
Francis resisted dying of laughter as the aforementioned drunk Englishman jumped up onto a nearby coffee table and started dancing, causing most of the nations to look away horrified and one to turn on his video camera, silently smiling as he planned on putting this up on Nico Nico Douga. Even the music seemed to stop.
Halfway through a slurred version of 'God Save The Queen' though, Alfred appeared out of the crowd and dragged the other off the table, the latter making dirty remarks as he grinded against the American, who blushed in return.
It was at this point that a stupid thought crossed Francis's mind.
Why didn't he ever do that with me?
He noticed after a few seconds and started rebutting himself in his head
Non, non, it's over between you two remember? You dumped him, remember? This shouldn't bother you!
Then why, he wondered, did seeing Alfred, apologizing profusely and dragging Arthur out of the living room, various eyes and a camera lens following them, cause him to feel a slight pang of jealousy in his –he really didn't want to say it- heart. The Briton had always been secretive about their relationship together and had always blackmailed Francis's into not telling.
After a small while everything seemed to calm down, the camera going back in its case, the conversations continuing and the music coming back on again. Francis tried to calm down again, listening to the stale pop songs that had most likely been the American's playlist, even sipping some of the terrible wine to try and calm his nerves but to no avail. He got up, another nation taking his seat immediately as he walked out of the living room and into the hallway, similarly packed with people that Francis didn't seem to notice, not even seeing Antonio and Lovino making out and grinding against each other to the sounds of 'Bed Rock'.
He looked around until he came to the doorway which leads into the blackness that was the stairwell. Underneath it though, in a dark and hidden corner he could see two bodies moving in synch with one another, if in synch meant both of them drunkenly stumbling. He peeked around the corner and saw Alfred and Arthur kissing again, this time with plenty of teeth and passion (enough that they couldn't even notice the Frenchman), the sounds of moaning and groaning loud enough to echo off the walls.
Francis had seen kissing before. He knew how it worked and wasn't bothered with seeing other people making out. But this time he felt a crippling pain in his stomach and chest and to avoid being sick in two ways, and from dropping his wine glass which he was almost crushing in his hands, he rushed out of the stairwell and quickly walked to the entrance of the house, grabbing his coat from the messy pile that had been the American's doing and opened the door, the cold wind seeming much harsher than before.
As he was about to leave he heard a small voice behind him. He turned and saw Feliciano behind him, having separated from an exasperated German on the nearby wall.
"Ve~ Are you okay Francis? You seem sad about something.."
Francis noticed that his expression had indeed been sour and forced himself to brighten up as he said, his normal striding voice being broken slightly
"I'm okay Feliciano, I just have to go now"
"Aw~" the little Italian pouted. There was a small 'ahem' sound from Ludwig and Feliciano turned to him with a grin before looking at Francis again "well, see you later then~"
With that he walked off and Francis walked out, barely noticing he had slammed the door behind him and that he was still holding the wine glass in his hands. He sighed and quickly tipped the rest of its contents into the nearest flowerpot that hadn't been broken by him and then throwing the glass onto the wall, smiling as he heard it shatter into a few hundred pieces.
It was unheard of for the Frenchman to not finish his wine, even if it was terrible, but today he just… didn't want to drink that wine.
He walked off slowly down the stone path into the night, kicking a nearby bin in anger, though he didn't really know why he was angry, and yelping as he hugged his foot due to the pain. He whimpered and then continued to limp off, endless memories cycling through his head, all fairly bad but now seeming rose-tinted like it had been looking through the glass.
As he walked a car came by, the window open and the radio on loud. A song was playing and in the few moments that the car was there everything that Francis was feeling was sung to him. These would be the words that he would always use to remember this night, now and for a long time after.
Standing in the dark, dark oh
Dark, dark, oh,
Dark, dark,
She's someone else's angel
She's someone else's angel…
I hope you liked this, just a short one I thought of when I was listening to the radio. Hope for reviews and I will update Coptalia at some point!
Inspired by 'Standing in the Dark' by 'Lawson'
'Bedrock' by Young Money
Hetalia doesn't belong to me (god damn)
French for idiots:
Non- no
il anglais cher- his English darling
tu dois être fatigué parce que tu as trotté dans ma tête toute la journée - You must be tired, because you've been running through my head all day.
Il fait chaud ici, ou c`est juste toi? - Is it hot in here, or is it just you?
si je te disais que tu as un beau corps, tu m'en tiendrais rigueur? - If I said you had a beautiful body, would you
hold it against me?
mon ami - my friend
mon cher- my darling