"Ever since forever ago, it has been a cycle the two have repeated - stumble back together, fight, refuse to speak to each other, fight some more, apologize halfheartedly, and repeat."
(Ok so this is for a "stop your drunken caroling outside my window it's 2 am" au that I saw. I immediately thought of FrUk)
Author's note: FIRST FANFIC! I hope you guys have lots of feedback and critique for me because I totally appreciate it! Reviews are my fodder of choice. Anyway, have some FrUK fluff because why not?
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of it's characters - if I did they'd have all started dating some time ago.
Francis turned over in bed. The linen pillowcase was soft against his cheek, growing stubble prickling at the cloth. It was late at night, and a haze of sleep-induced stupor clung about him. Through his sleepy daze, annoyance tickled at him feebly. Just barely there, it dimly registered in his sleep-induced stupor. Francis desperately tried to tune it out, to re-immerse himself in the lovely dream he had been having. What was it again? He could have sworn there were rabbit ears involved…
Whatever the noise was, it was becoming progressively louder, tugging him back awake. He groaned and stretched, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Francis peered sleepily at his bedside clock. He groaned, flopping onto his back once more. Two in the morning. What could possibly be going on this time of night? Francis blinked, trying to clear his vision, and registered that the muted sound was coming from out below his fire escape. Propping himself up and struggling to muster the will to climb out of bed, Francis yawned once more before throwing his coverlet off and stumbling to the window. He yanked back the curtains and threw open the shutters. A gust of Parisienne air blew in through the open casement, billowing the wine-colored drapes inward. The midnight breeze smelled of the city, and of snow.
But Francis barely had time to enjoy the wintry night air before he was met with the culpable noise full-force . It sounded an awful lot like drunken singing. He made a disgusted grunt in the back of his throat and leaned out his window to give the caroler a sound telling-off, but was shocked by what he saw.
"- which made the angels sing this night. Glory to god and peace to men..."
The noisy street goer was none other than Arthur Kirkland. Francis rolled his eyes. Typical of Arthur to be roaming about late at night, beer bottle in hand, ready to interrupt Francis' life over and over with his irrational temper and dismal singing and hideous fashion sense. Ever since forever ago, it has been a cycle the two have repeated - stumble back together, fight, refuse to speak to each other, fight some more, apologize halfheartedly, and repeat. But the reason escaped him as to why the other nation couldn't get drunk and carol in his own country instead of intruding upon others'. Especially when they're dreaming about lovely blonde -
"Oi!"
The inebriated shout came from the gutter. It looked as if Arthur had fallen into a pile of snow and was struggling to right himself, the damp soaking into his rumpled dress shirt. "I heard the bells on Christmas Day, their old fami... Fa... Famil..." His cries trailed off as he swayed on his feet, booze sloshing in hand.
France raised an eyebrow. "Angleterre, I think you've had quite enough to drink tonight. Don't you think you ought to put the bottle down?" The other nation ignored him, so he tried again.
"Arthur, stop it right now. I'm trying to sleep. It's two in the morning and your singing is enough to make the dogs howl!"
"Stupid wine bastard, I'm gonna sing all I wanna 'n you can't stop me." He laughed hoarsely and took another drink. At this point, England proceeded to launch into a loud and off-key rendition of Silent Night. "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..."
At this, Francis winced. England was not known for his glorious singing voice when he was sober, and when he wasn't, it was twice as worse. He had absolutely no desire to listen to this god-awful racket anymore, but the state Arthur was in was beginning to worry him. He didn't trust the other nation to, in his current state, make it back to his hotel room without picking a fight with every second fire hydrant he saw along the Champs-Élysées.
Francis really had no other choice. "Angleterre, stop that wailing and come inside. You're bothering the neighbors." With that he withdrew from the window and sighed. What other choice did he have? Arthur wasn't doing this to be malicious; Francis reckoned he might as well bring him inside before the other nation embarrassed himself any more. He withdrew from the window and trudged down the stairs, wondering exactly why these sort of things always happened to him.
Rosbif, you are so different from how you used to be.
Reluctantly Francis threw back the deadbolt and opened the door. He was greeted by a tipsy Arthur, swaying on his feet, and swinging his beer bottle in time to a rendition of what may have passed for jingle bells. Arthur made as if to pass through the doorway, but tripped over the sill, spilling clumsily into the hallway and colliding with an agitated France. The inebriated nation tipped forward unsteadily, trapping the other man beneath him on the way down. He tried in vain to right Arthur, but a soused and soggy Englishman proved too much for him in his sleep-deprived state.
In slow motion, the two slid down the foyer wall, France trying to keep them vertical, one hand grabbing desperately at the banister. The pair ended up in a heap at the foot of the stairs, Arthur sprawled unhelpfully across Francis' chest. This is not usually why my guests and I are collapsed in the entryway, Francis thought dimly to himself, struggling out from underneath the limp Englishman.
"Arthur. Arthur! Merde! Get off of me!" France extricated an arm and with great difficulty, rolled the other nation off of him. Arthur's head lolled slackly, and he mumbled something unintelligible, empty beer bottle rolling across the floor. Francis looked at it with distaste before picking himself up off to floor and hunching over to snag the bottle. Pinching it between thumb and forefinger like it might come alive and bite him, he trudged toward the kitchen to dispose of it. "I don't get paid nearly enough to warrant this," he muttered before heaving the glass into the recycling bin.
He made his way back through the hall to Arthur, and found the man flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling. The Frenchman sighed in exasperation and bent down to sling the other man's arm over his shoulder. Arthur was damp, the snow melt soaking through into Francis' pajama shirt. Towing his unresponsive guest over ceramic-tiled floor, he briefly wondered if Arthur was in any discomfort.
Francis deposited his cargo onto the sofa and left, returning presently with a towel. Settling onto the ottoman, he undid England's tie and slid out from under his collar. It made a hissing noise as it came free. Arthur's head drooped forward with the motion, and the water beaded on his hair dripped freely down his face and into his collar. A little pooled in the hollow of his throat.
France coughed roughly and set to towelling England's hair, the blond locks silky despite the damp. "Angleterre," he said in amusement, "this reminds me of when we were young." He smiled. "I used to take care of you. Before Rome came. And after he did, too. I was practically your older brother. Big Brother France - I like the sound of that."
"Sod. . . Off . . ." The tired mumble came from Arthur, who titled his head up, emerald eyes meeting France's, lucid for the moment. "Not. . . Brothers. . ." he said, eyes intense with a certain desperate fire.
He paused in his towelling. "No. We're not." Francis agreed sadly, his eyes shadowed. He stood abruptly, leaving Arthur alone on the couch with the towel wrapped around his hair.
Francis ascended the stairs to his bedroom and opened his bedroom door melancholically. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took in the dark circles under his eyes, his scraggly stubble, and his lank blond hair. "what happened to us, Arthur?" he said tiredly. "Where'd that little boy I took care of go? When did everything fall apart? When did it become easier to pretend we hated each other?"
When did I realize I didn't hate you?
He grabbed a second set of pajamas from his chifferobe, spared one last glance in the mirror, and flicked the lights off, heading back down the stairs.
The wood floorboards squeaked underfoot as he rounded the corner, and Arthur looked up blearily from his reclining position on the couch as he entered the living room. It was just like Arthur, to go from a loud drunk to a mopey one in a matter of minutes. The Frenchman held the pajama set aloft in lieu of explanation. "You need to change," he said matter-of-factly, "You're dripping on my sofa." And you look freezing in that damn shirt. But of course, he didn't say the latter part aloud.
Francis sat beside Arthur on the sofa, cushions dipping under his weight. Gently, as if undressing a child, he undid the buttons of Arthur's shirt one by one. He really is remarkably pale, he thought to himself. The decision to get Arthur out of his wet clothing proved to be a good one - the island nation's skin was cool and clammy to the touch. He slid the damp dress shirt off England's narrow shoulders, and swallowed hard at the sight of the other man's exposed collar bones. What a delicate boy… "Like a little sparrow."
Arthur gave him a puzzled glance - towel still wrapped around his head- and with a start, France realized he'd said the last bit out loud. To compensate for the pregnant silence, he grabbed the night shirt and with one smooth motion, popped it down over England's head. The towel slipped partially off, and Francis unwound it, pulling the cloth out the neck of the shirt. Arthur's hair fluffed up like the feathers of a baby chicken, and he looked up at Francis with baleful eyes, sitting on the couch in a night shirt that proved much too big for him. He looked far too much like his little brother from so long ago, but France put the thought out of his mind. He's not my petit chou anymore. How did he grow up when I wasn't looking?
It was a fight getting Arthur out of his pants, but they soon joined his shoes and tie on the floor. The Englishman refused the pajama bottoms, and they were refolded and left on the arm of the couch. The sodden dress shirt was draped over the back of a kitchen chair, and the two began the slow process up the stairs.
France half-carried England up the stairs, the other nation's arm slung once more over his shoulder. At the landing, Francis paused and turned to regard the drowsy head propped on his shoulder. "I'm afraid I cannot offer you the spare bedroom," he said suddenly. "I was renovating, and it's covered in crap at the moment. If you don't mind, you can share mine; it beats the couch."
The Englishman hummed in response. "S'fine."
The landing was breasted, and Arthur steered toward Francis's bedroom. Drunken stupor was fading into drowsiness, and his toes caught more than once upon the wooden floorboards of the hall. It seemed as if they would make it into the bedroom without mishap, but England stumbled at the doorway, France lunging to catch him.
Still not entirely sober, Arthur said, "Well, if it isn't St. George coming to the princess' rescue. You have defeated the dragon! An toir thu dhomh pòg, my hero?"
France's breath hitched, but he covered it with a roll of his eyes - it was just like Arthur to revert to Gaelic when drunk - and muttered, "No I will not give you a kiss. But I'll slap you if you wake me up at 2am again." He gave a dry laugh. "In any case, I'm not desperate enough to take advantage of a drunkard. It's nice you think I'm a knight in shining armor, though."
The pair shuffled into Francis' room without further conversation, climbing under the covers in a state of mind-numbing exhaustion. Francis regarded the moon through his window, it's waxing crescent visible over the steep Parisienne rooftops. Beside him, Arthur dropped off to sleep almost instantaneously, mumbling in Gaelic something barely intelligible to France.
"Tha gaol agam ort."
Francis froze, staring at his blonde bedmate in shock, but the Englishman was fast asleep. His chest twisted painfully before saying, "Yes. . . It is better we are not brothers," barely audible over the sound of Arthur's breathing. France stared at the ceiling. "Brother's don't feel like this."
He gathered Arthur into his arms, tucking the other nation's head under his chin. "You know, since we were children, I haven't forgotten your language, not ever. Dè tha thu ag iarraidh, Arthur." He murmured into England's hair. I love you too, mon petit chou. "Good night."
Arthur awoke the next morning to the sun streaming through the window. He briefly wondered where he was before flushing, remembering what transpired in the night. He sat up, feeling in the bed for France, finding only a spot of cooling warmth and wrinkled sheets to indicate someone other than himself had slept there the previous night. England swung his legs over the side of the bed and he winced at the cold of the wood floor on his feet. He padded out into the hall, the stairs creaking only minimally as he descended. From the kitchen, the sounds of running water and the oven could be heard.
Hardwood changed to tiling as he slid into the kitchen, taking in the sight of Francis, dressed and hair pulled back - a few strands falling loose as he bent over the sink - wearing an apron. Too tired - and a little hungover - to engage in conversation, the Englishman grunted. France cast a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes widened at the sight of Arthur standing in the entrance of the kitchen with his shirt slipping down over one shoulder, hair mussed in the back, eyes bleary with sleep. The Frenchman turned around fully, smiling a smile not altogether innocent, before inquiring, "How did you sleep, rosbif?"
England dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, irritated enough to dispense with anything but Gaelic. "Bu toigh leam bracaist a ghabhail?"
"The bathroom is just past the pantry, mon petit lapin," France replied, gesturing down the hallway branching off the kitchen. Arthur nodded once and headed down the hallway, grumbling and a little flustered at how delicious the Frenchman looked in an apron - that last revelation was particularly shocking. Francis smiled at his retreating back, eyes taking in his bare legs.
When the two sit down to a breakfast of pastry and jam, fresh oranges on the side, with coffee for Francis and tea for Arthur, neither mentions the conversation from late last night. But it's there, unspoken, sitting next to the pitcher of cream.
Francis clears the plates away, and he brushes Arthur's hand as he takes his teacup from him. Arthur looks startled, but says nothing, opting for a taciturn - if slightly smug - silence. And he only pretends to complain when France kisses the top of his head as he leaves for the kitchen sink.
No, they don't mention it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist, and later that afternoon, Arthur accompanies Francis to the market in search of ingredients for dinner.
A/N: Rate and review guys? I subsist upon reviews and feedback. Thanks lots!