Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any characters thus affiliated.
A/N: I hope you enjoy this! I'm new to writing FRUK so I'd appreciate any feed back you have, even if it's just a typo you found. Let me know how I did.
Francis woke to the warm beams of sun on his cheeks, shining in his eyes. The cool air chilling random snatches of skin. The sheet having been pulled haphazardly. The sated burn of his muscles pulling an appreciative moan from his lips as he stretched. The sheets slid over his skin the smoothing sensation making goosebumps.
His hands slid over the expanse of the matress finding not a second warm body but cool to the touch sheets belying the long vacated other side of the bed. Pouting slightly Francis brought his fingers through his hair. Struggling through the tangles Francis grew frustrated and pulled back the unruly mane with his blue ribbon miraculously found on the bedside table.
The hair tied out of his face and more awake he peered about the room hoping to spy his love lurking in the corner as he's known to do. Unsurprisingly the room was empty but filled with all the little things, mementos and trinkets that all practically screamed whose room it was.
Francis loved these moments. Free from the yelling, the fighting, the constant bickering that he was happy to supply half of so his firey lover could continue to pretend. Francis knew that it was all a pretense for the willy blonde. That's partially why Francis loved him so much. All that past, the history that they had, sometimes made it seem like they were incompatible but there is a very thin line between love and hate.
Sliding free from the covers he shivered slightly. The linen pants weren't actually his so they didn't fit perfect but they were better than bare in the cool temperature. Stealing one of the robes hanging about Francis ventured forth.
The old house was silent as he padded down the hall. Used to living in Paris the quiet of the country side was a nice reprieve though he'd take the city any subtle sounds of life drew the curious Frenchman downstairs.
His steps were softened by the runner hiding his appearance from the blond in the kitchen. Leaning against the door frame he watched a smile softening the usually harsh face of the green eyed firebrand.
The elegant form of the brit taking his morning tea brought an equally soft smile to his own face taking the time to admire the taciturn man, something he'd usually end up getting screeched at for. Which he still did quite often as Francis rather enjoyed observing the gentle slope of his neck, the fine form hidden beneath the needless amount of clothing, how punk would light up those cheeks so perfectly when flustered. No, Francis couldn't resist watching.
Lost in his own little world he hadn't seen Francis even as he turned back to make more tea. Francis slipped forward and enveloped the thin brit from behind (much like last night ohomhonhon).
Francis could see in the reflection on the window the flash of a smile before the other broke away his customary ferocious scowl marring the handsome face.
"Must you always be so clingy?"
Francis just laughed. He saw that smile and knew what it meant. Just as he knew the brit was only posturing.
There was a tiny click in the space between them. The coffee pot was working, it hadn't been before, Francis had been watching, but now it was and he knew that the other had turned it on just for him. His heart warmed at that. He grinned. A gentle silence descending between them, a companionable one.
Francis sipped gratefully at the cup, the caffeine being his addiction much like the shifty blond before him. His companion seemed to be looking every where else than him but at the same time managing to stare, gaze caught on his lips. Now there's a thought, Francis wondered how much the other would scream should he steal those frowned lips, and turn that frown upside down. Deciding that not to be the proper course of action he spoke.
"Oh sourcils, you always look so angry." He chuckled as the frown deepened, what thought caused that, something good no doubt.
"Why do you have to ruin such a good morning, Frog?"
"Careful, it'll get stuck like that." Francis reached out running his fingers gently over the little hairs of those ferocious eyebrows as they furrowed deeply in his scowl. The little gasp went straight to his heart making it thump happily.
In a second he was gone. As much as that happens he should be used to it but it still hurts at times.
His back was stiff Francis noted. His muscles tense, wired even as he tried to hide from his own emotions. Francis had been playing this game together with the brit for a long time. Pretend you don't know even if you see the shell cracking.
Not about to let hum run away, not this time, Francis followed him. Every part of him wanting to reach out to the other. So he did. Just like before, wrapping around him, lips pressing against the very tempting stretch of skin visible above his collar.
"You never change, Arthur."
"I hate you, Francis." The words weren't even bitter, or sharp. As if they didn't mean what they were supposed to.
"I love you too, Cher." He laughed not minding a bit when he was stopped by insistent lips on his own, kissing back eagerly he realized that he'd never trade this for anything. Not even for wine, or clothes, or good food.