Arthur Kirkland was roaming the streets of Paris, France on 23 January 1938, coat snugly wrapped around him, scarf hugging his face and keeping him nice and warm in the frigid French air. But, even in the bleak weather, his spirits were unusually high. He had always wanted to go to France, just to sightsee maybe, just to speak French with someone perhaps, or just to be there. His mother had refused to fund the trip, as she always did, the cow, so he'd had to come up with the money himself. After a year and many months, he had finally reached his goal and here he was. Finally in France and finding, to his immense yet very satisfied surprise, that she was exceeding every single one of his expectations.
The people were fantastic, the sights were spectacular, and the freedom! Arthur couldn't really put words to how it felt for him to finally be able to do what he wanted when he wanted to.
Ever since he was a young boy, Arthur had always hated the life of his very rich and noble family, the Kirklands. Don't get him wrong, he was a born Englishman and always considered himself to be a perfect gentleman. But he never wanted to be a bloody stick in the mud who was expected to meet all the right people, schmooze all the right women, and marry the perfect girl once he got tired of schmoozing; and that was exactly what his family was breeding him to become. First of all, Arthur Kirkland was going to be nothing if not an extrovert, and second, if he got married, it would certainly be to a woman he loved. There was no way in hell he was condemning himself to a life with some random dame he'd known for a week and couldn't stand.
Call it romantic, call it sensible, call it what you will, it was Arthur's life philosophy, and he did not see it changing anytime soon.
"Ah, fuck," he swore as the snow that had been falling lightly to that point began to come down harder on him. Winter made everything look beautiful, but stick him in the middle of it, and you had one very unhappy Arthur Kirkland.
He quickened his step and hurried down the street, images of his soft bed in his hotel room filling his mind. He tried to take in as many of the sights as he could even as he ran for cover. Paris was such a nice city even in a downpour of snow.
His hotel slowly came into his view and he smiled, relieved. There it was! The Hotel Britannique. Arthur sped up even more so that he now ran towards the safety of his hotel.
When he stumbled through the front doors, Arthur felt as though he had just gotten out of a shower. His coat was covered in little snowflakes that were now melting thanks to the abrupt increase in temperature, his hair was in much the same condition, and he felt as though his pants were one step away from freezing to his legs. He shivered and turned to shake his head and cast a withering glance out towards the wintery blizzard outside.
"Mon, ma, c'est tout à fait glacial dehors, non?" (My, my, it's quite frigid outside, no?) Arthur turned to see a young man about his age standing before him wearing a slightly amused expression. Arthur laughed at his obviously French appearance but pretended to be chuckling in agreement. He nodded.
"Oh, absolument," he responded fluently. "J'ai faille mourir là-bas." (Oh, absolutely. I almost died out there.) The man laughed with him for a moment but seemed to realize something and sobered. He looked at Arthur curiously.
"Vous n'êtes pas français?" (You are not French?) he asked. Arthur shook his head and grinned.
"Non, je suis anglais," (No, I'm English) he corrected. The man looked mildly surprised but reined it in very well, Arthur thought.
"Forgive me, sir, I jumped to conclusions. But you do speak very lovely French. You have learned at university?" His accent was very heavily French and he stumbled sometimes when he spoke English, leading Arthur to believe that he was still not quite as fluent with the language as he was in his mother tongue. He nodded and presented his hand to the man.
"I did, actually," he responded, allowing his English accent to shine through. "Arthur Kirkland." The man smiled and took his hand firmly but cordially.
"Francis Bonnefoy," he greeted. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Pleasure's mine. So, Monsieur Bonnefoy—"
"Francis, if you please."
"Very well, Francis it is, then. Only if you call me Arthur."
"I would be glad to."
"So, Francis, I would very much like to continue this discussion, but I'm just a little out of sorts at the moment." He gestured to his dripping attire. "Would you mind if I just went to my room to freshen up?" Francis waved his hand delicately and laughed a little sheepishly.
"Oh, oui, oui, excusez-moi, take all the time you need!" he said. "I shall wait for you in the lobby?" Arthur nodded.
"That'll be splendid," he agreed. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then, Francis. I am very pleased to meet you." He shook hands with Francis once more and then headed to the stairs.
In his room, the first thing he did was change out of his at the very least slightly damp clothes into something nicer. The Frenchman, Francis, had been dressed simply but he'd been just dripping with French panache. Arthur didn't want to make him think that England was any less concerned about appearances than France.
Once he was finished with that, he hurried back down the stairs and into the lobby to meet Francis again. He found the Frenchman sitting alone cross-legged on one of the many posh sofas in the hotel. He sat down beside him and offered his hand again.
"So sorry about that," he said. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."
"Not at all, not at all," Francis dismissed. "So, where did you learn to speak French? Forgive me my curiosity."
"Quite alright. I learned at Cambridge. It's a bit of a necessity for someone like me to learn French, actually. My family insisted, and I've come to realize how useful it is.
"What about you? You obviously know a little English, where did you learn?" Francis smiled and flicked his styled hair from his eyes.
"I learned from my father, actually," he said. "It's not exactly as big a deal for the French to learn English."
"Bloody French arrogance," Arthur laughed, completely jokingly. Francis looked a little confused to cover up his defensive indignation and immediately Arthur understood his error.
"Oh, I'm sorry, do forgive me!" he amended hastily. "That was completely uncalled for, I apologize. One of the things you should know about me; I speak before I think sometimes. I am so sorry." Once again, Francis waved off the comment, forcing the smile back onto his face.
"I suppose it is true," he conceded. "To an extent. You don't see much of an… uh… emphasis on learning the English language here in France." Arthur nodded, eager to move past his mistake and talk about something completely unrelated to his idiocy.
"Well, I suppose that that makes sense, especially now," Arthur said, making a grave reference. Francis cleared his throat and looked around carefully. Arthur almost smirked at his discomfort; it was so very French! And by French he meant womanish.
"Sorry, old chap, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, but the political world…" He paused to shrug comically. "Is actually quite my cup of tea." Francis rolled his eyes and rested his chin gracefully upon the back of his hand. Oh, if he were a woman, Arthur's parents would love him.
Now there was an idea…
"Oh, so you are one of those types," he drawled, the heaviness of French accent making him sound all the more snobbish. Arthur leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed and incredibly intrigued.
"I suppose I am," he confirmed. He felt the corner of his lips turning upwards as the conversation continued. "It's one hell of an interesting topic. Are you not as… into those sorts of things as I am?" Francis smiled and tossed his free hand theatrically.
"It is not, as you say, my cup of tea, monsieur," he chuckled. Arthur laughed. "Now, linguistics, there is something I can get into!" They both dissolved into laughter.
Arthur woke up the next morning hung over in his bed, still wearing his clothes and shoes. He noted offhandedly that they smelled awful. Groaning, he tried to pull himself into an upright position but stopped when he realized that it hurt too bloody much. He was convinced there was a fucking monkey playing cymbals in his head.
"Bloody fucking hell," he mumbled. "Jesus, Mary, fucking Joseph, and all the saints, what did I do last night?" He strained his poor mind as much as he dared, to remember what he'd done that had resulted in him getting so very wasted out of his mind. He managed to conjure an image of styled blonde hair and a very French foppish outfit. He moaned out five more curses when the memory finally returned to him. He'd spent the tail end of the previous afternoon and most of the evening with that odd fellow, Francis Bonnefoy. And now he couldn't remember anything he'd done.
"Oh, god, I hope I didn't bugger the bastard," he grouched. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if he did. There had been a definite chemistry between them and he swore he could've tasted the sexual tension that wrought the air at the time.
Oh, shit, now he was getting hard.
"Fuck it, he's French, and I like French, problem solved," Arthur snapped and immediately regretted it as it upset the monkey in his head into pounding those damn cymbals together once again. "Go awaaaaaaaaay!"
A knock at the door interrupted him and he let out a small yelp and threw himself onto his pillows in a halfhearted tantrum.
"Go awaaaaaaaaaaay!" he whined again into his pillows, not sure who he was talking to, the monkey or whoever the hell was at his door.
"Arthur?" a very familiar French voice floated through the doorway and Arthur felt irritation rush through him at the sound. Bloody bastard was the reason Arthur was like this, and he had the nerve to not have a hangover that was just as bad as if not ten times worse than Arthur's? Ass.
"Go'way," Arthur pouted into his pillows, trying to bury himself as far as he could into the nice fluffy sheets of his bed. They were quiet.
He heard some colorful French phrases on the other side of his door and snickered. When he heard the click of the door, he sobered (as much as a hung over man could sober) and turned his head to see an impeccably dressed Francis walk through the now open doorway, plastic bag in hand.
"Eh bien, c'est ce que l'alcool va faire pour que Britannique, je suppose." (Well, this is what alcohol will do to a Brit, I suppose) he sighed. "Arthur, come on, sit up and take this." He closed the door to the room and walked over to the bed. Arthur personally thought that Francis was navigating his way around the room with far too much familiarity for someone he didn't have sex with.
"Please tell me I didn't have sex with you," Arthur mumbled as the Frenchman sat down on the bed and held out an aspirin tablet. Francis' face turned a dusty pink and he spluttered as Arthur's still slightly drunken gaze pierced into him.
"Non, non!" he insisted. "We did not have – we did not do anything like that, Arthur, I promise you." Arthur only glared at him suspiciously as he reached out and clumsily took the tablets and the glass of water Francis offered him.
"Then how'd you get my key?" the Brit demanded. Francis folded his arms indignantly.
"You left it at the bar," he responded easily and with a great tone of finality. "Where you had been flirting with virtually everything with a skirt and breasts." Arthur surprised Francis by only tilting his head as though he were in thought.
"Actually, I thought I'd be a bisexual drunk," he mused aloud. Francis couldn't stop his eyebrows from rising above his hairline.
"Excuse me… what?" Arthur shrugged.
"Nothing wrong with being a poof," he pointed out to no one in particular. "And quite frankly, I remember there being several very good-looking men at the bar whom I wouldn't have minded shagging." Francis' mouth fell open and he stared at Arthur. "You being chief among them." Francis' face burned. Arthur raised the glass with a smirk on his face. "Cheers." Popping the tablets easily into his mouth he chugged the water quickly and tossed the glass onto the bed before flopping back down onto it himself.
"And since I can't remember anything I did last night, I figured it'd be safe to make sure," he slurred tiredly. Francis shook his head and suddenly Arthur remembered something. "Wait a minute." He pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned a grin onto his companion. "If I recall correctly, I was the one drinking, and you were the one flirting with all things slutty and busty." Now Francis' face was a deep crimson and he turned away abruptly, his posture everything uncomfortable and embarrassed. Arthur laughed, ignoring the pain in his head. This was so worth it.
"Aha! Trying to take advantage of my weakness, you buggerer!" he accused. "Very smooth attempt, I must say, but you're a rampant Don Juan, and that's something you just can't hide." Arthur was laughing now and Francis began to try in vain to shut him up, and before they knew it, the clock struck five and Arthur's hangover was all but gone.
It was then that Arthur made a great discovery: aspirin tablets worked well for a hangover, but if he really wanted results, then shove him in a room with Francis Bonnefoy and his headache would be gone in minutes.
First ever Hetalia fic! It ain't the greatest and I acknowledge that, but I had so much fun writing it and that's all that matters! This is actually a very huge experiment, just a warning. I've had this fic planned for a long time but I'm largely unused to writing these characters. That being said, yes, I realize that Francis is not quite his usual perverted self and he and Arthur seem to have actually had a bit of a character swap, but that was done on purpose. And the only thing it's supposed to achieve is making Arthur a bit more comfortable with the concept of actually being sexually involved with other men. Francis is only used to doing that crazy intercourse stuff with chicks. And this is an AU, so I changed the characters a little bit on purpose. Had I been writing it in canon-verse, do not worry, they would be far more in character!
Ahem, anyway, I don't own Hetalia (I'm sure there are a lot of people who are glad about that) and I'm going to give the characters back once I'm through.
This is the prologue of sorts, I guess you could say. Francis and Arthur meet in this one and then the true fun begins! I hope I didn't botch my first attempt at a Hetalia fic, cuz I do so love the anime and comic strips. And Britain and France. Love them too.
Ignore the bad French, too, that was only so that there would be a general effect.
Edit
And thank you to everyone and anyone who pointed out or (in the future) points out any errors in the story! I normally read these through pretty carefully, but I don't catch everything... Thank you ghibli22 in particular for pointing out that card keys don't really exist in 1938... I feel pretty sheepish now. -.-
