Summary: It was approaching that time of year again. Which meant it was approaching that painful memory again. July 4. England fully plans on sulking the entire day away, but soon a certain somebody shows up. And though England had rather not see this person, he accepts his presence, and eventually comes to terms with there forgotten love.
Pairing: Light FrUk fluff (France x England)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Rating: Rated T for a little cussing on England's part
A/N: Sup my bros! I'm back with another fanfic, to make up for my disappearance off the face of the earth for quite a while since my Rolling Boy fanfic (although I posted my other Four Men and the Fountain of Fair Fortune too). I've gotten a couple requests for another FrUk fanfic, and I decided on this one.
I seem to like to write a lot of one-shots...
Anyway, hope you guys enjoy, and as usually please R & R~
Durufuu~
He was glad there was no world meeting today. England sat in his two-story house in London, alone (as usual). It was late afternoon, almost evening, and had literally just gotten up. On any other day, he would have not even thought of getting up this late, considering it an insult to his 'gentlemen' figure and a complete waste of time. Today, however, was not just any other day.
It was July 4.
Better known as America's birthday.
England squinted at nothing in particular in front of him, scowling as he really just imagined the younger boy's face. No doubt the stupid prick had invited all the other countries to fly over to his house and attend his birthday party. Some countries like Germany, Romano, and Switzerland would be reluctant to come, or wouldn't want to come at all, but in the end everybody invited came. America may be a dumb irritating Yankee, but he sure know how to through one hell of a party.
Too bad that major blowout party celebrated the single most day out of all the days in the year England hate with his entire being.
Three hours later...
Nearly three hours later, England was struggling to hold the memory of that day back. He had done specifically nothing that entire day, just brooding. Shutting his eyes and concentrating, England tried to shut out the memory, but it found its way to the surface of his memory anyway.
All sound around him faded away, the cars outside on the street, the faint talk of pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the sound of wind rushing lightly outside swirled away like water down a drain. Instead, they were replaced by the sounds of rain pounding against soft ground, the shouts of men, faint gunshots, and the slapping of running feet on wet mud.
"Shit..." he murmured "Fucking shit..." The image played behind his eyelids, like a movie reel being projected behind his eyes.
Rain pounded around the two armies, led by their nations. Men shouted and ran about, feet slapping against the wet mud. Gunshots rang out, as well as cannon shots. Blue clad men faced a single red clad man, alert and ready. A single figure stood in the lead of the tightly packed blue uniformed group. America, older and taller than he had since he was a colony, covered in mud, blood, sweat and water, and aiming a gun to England's head.
"Hey, Britain!" he shouted in a tired, but determined voice, "All I want….is my freedom!"
England, clad in red and covered with mud, standing out like a beckon against the dull landscape, his soldiers no longer behind him. He stared at his little brother, not believing what he had become. What had happened to his sweet little colony? The young bright eyed boy who would follow him everywhere, and beg him not to leave?
That boy existed no more. Instead, he was replaced by a fiery teenager who was tearing the Brit's heart in two.
His grip tightened on his musket, held in front of him loosely until now, and he ran forward, screaming above the pounding rain and distant gunshots,
"I WON'T ALLOW IT!"
The sharp end of his musket stabbed into the American's, sending it flying out of his grip. He now stood weaponless against the other, who still had his musket point blank at America's face.
"Stand ready!" shouted his men behind him, aiming their guns and ready to shoot England should he pull the trigger on America.
England panted lightly as he stared into America's sky blue eyes. He would pull the trigger, he would pull it and America would learn his lesson. But…
His eyes.
Those blue eyes.
They looked so frightened.
And so devastated.
He….couldn't do it.
England lowered his gun to his side, and he said in a cracked voice, "…I could never shoot you."
He dropped his musket, and as it fell as did he, down onto his knees. He held his face in one face, and he started to cry. He couldn't shoot. It was the truth. He just couldn't destroy something he had nurtured and raised. Even if it tore apart his heart more than it already was.
"Why…" he sobbed "Damn it, why? It's not fair…" America stood over him, looking solemn as he watched his former caretaker break down.
"You used to be so great…" he said, and without glancing back, he lead his warriors away. The battle had been won.
America had left him forever….
England came out of his flashback, and he became aware someone was in the room with him. He was also aware of a familiar wetness on his cheeks. The faint smell of roses and wine told him who it was before he even heard him speak, or opened his eyes.
"You were crying over him again."
France had somehow found his way in, and as the Briton opened his eyes to weakly glare at him, his face was concerned and sad.
"And why should you care?" he snapped "You were the one who helped the stupid git gain his freedom, without regarding my feelings." France shook his head.
"Non, I did know how hurt and devastated you would feel." the Frenchman said "But mon cher, it was you who was ignoring Amérique's feelings. You did not listen to him, and so he felt it was the only way he could get you to listen." England could not come up with a good comeback, so he said nothing. It was true, he had not been very considerate of America's feelings and thoughts. Tears flowed harder down his cheeks, and he sobbed "But it still hurts...! I'm all alone in this god forsaken house now!"
France pulled him into a hug, and England didn't resist, but rather cried into his silk shirt. He knew why France had come today, and secretly he was glad for his company.
France kissed the top of his head, saying "I know, I know Angleterre. But it would have only hurt more if you kept him..." He kissed him lightly on the lips when he had calmed down, smiling lightly while saying "Je'taime, mon cher. You are never alone."
England said nothing, but smiled. France didn't need an answer, his smile was enough.
His smile said, 'I love you too.'
A/N: Thanks bros, please R & R and hope you liked it!
Over and out, Captain Alfred F. Jones