A Little Drop Of Healing: The Bell Tolls
It started with an issue about a calendar and what the current day was. That was the part that pissed England off the most. No, it wasn't April Fool's Day. And no, that piece of paper he'd scribbled on in his fury and embarrassment was not actually a calendar. There were a lot of things that had ticked the nation off over the years, but this took the cake.
He couldn't believe Francis would be such a jerk. He'd finally started to get a little better and then he goes and does something so stupid. So now, here he was, sitting on the bed after being kidnapped and watching with narrowed eyes as the older blond spoke on the phone with his boss.
"If I don't merge with you . . . I . . . I might die!"
The sudden change in France's attitude over his what had seemed inevitable demise was what had shocked Arthur the most. The look on his face had changed somehow when he said it, from someone who had lived too long, to someone who had suddenly realized that he had not yet lived long enough.
"I don't want to marry you for that reason!"
Marriage in the first place had never been a term England was all that comfortable with in the first place. He could only name a few countries that had ever actually been married. Austria and Hungary being two of the few. It wasn't just taking over the land for a prolonged period of time either, otherwise everyone at some point or another would probably really have been "one with Russia." No, it was as simple as a normal human marriage. The pair would share a name, like Austria-Hungary. They would live together, and in the eyes of every other nation, be just as much of an actual couple as anyone else.
In all technicality, he thought of marriages just like a girl would. That they were something you only did after you had decided that you loved someone. Not any of that arranged shit his people were so fond of. And this was just as bad as any of that. God knowing he'd probably kill himself if his boss agreed to such a thing. There was no love behind an arranged marriage.
Then again, who was he to talk as the person who slept about when he got bored and couldn't remember who he'd slept with some of the time. The definition he applied to holy matrimony was what one would normally use in this day and age about sex. He snorted slightly at the thought.
But his retort rang in his head over and over again. Really, he should have just said "I don't want to marry you," and ended the conversation then and there. But instead, he'd tacked on those words "For that reason," at the end. And he still couldn't understand why.
He'd said it out of anger, yes. But he realized as he had been saying it that somewhere deep down, he was hurt. Hurt that Francis would ask something so bluntly, and for such a ridiculous reason as not wanting to die. Not that England really wanted him to die, it just sounded stupid when said out loud.
It made him wonder what reasons would be acceptable to him if the situation arose again. Would the words "I love you" have been valid to his ears? Somehow, he doubted it. It wouldn't make a difference when France said it, since he said that to everyone at some point or another. He'd said it a lot when they were younger. "Angleterre, I love you," and things like that just for laughs.
"Mon Arthur . . . Je t'aime . . ."
Arthur blinked and shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about that now, not when he was still mad about the entire situation. But if he did give it a moment's pause, he had to admit that Francis's tone had, for once, been completely sincere that day. England rolled his eyes and shooed the thought away with the excuse of the older nation playing a sympathy card to lead up to this idiocy.
He looked up as Francis suddenly hung up the phone, noticing the half relieved, half annoyed look on the other's face.
"You can go now if you like," France muttered, staring down at the ground, "Your boss blew the whole thing off, not that I didn't expect that."
"Then why'd you try in the first place," Arthur snapped sharply.
"Cherie, it was my boss's orders. Since when have we ever been able to disagree?" Francis answered smartly.
England was silent for a moment, eyes narrowed, "I'm still mad at you, orders or not."
Francis looked surprised, "Why, cherie?"
The younger blond let out a frustrated hiss at the nickname, "Stop calling me that, especially after today, you frog. Calling me that, telling me you love me, I've had enough of it. Don't fool around if you're not going to at least use the same tactics to propose." He stood up from the edge of the bed, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to use your shower and wash off my mortification at this whole affair."
France merely nodded and stared after him with a confused and taken aback expression. He knew Arthur would be mad, hell who wouldn't be? But at the same time, he was surprised to hear such a thing all the same. He wasn't mad about being proposed to, he was mad about how he was proposed to.
England had let the hot water run out before he exited the shower, more out of exhaustion than spite, though there was indeed a little of that too. A few coins more on the water bill of such a prat was always pleasing to him. But when he came back into said prat's bedroom, Francis was nowhere to be found. And rather, the whole room was looking very odd in his absence, in more ways than one.
The bed and the floor had been covered in little red rose petals, and a few candles had been placed on the dressers and shelves. Arthur wasn't sure whether the best suited reaction would be laughing, or gagging. All in all, it was definitely a corny setup, but in the end, he simply smiled with a light laugh and scanned the room once more for Francis, but again came up empty handed.
Instead of worrying, he sat down on the bed again, towel around his waist, and purposefully started to flick the flower petals off of the sheets. It was amusing to him how many flowers were always around the man's house, and on his person for that matter. A rose for every occasion, as the nation himself had stated. England wondered what the sudden occasion was right now, though he was hoping for dramatic and groveling apology.
A moment later, Francis reentered the room only to give him an annoyed look. "You couldn't have waited five more minutes to get out of the shower? I didn't even get to finish setting up!" Francis complained, waving the bouquet of roses he now held in his hand in exasperation.
"Prepare for what?" Arthur asked, raising a characteristic eyebrow with a smirk.
Francis sighed and joined him on the edge of the bed, "Well, I just thought . . ." He looked away, "You were mad, because I didn't do it right. So I . . . I wanted to show you that I can do it right."
"Huh?"
But before England could ask what the hell Francis was talking about, the older blond had gotten off the bed and down onto one knee on the floor in front of him. He handed the stunned nation the roses first, "For you, cherie."
"Wait, Francis, what-"
France silenced him by taking his hand, "Shush, let me talk, cheri. Let me show you that it's not all teasing." He reached into his pocket, drawing something out and slipping it over the ring finger of the left hand that he held, "Je t'aime, mon Arthur," he whispered, "Will you marry me?"
Arthur's breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the ring. He would have been surprised even if it had just been a normal engagement ring, but he was startled to see that it wasn't. Instead, he found himself staring down at a glass ring with tiny flower petals pressed inside it. "No . . . It was you? You were the one that had the ring?" he asked, his heart rate rising uncontrollably, "Th-that means . . . You were the one-" He raised his free hand to his mouth, cutting off his own words.
The older nation looked away, "I'm sorry. I should have told you, I know that. But I . . . I didn't want to see you upset, cherie."
England shook his head, hand still over his mouth, "It's not that, I'm not mad at you." He closed his eyes, holding back tears, "I'm mad at me. For luring you in, I know I did. And for forgetting. You had every right to take the ring, I-"
"What are you talking about cherie?" Francis interrupted, "I didn't take the ring out of spite or anything like that. How many times am I going to have to say it before you believe me? Angleterre, Je t'aime. Je t'aime, je t'aime. Always, cherie, always." He stood up and wiped the tears that had begun to form from England's emerald eyes, "And I'm completely serious."
"Seriously crazy," England laughed slightly, stifling a hiccup.
"Crazy enough to marry?" Francis prompted with a smile, "And don't you dare say that your boss said no. Austria and Hungary are still married, even though their alliance broke up awhile back. We're people too, Arthur. Let's get married like our people do, none of that conjoined country merde."
"You really mean that?"
"Mon cherie, anything with you is enough for me. But I would indeed be honored if you'd accept," Francis murmured.
Arthur held out his hand in front of him, examining the ring with a contemplating look, "If anything is all right, then let's take it slow for now. After all, I have yet to recall anything of the night you took this in the first place."
Francis laughed, "Well, that's not all I took." He skipped nimbly aside as Arthur threw the bunch of roses at his head, "Now now cheri, no need to get mad. I can remind you in various ways any time you so choose."
"How about after I kill you?" England smirked, catching the back of Francis's shirt. Their eyes locked and the younger of the pair took half a step back, feeling his heart pounding again. But Francis merely smiled and leaned down, kissing him gently.
"How slow is 'taking it slow?'"
England groaned as France forced his tongue into his mouth, but didn't resist. He let France push him back onto the bed, falling onto the flower petals that still lay there. Reaching up, he tangled his fingers into the shoulder-length blond hair, arching up against the other with another audible groan.
France smiled, pulling back slightly, running his fingers along Arthur's bare chest, "Cheri, you're too enticing to leave alone. You should have known better than to only wear a towel when in my house."
Arthur arched up again as the towel was taken off and tossed to the floor, hands finding a perch on Francis's back. The older nation gasped with surprise as their positions were suddenly reversed, the world spinning around him until he huffed as his back hit the mattress. England smirked as he leaned over him, capturing his lips in another searing kiss. He flicked open the buttons on Francis's shirt with ease, tossing the item on the floor before shifting down to his pants.
France was preoccupied as Arthur fiddled with his belt, his own hands rummaging in a drawer on the bedside dresser. His fingers closing around a small bottle, he sat up a bit and held it out to Arthur with an amused look, "So, how do you want to do this, cherie?"
England pushed him back down with another kiss, taking the bottle from him, "Let me handle everything this time," he replied smoothly. Opening the bottle, he slid a digit through the slick substance inside, watching it roll off his fingers for a moment before crooking his arm around behind his back.
The older man's breath caught in his throat as England stretched himself. The shorter blonde's cheeks blazed a darker shade of red with every movement, and his emerald eyes glazed over with a mixture of pain and pleasure. Francis raised his hands up to the other's chest, holding him steady, leaning up slightly to kiss him reassuringly.
Arthur sat up straighter, knees on either side of Francis's legs as he placed his hands on the other's chest for support. France's own hands lowered to the other's hips, slowly guiding him down. England groaned and bit his lip as he pushed himself down onto the older nation's hardened member, gasping slightly with the feel of it. Francis held him steady, his own breath coming up short. Somehow, this was different from that one, very drunken night. He resisted the urge to roll over and just have his way with the other, since Arthur seemed intent on going about the matter in this position instead.
The younger blond leaned over Francis again, kissing him lightly, confirming that he was all right. Using the hands that were splayed across the other's chest, he levered himself up, whimpering with the suddenly empty feeling before he lowered himself back down with twice the speed to make up for it. He shifted slightly, searching for the position that would allow him to hit that special spot, but failing after a few more movements.
Francis growled, unable to contain himself any longer, flipping Arthur over onto his back and taking over. He thrust in, fingers tangling together with England's as he managed to connect with the place the other had been searching for. He could feel the cool glass of the ring on Arthur's left hand and he smiled to himself as he repeated the movement, making Arthur gasp and squirm beneath him. It was only a few moments before Arthur released harshly against the other's chest, clenching around Francis and forcing him to cum inside.
Arthur's breathing came in short, hitched gasps as Francis pulled out, hovering over him with that familiar, concerned look in his eyes. The younger man sat up a bit, smiling slightly as he hooked an arm around the other's shoulders, kissing him as he pulled him back down. "Again," he murmured.
^-^ ^-^ ^-^
America laughed uproariously into the receiver, "What? No way, is that even a real position?"
On the other side, France laughed in the same manner, "Oui, ami, anything in the shower can be a real position. So, can we expect you for the wedding then?"
"Um, duh," America replied instantly, "It's like . . . Watching my two dads get married."
There was another loud laugh on the other end, and Francis could be heard yelling something like, "Hey, America says you're his dad!" followed by a startled and indignant noise from what was presumably England. "He says he's not that old," Francis chuckled into the phone.
"And stop talking about our sex life you cad!" England screeched from somewhere in the room, "Especially to a kid like that!"
Alfred rolled his eyes, "Tell him I expect him to be wearing a fancy white wedding dress at the ceremony," he smirked, listening as Francis repeated the message. There was an indignant sounding yell from the other end, and France's loud laughter overlapping it. America smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair slightly. His eyes widened as the back of his head bumped against cold metal, and his hand faltered in its grip on the phone.
"I'll see what I can do about the dress," Francis chuckled after the odd moment of silence from America. He waited again for a reply, but was again met with nothing. But the line wasn't disconnected; he could hear breathing on the other end. "America?"
"Yeah, I'm here . . ." America's voice came out slow and deliberate, and Francis felt a flash of worry. Something was wrong. "Hey, Francis?"
"Yes, ami?"
"I'm happy for you guys, you know?" he laughed quietly, but to Francis's ears, it sounded oddly forced, "Tell Arthur . . . Not to be mad at Kiku, okay? No more fighting, I don't want there to be anymore fighting between them."
Francis began to panic. This was not like America, to say something like this so suddenly. "A-America, what's-"
"And don't be mad at Ludwig either. You know better than anyone what a bad boss can do to someone, what lies can be told to make it seem like what you're doing is perfectly fine," Alfred continued as if he hadn't heard.
France blinked as the line suddenly went dead, and he dropped the phone. Arthur looked up from where he was arranging some flowers in a vase on the other side of the room, characteristic eyebrow raised questioningly. "Something's wrong," Francis whispered, standing up. "Call your boss! Something's wrong!"
America's hand was still near his ear when the phone was ripped out of his grasp and thrown against the wall, shattering on impact. Sparks flew up from the remains, but he paid them little mind, focusing his attention on the cold metal pressed against the back of his skull. His eyes narrowed, and he tried to move his hand down to the gun at his hip as discreetly as possible.
Apparently not discreetly enough, however, as the gun pointed at his head shifted to slam across his skull. Alfred stumbled out of the chair, hand raising to the side of his head. His fingers came away crimson and he fell to his knees, the other hand falling to the ground to support himself as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He blinked and turned his gaze from the blood on his hand up to the person standing over him, blue eyes meeting lavender.
Ivan smirked down at the blond, shifting the gun in his hand, "Hello, America. Long time no see." He laughed, clicking the safety off of the gun and aiming it at the other nation again, "You know what's in this, don't you?"
The blond narrowed his eyes, "How did you get so close, bastard. You shouldn't have been able to get this far."
The older country laughed again, a dark, amused laugh, "How long is it going to take you to realize that a lot of people hate you, America? It wasn't that hard. That young new neighbor of yours was very helpful. He let me set up a base and everything," he smirked, pressing the gun to America's head again.
"Cuba," Alfred hissed between his teeth, mentally blaming himself for not having realized this earlier. He tilted his head back slightly, staring up at the taller nation standing over him defiantly, "Go ahead then, shoot me if that's what you really want. You're just going to have hell to pay for it when I'm gone."
"From who?" Russia smirked knowingly. "Even if France and England care about you, once you're gone, their bosses will give in to me. They won't avenge you, if that's what you're thinking." He pressed the barrel of the gun against Alfred's head again, "And if I kill you, that brother of yours won't give me any trouble either. No one is going to save you, America."
Alfred gritted his teeth, "Who cares. A hero doesn't need saving after all. I plan to go down gallantly. So go ahead and shoot me then. Because you won't see me screaming for mercy anytime soon, bastard," he spat at the other's feet with a defiant growl, only to feel the handle of the gun hit him over the head again. He didn't fall this time though, keeping on his knees, one hand still resting on the ground. And he merely stared back at Ivan with an unwavering gaze, as if daring him to finish him off.
Kiku was in his kitchen when the phone rang, and he nearly burned himself on the gas stove as he rushed to get it. "Moshi moshi?"
"Japan, get out of the house!"
The dark haired nation blinked in confusion, "Greece-san? What's wrong? Why are you calling so suddenly-"
"Don't ask any questions!" Greece snapped, something that was very rare for him to do, "America . . . Turkey and I just got word that something is going down at America's place. They're going to come after you too, Japan. You need to leave the house as soon as you can."
Nihon nodded, though he knew this was not a motion that could be expressed over the phone, "O-of course. But don't worry about me, go help America, please." He hung up the phone before Greece could answer him, and he narrowed his eyes. "It's a little late to leave though, isn't it . . ." He shifted slightly, catching sight of the blade that was hovering dangerously near his throat. "Attacking a neutral country is pretty low, brother."
China rolled his eyes from where he was perched on the countertop, sword held out close to his younger sibling's neck, "Like you've never done that before, Kiku. As I recall, your precious America was once neutral too. And besides, I'm not here to attack you." He yawned, as if bored with the whole task already, "I'm only here to hold you back."
"Back from what?" Japan asked smoothly eyes flickering around the room for something, anything he could use as a weapon.
"From saving America, obviously. Greece just told you, didn't he? Ivan's got him cornered."
"I'm not worried about that teme," Kiku said shortly, "America can take care of himself."
"With some of those nuclear missiles pointed right at him?" China chuckled, "I think not."
Kiku felt his heart shudder to a stop. He shouldn't be worried, he really shouldn't. America . . . America could get out of this easily, just like he did everything. Right? But his mind was filled with the nightmares he'd had off and on throughout the years since he and the blond had parted. Of Ivan standing over Alfred, shooting him without remorse, right in the head. Killing him. He shivered, glancing pressed against his throat again. In this situation, he couldn't make a move to help in any way.
Kami . . . He prayed, don't let that dream become reality. Please . . .
RANDOM AUTHOR RAMBLE
ಠ_ಠ If you want to stick blame on anyone for my lateness, know that this time it's Lucky and Angel's fault. I was too depressed to go through with this scene for days . . . (almost a week, actually. D: ) But I swear now to you all that this fic will have a HAPPY ending for America and Japan. (by the way, I'm still sulking like no other about that. You'll understand if you've been reading Seven Little Killers.)
Anywho . . . The whole chapter was made of two scenes I've been planning since the beginning. And so, right now, we're in the final arc of the story more or less. Next chapter will have some fluff at the end, before some epic OTP bonding in the chapter after that. And then maybe one- two chapters and the end. So . . . Three to five chapters left before I wrap this up. Wow.