AN: Okay, this is just a little experiment. My headcanon is that Francis would never, ever cheat, but I wanted to play around with the storyline a little. I also doubt Arthur would be as abusive as he is in this chapter, but again it's all plot development and something to add a little drama since I thought it was getting boring. Let me know what you think! There will probably only be one or two chapters after this.
Warnings? Physical abuse and slurs/name calling
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the song 'Payphone'.
Where have the times gone, baby, it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?
Crashes reverberated around the house, followed by shouts and screams of anger. A sickening thud; the distinct sound of a body shoved into something solid. Another scream, this time of pain, and a slight hint of fear. Hands tore into clothes, slapping and pushing. Hair was pulled, long strands pulled out and discarded on the floor. Languages mixed together, the sound of English and French colliding in the air, fighting as much as the two lovers who yelled it at each other. A hand slapped a cheek, the owner of the hand fuming with anger.
Francis' head smacked off the wall, the force of Arthur's hand slamming on his face harder than expected. He was pushed into the wall several times, pinned by his shoulders. He looked down, into the Brit's green eyes, burning with anger and fury. He swallowed, scared. Something in him screamed to fight back, but the rest of his mind overpowered it; after all, he deserved it.
He hadn't broken his promise and hit Arthur after a drunken night, oh no. He had done something worse.
He had cheated after a drunken night. He had slept with two people in one night, only to come back and sleep with Arthur too. He cringed, shrinking away from Arthur as he yelled, his words ones of pure anger, sometimes containing a slur or insult. Each word swam in his mind, embedding itself forever. He didn't care. He deserved it for being such an idiot.
"You stupid, stupid slut! What's wrong with you?!" Arthur grabbed Francis' shoulders, slamming him into the wall again. A small voice in the back of his mind thanked the heavens that Francis was slim, otherwise he would never have this much power over him. He knew it was wrong to beat his boyfriend up, but how else could he show how hurt he was? Tears obviously didn't work. Francis had flirted with others before, but it had never gone past that. Even the flirting was bad enough, the Frenchman using words of adoration and flattery that should have been directed towards Arthur. The Englishman had always screamed at him after, breaking down into a crying mess. Francis always seemed apologetic and remorseful then, promising not to do it again. So much for promises.
He was snapped out of his thoughts as Francis groaned, holding the back of his head. He pulled him down, dropping him to the floor. After delivering a swift kick to his stomach, Arthur stormed out of the room, running upstairs and locking himself in the bathroom. He stood, panting at his reflection in the mirror, noticing how furious he looked. A few seconds passed, and his lower lip began to tremble. He dropped to his knees, his hands covering his face, trying to press back the wails that sounded from his throat. His thick eyebrows pulled together, his eyes squeezing shut against the tears that threatened to spill down his face. His fingertips scraped over his scalp, grasping the sandy blond hair. He stiffened, hearing Francis shift. Part of him felt guilty, but the hurt, anger and pure betrayal washed over him, erasing the guilt. He leaned back, his legs giving way as he slumped against the wall. He slid down, sitting with his legs splayed in front of him, allowing the tears to slide free. He sobbed, not caring if the other heard him. At first the sounds of sadness and hurt were quiet, before slowly increasing in volume. Half of him hoped Francis would hear; he wanted the Frenchman to understand how hurt he was. He wanted him to understand how wrong he was, and that he couldn't keep doing things like this. Sometimes it seemed like Francis forgot; he forgot that Arthur was rather insecure. He forgot that he even had a boyfriend sometimes, Arthur thought. The Englishman curled into a ball, pulling at his hair as he cried harder, restless thoughts swirling around his mind, screaming different possibilities at him.
Hours had passed. Francis had barely moved, only rolling out of the doorway to beside the sofa. He didn't have the strength to stand up. Despite Arthur's slim form and delicate looks, he could hurt someone worse than anyone he knew. Francis' eyes were closed, bruises beginning to form around them. His blond hair was fanned over his face, his arms covering his face. He was stretched out, trying to ignore the aches in his stomach and legs. Every inch of him, he was sure, was bruised or cut. Not that he cared. He deserved it. He had expected it; Arthur's anger was projected through violence and words, rather than Francis', who was more manipulative. Maybe that's why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to hurt Arthur, though he didn't even know why. He had messed up before, not Arthur. He had already hurt his love; what made him do it again? He sighed, before wincing at the pain in his ribs. He tried easing his heavy eyelids open, only to give up and just lie in silence, his breathing being the only indicator that he was even alive.
All the time he had lay there, he had to listen to Arthur's broken sobbing. Each sound was like a knife, straight through his heart. All he wanted to do was scoop the other into his arms, desperately trying to win him back. Although, there was hardly much he could do. The damage was too great. He had shattered Arthur's trust in him. If it was only kissing, then maybe there would still be a chance. But no. He had to go and have meaningless sex with two strangers. That's all it was; two acts of lust. Nothing more. He hadn't wanted a relationship, nor had he wanted to hurt Arthur. He just felt like having someone that night, and obviously couldn't wait to get home to Arthur. It wasn't even like he could blame his friends for not stopping him, since they had held him back from launching himself at several other people. It wasn't their fault; it was his. He had been stupid, unfaithful and... A slut. Everyone was right, he was a slut. Francis the slut. He needed to learn to keep it in his pants. He needed to learn. He needed... He needed Arthur... Except, Arthur didn't need him. Arthur deserved more than him; someone to treat him right, to never hurt him, to make him feel special. Someone unlike Francis, who couldn't control his urges or keep his promises.
Francis slowly turned onto his back, pushing himself into a sitting position. He slumped forward, breathing deeply. His eyes opened, puffy slits where the azure orbs once lay. Shakily, he rose to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He moved his feet tiny amounts, taking baby steps until he reached the kitchen. He reached out, picking up a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote out a note, his trembling hand morphing his elegant script into messy scribbles. After this, he made his way into the hallway, only pausing to pick up his coat, which contained his wallet and keys in the pocket, before heading out of the front door.
It looked like he'd be spending a couple of nights around Antonio's house, waiting - hoping - that Arthur's rage would simmer down. Maybe they could fix things.
