Love?

Chapter 2: Misunderstanding

"I am insensitive. I have a tendency to pay more attention to the things that I need. Sometimes I drink too much. Sometimes I test your trust. Sometimes I don't know why you stay with me.

"I'm hard to love, hard to love. No, I don't make it easy. I couldn't do it if I stood where you stood. I'm hard to love, hard to love. And you say that you need me. Well, I don't deserve it, but I love that you love me good."

―"Hard to Love" by Lee Brice

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Electric blue fire heats Francis's gaze. "Be grateful that he wants to give you this. Otherwise, you are not even worthy of it in the first place."

With that, Francis pushes past Arthur and storms down the hallway. A door slams shut a few moments later.

Leaving Alfred and Ivan to whatever conversation they need to have, Arthur jogs down the hall to his and Francis's shared room and knocks. "Francis?" When there's no reply, he opens the door. "I'm coming in."

The room is small, as it's one of over forty guest rooms in the house. The sunlight streams though the window and lights the figure in the bed, lying on his side with his back to his partner. Arthur closes the door and walks a couple of steps to the full-size bed. While he puts a knee on the mattress, he says, "Francis?"

"I am fine, mon chéri," Francis replies.

"Are you? I haven't seen you so angry for decades, and even then, it was directed at me," Arthur says as he lies behind Francis, wrapping an arm around the other's waist.

After a long moment, Francis spits, "Your former colony is such an ignorant pig at times."

"Francis―"

"Do not tell me that I am overreacting," he continues. "I do not care what he says about me; I realize that most countries believe that I am a pervert, a rapist, or both, but I will not stand for him to treat Russie's struggle as child's play that only involves him."

Arthur doesn't say anything for a minute, but he lightly pulls at the ribbon holding Francis's hair back, waiting for it to come loose before he brushes it aside to kiss behind the Frenchman's ear. "I shall speak with him about it."

"You do not need to have my arguments, Arthur," Francis replies quietly as he relaxes in the other's hold. "Mh, but you should stay where you are until I say otherwise."

Arthur's lips turn up against Francis's neck. "D'accord, mon roi."

"I am your king now? I think the British Royal Family may become jealous."

"They're different. You are only my king, no one else's. Always."

"Sappy does not suit you," Francis murmurs, but he tilts his head back against Arthur so that he can kiss the Briton's cheek.

"Is that a complaint?" Arthur teases.

"Jamais, mon bel amour. Tu es le roi de mon cœur aussi."

Meanwhile, in the kitchen―

"Great, now Artie's going to kill me later," Alfred mutters as he looks at his half-complete cake. Should he finish it? Francis seemed furious, but Alfred can't imagine such a prideful chef leaving a creation incomplete.

Ivan frowns. "Fredka, you should apologize."

"Huh? Why me?" Alfred crosses his arms over his chest. "I didn't do anything."

"He has not done anything wrong. If you must blame someone, blame me, but do not be angry with France. He was trying to help," Ivan says while he strokes a rather upset Lapushka.

Alfred looks down at Lapushka. "Yeah, why did you tell him anyways? You want him to know that we had sex?"

"Fredka, he has helped me through so much," Ivan says. "I did not think you would mind, but…I do not regret that I told him. I wanted his advice."

"Yeah, sex advice from the country of love―"

"Nyet, I wanted advice from Francis Bonnefoy so that I can bottom without any mental complications."

Ivan actually sees that information click in Alfred's head; the American's face goes from irritated bordering on angry to surprise mixed with guilt. After a moment, Alfred says, "Oh…that's what he meant."

"Next time you do not fully understand what someone is saying, determine what it is before you yell at them. What you did was completely uncalled for," Ivan says.

Alfred shifts, feeling like a child scolded by a parent. Except he's not really concerned with Arthur chastising him, but Ivan is a little more important. "Sorry."

"Do not tell me; tell France."

Alfred feels a violet gaze on his back as he walks down the hallway with his head down. Definitely worse to have your partner mad at you than your parent.

When he knocks on the door, he hears a British accent rather than French. "Who is it?"

"Um, Alfred."

There's a pause.

"You may enter." This time, the accent is French.

Alfred opens the door, trying to remember how to pronounce the words in his mind. Once he can see the two on the bed, he bows. "J-je suis…siento."

On the bed, Arthur is flat on his back while Francis is propped up on one elbow. "You are what?"

"Bowing is Japanese," Arthur mutters, closing his eyes. "And I think you mixed French and Spanish."

"I did?" Alfred says, straightening. "Oh, um…I'm sorry then. Do I get brownie points for trying?"

"Brownie points?" Francis repeats with a furrowed brow.

"No, you do not," Arthur says.

Alfred gets the sneaking suspicion that Arthur is even angrier than Francis. "I'm sorry. It's not an excuse, but I didn't really…understand what you were getting at earlier. You know, with the whole Ivan wanting help and stuff. Sorry I snapped." When Francis continues to stare at him, he again says, "I'm sorry."

Francis sighs quietly and nods. "You are forgiven, but do not ask any favors."

"Oh, actually―"

"Belt up, you bloody wanker!" Arthur snaps, sitting up.

"Arthur―" Francis puts a hand on Arthur's chest, gentle but noticeably firm in case the Briton decides to punch Alfred.

"If I insulted Russia so badly that he locks himself up in his bedroom, would you want to hear me spew apologies and then ask for favors?" Arthur spits.

Alfred shakes his head slowly before he quietly excuses himself.

This whole best birthday ever thing isn't really starting off too well.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

By the time Francis finally returns to the kitchen and finishes the cake, it's nearly six o'clock. Since the kitchen has been out of commission, pizza is ordered for dinner and the States are squished into the gigantic living room to watch a baseball game. Somewhere along the way, the States and a few of the Provinces start taking sides: Michael leading the group rooting for the Detroit Tigers and then Nathan with the New York Yankees supporters. Alfred refuses to pick a side, saying that he can't choose one son over the other, and Ivan is relatively confused since baseball isn't a common game in Russia, or at least not as common as in America.

However, the birthday boy does get a couch all to himself. Well, sort of. He's sitting in front of Ivan and in between the Russian's legs, leaning back against him while his feet are propped up in Matthew's lap. No one believes Alfred when he claims that his twin is pinching him.

Outside the house on the deck, Francis takes a sip from his wine glass before he sets in down on the table. Across from him, Gilbert pops open a beer while Antonio sits on the wooden deck railing and swings his legs.

"I don't understand how baseball and football are more popular than soccer in the United States," Gilbert says. "And why do they call it soccer here anyways? It's football. There's a foot and there's a ball. Soccer sounds like 'sock her', and doesn't that mean 'hit her'?"

"Is that your second or third beer?" Antonio asks.

"Uh, don't know." Gilbert laughs and looks at the bottle before he takes another swig. "It looks like the second, but it feels like the third. Tastes like the fourth!"

"But more importantly, it is the last," Francis says.

"I can hold my beer!"

"Amigo, we are surrounded by teenage states and provinces," Antonio says. "If you strip, you might be arrested."

"Oui, and I would not put it past Mathieu to do such a thing," France adds.

Gilbert laughs again. "Yeah, baby, he can arrest me any day!"

France closes his eyes for a moment before he opens them again to find the wine bottle and pour himself another glass. "Stay sober, oui? I am counting on you that Angleterre does not find this wine if I pass out, Espagne."

"Vale, vale." Antonio pauses. "You are not one to become intoxicated, Francis."

"Amérique est un idiot." Francis stares at the wine in his hand blankly.

"What did he do? I heard him yelling this afternoon," Antonio says as he hops down from the railing and instead leans back against it with his arms stretched out on the wood behind him.

Francis shakes his head. "Personal business. He was ignorant, and I was…" He pauses to think of the correct word as his tongue tries to slip into his native language. "I was appalled."

"Is the Cold War couple having trouble in paradise?" Antonio asks.

"It is a little more complex than that, but oui." Francis drains the rest of the wine from his glass. "And what do you call me and Angleterre? Hundred Years' War couple?"

Antonio shrugs. "Too long. Old married couple is more accurate anyways."

"What if―" Gilbert begins as he holds up his beer bottle. "―the whole world is in a bottle?" He laughs, slapping the table. "In a bottle! So the beer's in a bottle, but we're in a bottle!"

Francis gives up on the elegance of the glass and starts drinking the wine straight from the bottle.

"Francis, do not be stupid," Antonio says.

"A friend is supposed to let the other be stupid."

"No, no, quite the opposite the last time I checked." Antonio pushes away from the railing and moves close enough to snatch away the wine bottle. Francis doesn't fight for it, but he glares at the Spaniard with barely any fire in his eyes. "There is a difference between drinking because it is fun to drink with friends―" He points to Gilbert. "―and drinking away your sorrows." He points to Francis. "So what is on your mind, amigo?"

"Amérique et Russie. That is all I will say."

"You know that I will not pry."

Francis sighs. "I believe that Amérique's ignorance may become a problem in his relationship with Russie. Of course, Russie assures me that such a thing will not happen, but a person's patience and understanding only reaches a certain point."

"And then what? Is Russia going to beat him up or something?"

Francis is ready to say no, but then he settles for a shrug. Flashbacks aren't very good at insuring safety.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

"So that's the plan," Alfred finishes. "What do you think?"

Matthew looks at the paper of ideas and materials before he looks back up at his brother. "You really want to make this special, don't you?"

"Well, yeah! I mean, there's some other stuff that I can't talk about, but it's important that Ivan likes it."

"Does this other stuff involve why you and Papa fought this afternoon?"

Alfred leans back against his truck. It's big and dark blue, practically his baby, and it's the only vehicle that gets to stay in the garage. He asked Matthew for his opinion on the plan and for some help with getting all the things he needs into the bed of said truck. "Kind of, yeah, but I already apologized and everything. Artie's still really mad though, even worse than France was."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

Matthew gives him an even look.

"I just misunderstood what France was talking about and got kind of…mad, I guess. I said that he shouldn't be putting his nose in my business, but he was trying to help Ivan."

"You and your Puritan roots," Matthew mutters.

Alfred doesn't reply as he continues to load up the truck.

"How far is the drive?" Matthew asks.

"Only a few hours." Alfred pauses after he situates a bin. "Do you think he'll like it?"

"Al, I think he'll love it. Well, maybe not the lack of electricity and no plumbing, but he's lived through those times longer than you."

Before Alfred can reply, he hears, "Ah, there you are." Arthur appears in the garage's entryway. "Are you going somewhere?"

Alfred slowly nods. "Yeah, the day after tomorrow."

Arthur looks at the other brother. "Matthew, will you give us a few minutes?"

"Sure. I'll be in the living room if you need me." With that, the Canadian disappears through the door into the house.

Alfred decides to busy himself with his current task, and while he looks through a bin to make sure everything is there, he asks, "Do you need something?"

There's a pause, but Alfred doesn't turn around.

"Francis refuses to tell me what that argument was about in detail, but I've got a pretty good idea. He says that he wants me to speak with you," Arthur says.

Alfred scowls. "I really don't want to talk about it. It's private stuff between me and Ivan―"

"I know that; I won't have you to talk about it. But the only thing I can think of that Francis would want me to speak with you about is having sex with someone who has been raped."

"I said it's none of your business," Alfred bites.

Arthur stares at the American for a long moment. Then he says, "Be that as it may―and I've not any desire to even look at you right now―I doubt you understand just how hard the whole process is."

"What would you know?"

"Far more than I would like to."

That makes Alfred stop short. "O-oh."

Arthur sighs. "Francis honestly wants to everyone around him happy and loved. That's the only reason I agreed to speak with you at all."

"Uh, thanks, I think."

"Hm." Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. "It may not work out the first time. It might not matter what you do to help him feel safe, because he could have flashbacks, a panic attack, or start vomiting, among other things, and you need to be patient. That's the main thing. He may have triggers that he's unaware of, so he may suddenly become scared or angry."

Alfred tries to process all of this as the Briton says it. "Triggers?"

"It could be anything that makes him recoil. Touching a certain part of his body, pulling his hair, or a particular phrase." Arthur pauses. "Foreplay is extremely important, and you should probably let him lead. Talk to him, and make sure that you don't surprise him at all when you touch him."

Alfred nods. Then he glances down at his hands. "What if he does have a panic attack?"

"Obviously, stop whatever you're doing, no matter how hard that is, and don't be angry or frustrated with him. Make sure he knows that everything is alright and that if he wants to wait a little longer, that's fine."

"Yeah, okay," Alfred says. "Is it really that hard? Having sex after…you know."

Arthur nods. "Of course it is."

"But it still…feels good, right? I mean, for him?"

"Most of the obstacles are mental, so he'll still feel the same pleasure physically; it's just a matter of getting there."

Alfred nods and falls silent. He returns to packing up his supplies while emerald eyes watch him, and he feels them boring into his back.

After a minute, Arthur says, "I hope it goes well, Alfred."

"Thanks." Alfred pauses. "The favor I was going to ask for earlier…if it helps, I want France to keep talking to Ivan."

Arthur nods. "I shall pass on that knowledge."

Author Note: Okay, yeah, nothing really happened in this chapter. I know. I'm awful. Like I stated in the first part, there's no plot, so whatever happens just sort of happens for no particular reason. Stay tuned for more plot-less fluff and angst! If you can't wait for the next chapter, please, Please, PLEASE REVIEW!

A hint for next chapter:

Matthew holds his breath to quiet himself, but after a few moments, he chokes on his sobs again. Two hands fall on his back. One is small and soft but firm, and the other is larger, perfectly manicured and rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. There's no mix of the two. Not a big hand with calluses and a little extra chub. No "Mattie". No Alfred.

Translations

Spanish:

"Vale" – "Alright"

French:

"Mon chéri" – "My darling"

"D'accord, mon roi." – "Of course, my king."

"Jamais, mon bel amour. Tu es le roi de mon cœur aussi." – "Never, my beautiful love. You are the king of my heart as well."

"Amérique est un idiot." – "America is an idiot."

Other:

"Belt up, you bloody wanker!" – "Shut up, you stupid idiot!" (For those of you who are like me and don't know British slang.)

"Je suis siento." – "Je suis désolé" is French for "I'm sorry" while the Spanish equivalent is "Lo siento".