Title: Warmth
Author: Miss. Sly
Style: Oneshot
Type: Hetalia
Main Character(s): England, America, France
Word Count: 1,655
The freezing air swirled around him and he shivered, arms crossing over his chest in a vain attempt to keep himself warm. Arthur sighed, the hot puff of air fogging in the cold. He scowled. The irritating noise of Francis and Alfred's good natured squabbling rang through his head after the disastrous world conference meeting and he craved a drink. He spotted the old wooden sign of the pub and glanced back at the slow moving pair.
They seemed not to notice his irritated expression, too deeply engrossed in their argument over whether or not baseball was the most awesome sport in existence. Exasperated, he called out, "Hurry the bloody hell up, I'm sodding frigid!"
Francis laughed something under his breath that Arthur couldn't hear, and Alfred called back, "Are you medically frigid, or is it just psychological?"
Arthur growled something unintelligible under his breath and thrust his fists deeply into his pockets, knuckles of his right hand bumping against a cold metal handle. He huffed out a breath and stomped inside the pub. The laughter of the other two nations followed him inside.
The inside of the pub was dingy, the lighting was dim and the air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Arthur wound his way through people and around tables to get to the bar and motioned for a drink. Without a word, the barkeep handed him a pint. Arthur smiled, taking a deep swill of the liquid, and slid into an empty booth. He inhaled deeply, tasting the smoke and the ale on his tongue. It felt like coming home.
The door banged open, allowing a hearty gust of freezing air and his fellow nations into the building. They sauntered up to the bar and snagged a drink each before spotting Arthur and sliding into the booth with him. Francis was bemoaning the lack of fine French wine and Alfred was chattering on about the varying degrees of shady everyone in the pub appeared to be. Arthur smiled and took another deep drink from his mug to hide it.
"Belt up, the pair of you."
Alfred pulled a face at him and spoke louder and Francis bumped his leg against Arthurs under the table, sending him a good natured wink with a toss of his blond hair. Arthur drained his mug and signalled for another, laughing under his breath.
Half an hour later, the three of them were engrossed in a rousing pub quiz. Alfred was gesticulating wildly with a pen in hand, his sloppy handwriting made sloppier by the alcohol, and Francis was missing a few layers of clothing. Arthur grinned, preferring to lean back and watch as the other two drunkenly attempted to answer the questions than actively participate himself. He drank his beer and helpfully supplied the answer whenever the Alfred or Francis drew a blank and smiled. The alcohol in his stomach and the hazy air of the pub and the comforting weight in his pocket relaxed him.
They ended up winning a round of ale that was swiftly downed. By then, Arthur's world was beginning the sway and he pushed his empty mug to the center of the table and claimed he was ready to leave. The other two, just as drunk as he was, frowned into their mugs and told him they'd be ready when they're done. He nodded and stood and stumbled. He headed for the door, hoping the cold air would clear his head a little.
He stood alone by the street outside the pub, eyes closed, deeply breathing in the cold air. It burned his lungs and forced him into a slightly more aware state. He stuck his hands into his pockets to keep them warm and sighed. His fingers curled around the handle of the blade in his pocket, warmed by the prolonged contact with the flesh of his leg. He rubbed his thumb over the handle.
The sound of the pub doors opening caused him to turn, but a tall, broad shouldered man with cropped dark hair stumbled out. He turned around to gaze around the empty street with a sigh. Not who he was waiting for.
The swish-flick of a lighter broke the hush that had descended upon them, and a smooth voice called out, "You, there under the lights, fancy a fag?"
Arthur turned to look at him and took a step closer, tempted. After a beat, he shook his head no. "I'm bloody well pissed. If I have a fag now, I'll prob'ly end up sick in an alley."
The man laughed, a deep, rich sound, and sucked on his cigarette. Arthur shook his hair out of his face and drew his hands from his pockets to blow against them to have something to do.
"So, do'ya come here often?"
To Arthurs drunken mind, it sounded less like the pathetic pickup line that it was and more like a valid question. He nodded lightly, wincing when it forced his vision to double. "I guess you could say that."
"Have I seen you around before? Ya look familiar"
Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. You tell me."
He leaned against the cold brick wall of the pub, sobering up a little more.
"Well," the man said, flicking his cigarette carelessly to the ground, stepping closer to Arthur, "I'd sure like to see, ah, more of you."
Arthur frowned. He was drunk, but he had been around long enough, and spent enough time around France to know what he was insinuating. Before he could open his mouth to respond, a pair of chapped lips, still tasting of smoke, descended upon his. One rough hand curled in his hair while the other wandered south, scrabbling against him. Dimly, he heard the door of the pub open.
Unable to step back and out of the man's embrace, he pushed out at his shoulders, wrenching his face and way, murmuring, "Gerr'off!"
The man pressed his lips against his neck, hissing, "Come on, baby. Don't be like that."
Arthur's lips curled into a sneer and he pushed hard at the man's shoulders, forcing him out onto the street. "Get the fuck off!" he shouted, "I won't tell you again!"
He stormed past Alfred and Francis, who were now staring openly at him with wide, glazed eyes, and began stumbling down the street. A heartbeat passed and they were jogging to catch up. They fell in step on either side of him, caught sight of his furious expression, and hastened their step slightly. They fell in step beside each other about a meter in front of Arthur. They began talking animatedly, speech still slurred, giving Arthur his space. He exhaled fiercely; inwardly grateful they left him alone.
He was just beginning to relax once more when an arm snaked around his waist. He inhaled sharply in surprise. A large hand palmed his ass through his jeans. Arthur jumped away, almost out of arms reach, but that same hand snatched his wrist, roughly hauling him closer. His shoulder bumped against a large, broad chest and he grimaced. He wrenched his arm free, but the man from the pub had wound a possessive arm around his shoulder. Arthur worked his hand into his pocket and spat, "If you don't take your hands off me, I'm going to fucking stab you."
The man's deep laughter echoed in the street, grabbing Alfred and Francis attention. They had wandered quite a way ahead of Arthur and with worried expressions, they began jogging back.
The man slid one hand down to knead harshly at Arthur's ass and leered at him. Arthur growled and thrust the hand off him and bodily slammed the taller ban against the wall of the nearest building. The breath was knocked violently from his lungs on impact and Arthur quickly snapped open his knife and held it against the human's throat.
The blade glinted in the dim light from the streetlamp and everyone froze.
Arthur pressed the sharp metal harder against his neck, drawing a drop of blood where the tip met flesh. He leaned in close, breath whispering across the man's cheeks, and calmly told him, "Touch me again and I will slit your fucking throat."
Arthur glared into the man's eyes and he frantically hummed his agreement. Arthur remained where he was, keeping the blade against the man's throat much longer than necessary, savouring the fear rolling off him in waves. Then, without warning, he stepped back and let the man fall bonelessly to the ground. He watched the man scamper to his feet and bolt down the street into darkness. He turned around and caught the scandalized expressions on Francis and Alfred's faces.
He blinked at them as his mind slowly began to return to its previous inebriated state. "Wot?"
Alfred continued to stare at him open-mouthed while Francis started to laugh.
He blinked again, feeling defensive and repeated, "Wot?"
Alfred continues to stare at him and Francis walked over to him and slipped an arm around his shoulders, still laughing. "England, shouldn't you be over your ruffian phase by now?"
England elbowed him in the ribs and brandished his knife at him jokingly. Francis only laughed harder.
Alfred remained standing in the street staring at their retreating backs, jaw still dropped, and said, "What?"
England glanced back, a small grin playing on his lips as he slipped the blade closed and into his pocket. "Aren't you coming?"
America seemed to snap out of it, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and ran to them, slipping his arm around Arthur's waist. A wide grin on his lips, he announced, "The hero has arrived!"
Arthur hummed in contentment as the heat from the other two nations seeped into his sides. He hadn't even realized he had gotten cold.
"Just..." Alfred trailed off, causing Arthur and Francis to look at his questioningly. "Just... don't stab me, okay?"
Arthurs laugh rang out, echoing through the cold air.
Date Completed: January 10, 2010
A/N: Knife crime to England is what gun crime is to America. It's illegal to sell knives to people under the age of 18 and apparently, they can refuse if you look sketchy.
This was a spur of the moment thing. I've got a lot more on the go, but I figured I may as well post something for once.
And yes, I am well aware that the title and the summary suck. I couldn't think of anything else.
Feedback is very welcome, constructive criticism is love.
Sly.