A/N: The first of my very few fanfictions that I've published. I think of fanfiction as a good writing exercise and write them just to play with words, entertain myself or fight writer's block. I started writing fanfics one night after watching an episode of TVD (boo hoo, shoot me) and seeing a rather enticing ship starting to sail. I wrote short and completely silly things in one Word document which I named "100 reasons why me and fanfiction DON'T go together". But here I am. I read so much fanfiction that this was bound to happen... Of course it would be Hetalia that makes me start writing it on a bigger scale...
About FrUk. My OTP in Hetalia. I am partly French and speak it fluently and I am in love with Great Britain, so that might explain something. Also my historical research has always proved FrUk to be the real deal.
And Francis and Arthur. Love. (Francis is not a rapist and really, scones are the only decent thing you can eat in England!)
I really seem to prefer slash pairings for no clear reasons and this is one, so if you find that disturbing for some reasons, you don't have to read but really, it's mainly cuteness.
Axis Powers Hetalia and all characters and story lines directly connected with it are not mine.
The short story beyond that belongs to me.
I get no profit whatsoever for writing this.
"Oh mon Angleterre!" Francis exclaimed eliciting a moan from the Brit. "Get out, frog, don't even bother getting in, I am dead serious!"
Arthur was on edge with France these days. He had been bothering Arthur for weeks with very few breaks – he was truly incorrigible. Red roses and red wine and winks and smiles "à la française', as he would say. Lingering looks and lingering touches. He'd even sung to him for heaven's sake! This must've been a whole new dimension of warfare. And England wouldn't have any more of this. But – as usual – Francis didn't seem to have any insight in to Arthur's thoughts – or understanding of his very clear words – and he strode in just as self-confidently as any day.
"But Angleterre, I've dressed up just for you, I am quite pretty, non?" he drawled and Arthur could just imagine his never faltering smirk. Enough was enough and England turned around, thick eyebrows furrowed together, eyes closed with annoyance and yelled: "No! No you are not pretty, you ar g, and even if you were, why in God's name would I care you insufferable git?"
Arthur knew he was being rude, but that's how he was, he could afford to be since he usually had the etiquette of a true English gentleman. Besides, the gentleman was never to be shown around that twat of a country who couldn't even speak the Queen's English properly. He opened his eyes after a short break of silence. He had been expecting a witty response – since yes, he had to admit that France knew wit in some forms – but when no response came, he was about to continue snapping at him with remarks of his never ending and rather tasteless flirting with the whole of Europe but he shut his gob at the sight of his so called nemesis. Arthur was quick to remark that – bloody hell – the frog was pretty. More than pretty – absolutely ravishing. He was wearing his best blue coat and his red trousers, and they were truly becoming on the tall man who was nonchalantly leaning against his office wall. He had slight stubble, which seemed to be the work of an artist. And his golden locks were so … well, just as they always were. In fact, normally Arthur would have rolled his eyes and made a rather snotty remark that the French man wore the exact same things he'd seen him wear dozens of times. That it was just his stupid face and his out-dated clothes. But this time Arthur had slipped and had a good look of the man.
Why had he slipped? Because of the look on France's infuriatingly flawless face. For a moment he had looked utterly discouraged and frankly, quite sad. More than quite, to be honest. Really sad. It was the first time that Arthur had seen Francis's cover crumble. He had tried to rearrange himself as swiftly as possible, mumbled something incomprehensible – probably in French – and exited the room rather gracelessly, leaving England kind of flabbergasted.
France had been beautiful. Like had always been beautiful. And England hadn't been a gentleman. Like not ever, not towards France. But wasn't that supposed to be their thing? Bickering about silly little things, coming up with nastier remarks every time. Now that England stopped and thought about it, the answer was no. "What do you mean 'no'? He has always been a real piece of work, that one!" he tried to convince himself. But actually, all France had done was refusing to speak comprehensible English. So, really, just been insufferably proud of his own language and culture. Just like England himself. And he'd been really flirty.
"Yes, yes he has! And that's the problem!" Arthur exclaimed out loud, relieved. He had a reason to be rude. Except, a little voice in his head stated, he didn't, though. Because… well, because he rather liked it.
Arthur moaned and said: "Really? Really? Oh good grief… That's stupid, is it not? I mean, that frog romances up the whole wide world!"
Well, the little voice in his head stated, finally you've got it, Arthur. Not one of your brightest days, eh?
Then it hit him. He was jealous.
"Blimey, I'm too English for these kind of things."
That was the first time England had ever considered one could be too English. And all it had taken was a shadow of sorrow on France's face.
"Blimey, I've gone soft."
It was a rainy day in France. "Oh là là, what a week! Mon coeur brisé and English rain in my beautiful country…" Francis mused sadly. France had always fancied England and had finally decided to take it a notch up, hoping that he would take the hint, if he hadn't taken it from the hasty marriage proposal a long while back. Ah, but it hadn't been Angleterre who had been slow, had it? It had been Francis himself. Arthur did not return his feelings, all the bickering and nasty comments hadn't been fun and games from his side, it had been serious.
Francis leaned his chin against the palms of his hands, looking out of the window of his study, watching the grey, extremely English rain fall heavily through the air. Francis sighed deeply and thought: "Oh Angleterre, what have I ever done to make you think so lowly of me?"
France would have soon after entered the endless circle of self-pity and self-judgement, the "en faite, when I think about it, I can find many reasons", but that path was cut short by a curtsy nod from the door.
"Laissez-moi tranquille, I am sad", France contemplated flatly but with a rather melodramatic edge.
"Since I literally have no idea what you said apart from 'I am sad', I think I may proceed with my brilliant plans, after all, they got me this far", a very familiar British voice answered. Francis froze and the visitor cleared his throat and muttered: "Still, this works best assuming you told me to bugger off" and continued with a clearer voice: "But France, I've dressed up just for you, I am quite pretty, eh?"
This made France turn around very swiftly, and even though his mouth had been slightly open in awe already as he turned, his jaw dropped even lower as his eyes witnessed England in a uniform. A long, army green coat and a really cool hat –"I need to get a hat", France thought to himself – and the eyebrows… well, they were as always. And – oh mon dieu! – Francis liked them just like that.
France composed himself and strode over to England, arranging his face to form his flirtatious, self-confident smirk. Arthur rolled his eyes: "My mission is complete, the world is sane and secure once again, France is wearing his 'I am lovely and you know it' –face." Francis laughed at that and answered: "Oh Angleterre, you should rather continue stealing your flirting methods from me, non? It went very well when you did that, oui?" Atrhur repeated the eye-roll, much more pronounced this time and Francis continued: "Also, this is not my "je m'aime" face. It is my…" Francis paused for a very short moment and his smirk evolved in to a smile as he continued: " 'I love you' –face".
Arthur took the art of eye-rolling to a new level – even though he was completely flabbergasted by France's in English –love confession – as he said: "Oh please you sappy twat, I've seen that face a million times, you won't fool me with your sweet words."
Francis answered with a mock hurt expression: "Fool you, moi? Non mais Arthur, all the resemblance must be caused by the factor of 'and I think you love me too, my England'."
Arthur smiled an amused yet genuine smile and finally said what he came here to say in the first place: "I suppose it's true, je t'aime aussi, ma France."
England didn't give France the chance to stare at him surprised or give him another self-confident smirk, he simply pressed his lips against the Frenchman's soft ones. He cursed his own chapped lips for the shortest of moments since all that was soon forgotten as Francis wrapped his arms around the smaller man and lifted him ever so slightly, moaning silently and very sensually.
"Oh Lord, he actually tastes like red roses", Arthur thought in his hazy state of mind, "how does one… sod it, never mind…"
"Red roses and tea… ah, and Angleterre is always complaining I can't be English enough, yet here we are, lui et moi, making English poetry" the French man thought smiling in to the kiss.
/ Comment! All sort of comments are welcome, I just want honest feedback.