Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the title of this fanfiction, I just own an unhealthy devotion to France as a nation and its history. English is not my mother language and neither is French, any constructive criticism is appreciated.
Warnings: France is going to speak random French because, well, he is France. Title credited to the group L.E.J.
Several shots echoed in the room soon followed by several others.
It didn't take long before the target bent in half after a series of holes -equidistant and aligned between them- had divided it in two. More shots followed, drawing this time two diagonal lines that crossing one another got rid of what was left of the target.
Satisfied with the results, France took off his hearing and eye protection to drink some water and refill the magazine of the gun he had rented.
"You know, France, I thought that the point of a shooting practice was hitting a specific point several times, not destroying the target, no matter if those are not meant to be used again." Spain complained, fiddling with the sword resting on his lap while he observed his friend using the shooting boot they had rented for the afternoon. "Now, however, I understand why you got us a room at a shooting range for our sword fight."
"I think that you are talking a bit too much for someone who asked for a break." France pointed out, calling forth another target and putting his earmuffs and shooting glasses back on before he started shooting again.
This time, the holes drew the outline of the Tour Eiffel, turning into confetti whatever wasn't needed for his masterpiece.
"I called the break, but you should have rested with me…" Spain sighed, knowing too well that France wouldn't be able to hear him amidst all that noise. Besides, even if he could, he would just shrug it off.
On his end, France destroyed three more targets before putting protections and gun back on their stand and going to retrieve his own sword, currently resting against the wall.
"So, are you ready to start again?"
"France, I know you have a lot to let out, but you hardly had a break in two hours!"
"I'll rest at home." France countered annoyed, pointing the sword to his friend's chest. "Besides, we have one more hour here, and I'd like not wasting it since I'm paying."
"Like you honestly cared about wasting unneeded money. Not even getting in England's pants taught you that, and he was our last hope for you." Spain sighed again and sat up, walking tiredly to the wider area of the room in which they had been sparring, before he had called the break and France had started blowing innocent targets to shreds.
Despite his initial lack of enthusiasm, Spain was ready to fend off France's blow as soon as he had run forward to attack him together with the several ones that had followed. No matter how much he tried to turn the tables, though, blow after blow, strike after strike, all he could do was focussing on defence and defence alone.
"Oi, France, let me play! What's up with you today!?" Spain yelled eventually, but the only answer he got was France upping the ante, giving him barely any time to see from which direction the blow was coming.
His blue eyes, shining with a determination Spain had hardly seen there during the latest years, only made him feel more and more unsure about what the hell was wrong with his friend. What had happened to fire him up like that?
Spain had no way to find the answer he was searching for, because France sensed his distraction and simply disappeared from his sight. That chilled the blood inside Spain's veins, making him notice – too late- France reappearing in front of him.
Before he knew it, France got through his defences and disarmed him, making Spain's sword flew to the other side of the room and hit the ground with a tinkle. He pointed his sword at his throat, so Spain could just rise his hands in surrender, more scared by the glare his friend was giving him than by the proximity of the blade to his neck.
"You can now snap out from whatever made you lose your mind." He said slowly, staring meaningfully at France. "The time has almost expired."
He offered France his hand to help him up and, much to his relief, he accepted it, allowing Spain to bring him back at level with him.
"Sorry, I was a bit harsh." France excused himself, earning Spain's friendly pat on his shoulder.
"Don't worry, you obviously needed it. Do you want to tell me what's up?"
France just shook his head and gathered his things to make his way towards the showers, leaving Spain to follow him disheartened.
They showered in silence and in an even deeper silence they proceeded towards the exit of the building, only to stare crestfallen at the downpour outside.
"Since we are trapped here for some time, if you have something to say, you should do it now." Spain tried again, resting his back against the wall of the building as he stared at the rain.
"I have nothing to say." France eventually answered, taking a spot next to his friend. "If we ran to the next metro station, we could get home at a decent time. It looks like it's not going to stop."
"You can run in the rain but, if this keeps going, I'll call a taxi to get back to my embassy." Spain pointed out. "How are things going with we-know-who?"
"He has a name, you know?"
"I do, but the rain would probably just fall harder, if I asked France how's going with England."
"It's going well, to be fair. As he had promised, not much of our politics affected us as a couple." France answered calmly, his plain attitude earning Spain's curious stare.
"But you don't like the political side, right?"
"I don't know, that's what is upsetting. I hoped that we could get a change of approach with the presidential race, but we are stuck to point one instead."
"We influence our people just as much as they influence us. If the two of you are all right, eventually politics will settle. There's no reason to fret about him leaving or betraying you."
Spain's words, said to reassure France, earned him an outraged glare instead.
"Fuck you, Spain! Why the hell should he leave me or go behind my back!?"
"Hey hey, calm down!" Spain put his hands in front of himself defensively and then signalled France to tone it down a bit. "I thought that this was what was worrying you."
"It is not!" France explained, biting his lower lip. "I'm just worried about his wellbeing. He's always harsh in what he does, the EU gave me the chance to keep an eye on him."
"France, he's not a child anymore. He's a goddamnely strong nation."
"I know, but I've always been there for him, I would just like some reassurance that no one will stop me to come to his aid, if needed. I want to keep doing like I have always done."
"Even if something stopped you, it wouldn't be a big deal. He can very well live without you."
France did not know what kind of expression he wore on his face, but Spain effectively blanched and took a few steps away from him.
"France, I meant-"
Before Spain could explain himself, France rushed outside the porch, leaving his name to get swallowed by the noise of the rain.
The rain falling over him did the perfect job to hide some tears that had dared to fall despite his will not to allow Spain's words getting to him. Still, it would not be enough not to worry England.
Where to escape, though? There were little places where he could go as drenched as he was and even fewer where he wanted to go. A shiny neon caught his attention and he stopped, noticing a shop window full of colourful pastries that managed to make a warm smile finally appear on his lips.
That looked like an idea.
He stopped at the patisserie, and then he rushed back home, taking care that the plastic bag covered properly his box of pastries. By the time he reached his apartment, there wasn't a single part of him that was not dripping water, but the pastries were safe and that helped him putting on his lips a cheerful smile for England as he entered the room.
"I'm home!" He announced, earning a risen eyebrow from his lover.
"I wasn't aware I shared my life with a bucket of water." England sighed and shook his head, before giving his attention back to the cloth he was mending. "If you were stuck somewhere without an umbrella, you could have called me or a taxi."
"I'm not scared by a little water and some lightning." France pouted and put the pastries Box on the entry table as he started undressing himself.
"Then I won't be the one checking on you when you fall ill. Catching a cold is not the proof that you are not scared of a storm, only that you are an idiot." England chastised him. "Nevertheless, you will find a towel on your left. And the water is hot, so go get a shower."
France's chuckle was way more honest this time, his smile growing bigger as he retrieved the towel England had mentioned and felt it warm, soft and dry against his cold skin.
"You warmed it up?" France asked, noticing only then an electric hot water bottle where the towel had been.
"Yeah. I know you are an idiot, so I took precautions." England admitted, his voice sounding softer than he meant. "It would be a hassle, if you fell ill."
France laughed openly this time, and then finished drying himself, fixed the towel around his waist and walked to his lover, who only focussed more than he was supposed to on his work.
France smirked at his reaction, and bent over him to catch his chin between his thumb and index finger, making England look up at him.
"Thought you said you wouldn't care, if I fell ill." He teased, enjoying seeing England blush in answer before he captured his lips in a soft kiss.
France meant to keep it chaste and quick, but England, much to his surprise, let the cloth fall on his legs and cupped his face with both hands to deepen it. It wasn't hungry or desperate or anything… it was just England's way to tell France that he was sincerely glad to have him back home despite the words he spoke.
And France couldn't be happier to show England how glad he was to be back home, so he eagerly accepted his invitation to explore and tease his mouth to his heart's content, as his hand moved to cup gently England's jaw.
He smirked inside the kiss at the feeling of the very light hint of stubble under his fingertips, knowing that this was one of the few things only he knew about England: his pretty clean face was England's own doing, but given a long day of work or a tiring exploit, a tiny hint of beard would appear. It wasn't so dark that people would notice it right away and England would shave as soon as he realised that he was growing one, but France could still easily feel it under his fingertips whenever he caressed his face. Something he did quite often.
Sometimes, France would caress England's cheeks and jaw only to check if the stubble was back, something that made his lover furious as soon as he understood his goal, switching quickly from leaning into his touch to calling him by every name that came to his mind. France knew that England was self-conscious about his beard, but feeling it small and raspy under his touch really was something that filled France's heart with warmth.
Telling England that he loved each part of him - stubble included - usually was enough to quell England's yells, make him blush, and coax him back into France's arms for a deep hug that, more often than not, led to other things.
Today would not be the case, though, since a sudden tinkle echoed in the room and England quickly interrupted the kiss.
"Fuck! My needle!" He yelled, kneeling on the floor to search for the little devil.
"Let me help, what kind of needle was it?"
"You go having a shower, I can handle this." England demanded. "I'm starving but, if you start dinner dressed in that flimsy towel, I'll eat you instead of whatever you are planning to cook."
France laughed heartedly at England's joke, and decided to follow his request. He came back not much later dressed in a pair of comfortable pants and a plain long-sleeved shirt.
The lack of socks and slippers was promptly noticed by England, who had in the meantime retrieved his needle and started to put away the clothes he had been mending that afternoon.
"You are not going around barefoot, you are not a savage."
"I walk barefoot more often than not at home!"
"You just came back soaking wet!"
"It's not a big deal."
"I'll give you something big to deal with, if you catch a cold!"
France chuckled at England's annoyance, and went to the kitchen to start on dinner. England rolled his eyes at being ignored and followed his lover, bringing with him something on the top of the pile of clothes ready to be ironed.
"Wait, put this on." England stopped France as soon as he had opened the fridge to put over his neck a beige apron that he soon proceeded to tie behind his back.
"Is this your way to tell me that you don't like how I dressed?"
"Let's be honest, most of the other nations would think that you look like an idiot if you, always sharply dressed, were to show yourself like this."
"Wait, I thought you liked it when I dress casual!" France turned quickly his head to stare shocked at England.
"Well, I like you looking like an idiot. Besides, if someone dared to mock you, it would be my chance to remember them that how you dress is my business, not theirs." England confessed warmly, his cheeks heating up. "This is your favourite apron, though."
"It was, before I slashed it with the meat knife the other day." France pointed out, following England's movements with his head. "You didn't need to mend it, it was mangled badly."
"The meeting I was supposed to have in London today was held online because some people got themselves covid19. It was boring as hell, so I made better use of my time since I've been sitting in front of a screen for hours." England explained, moving back in front of France to show him his handiwork. "So, how do you like it?"
France stared down at his apron for the first time and noticed that there was no sign left of the slash… in its place, there was a beautiful bouquet of red roses in half-stitch.
"You did embroidery on it." France noted, at a loss of words about what to say about the unexpected surprise. "It's beautiful, mon amour."
"I told you, I had time and I wanted to cheer you up." England confessed, standing by France's side to lean against him. "You looked quite nervous lately."
"It's always like this at every election." France admitted. "I should probably take things back in my hands."
"France, last time you tried interfering, they cut your head off."
France swallowed and instinctively touched his throat. England noticed the gesture and put his arm around his waist, pulling France against him.
"Someone had to do something..."
"Why don't you tell me what's for dinner instead of reminiscing something you can't change?"
That reminded France that the fridge was still open, so he left momentarily England's side to finish retrieving the food.
"This just needs to be warmed up." He explained as he moved a round pan to his side. "The real deal now is cutting some vegetables for the salad."
"You say cut some vegetables for the salad and then you present me with something that should taste in a completely different way. What you do to food and vegetables in particular is anyone's guess." England commented as his eyes moved to stare suspiciously at the main dish France had taken out. "Is that… a meat pie?"
"It's a tourte à la viande." France pointed out, starting on the vegetables while preheating the oven.
"France, a tourte à la viande IS a meat pie!"
"Well yeah, but the meat inside is confit."
"Confit… how?"
Instead of answering, France just smirked at him, enjoying England's worried stare in front of such a polysemic word.
"Don't worry, you will love it. Will you set the table?"
"Yeah, of course." England answered, turning his back to France to start on the task. "How would you live without me?"
France froze up hearing those words, his mind quickly linking them to Spain's at the shooting range. The knife he was using fell on the chopping board much more noisily than it was supposed to, making his lack of answer even more evident.
"Francis?"
"I- I got distracted, sorry." France quickly lied, turning towards England to offer him a tight smile that didn't reassure any of them in the slightest.
England didn't resume the topic, though, and France redirected it towards less scary subjects. After dinner was ready, talking became scarcer since both of them were busy enjoying the food that, just as France had predicted, suited very well England's tastes.
"No matter how much it hurts admitting it, everything was delicious."
"Oh, really? Am I good enough to marry?"
"Yeah. Too bad for the others that you are already married to me." England punctuated annoyed, eliciting a soft giggle from France who took his chance to stand up and retrieve the box of pastries.
Much to France's surprise, when he got back to the dining table England took the box from his hands and grabbed firmly his wrist, dragging him to sit on the sofa together. As soon as they were sitting comfortably there, France had no chance to open the box that England put it back on the coffee table to make him stare straight into his eyes.
"Relations with the United Kingdom were not a main topic of the presidential debate, this is what is getting your knickers in a twist." England stated, leaving France no chance to look away. "You are an idiot getting nervous about something like this. It just means that we'll keep dealing with us the way we want, like always."
"But I'm scared that-"
"You are an idiot if you're scared of that!" England interrupted him, pulling his legs back on the sofa and over France's so that he would get into the right position to tap his lover's forehead with his foot jokingly.
"Oi, you don't need to kick me!" France grabbed a hold of England's foot and pouted at him, only to earn England shoving him on his shoulder with his other foot.
"Yes, you need it! Because you're the usual fool that becomes melodramatic as soon as he feels the mood!"
"That's not true!" France countered, grabbing England's other foot and staring down at his husband with a mean smirk now that he had successfully stopped England's movements.
"That is true!" England smirked back at him and, to prove France that he wasn't as trapped as it seemed, he tapped once more his shoulder with his foot.
"You little-" France attempted to force England's legs wide open at his sides, but England just kept trying to tap him jokingly on his shoulders, knowing very well that France would never use enough strength to hurt him or effectively stop his movements.
France was aware of the very same thing, though, so eventually he resorted to tickle him wherever he could reach. England fell fully with his back on the sofa and tried to wriggle free from France's hold, something that soon turned the whole encounter into a mess of limbs twisting, grabbing and shoving away one another amidst cheerful laughter.
It didn't take much for the struggle to settle, and France draped himself around England's waist as England embraced tenderly his shoulders. Few minutes of comfortable silence followed, a silence that deeply relaxed them, erasing all the fears and doubts that the day had brought.
The first disentangling them was England, with the obvious intention to get the pastries they had set aside. France sat up as well and stared at him holding his breath but, after he had opened the box, the only thing that appeared on England's face was a happy smile.
"There's enough for the whole week."
"I wanted some variety. Moreover, you might not look like it, but I know that you have a sweet tooth, especially when tea time comes."
England chuckled and, admitting his weakness, took out a brown one.
"Is this a Mogador?" England asked curiously. "Can we share it?"
"You can have it, I can do without."
"The sweetness of the chocolate mixing with the sourness of the passion fruit." England cited France's own words of some decades before, making France realise how much he sounded like an advertisement. "It sure looks like it belongs to the both of us. The sourness of our feelings just makes our love sweeter, wouldn't you say something like that?"
England stared intensely in France's eyes, as if he was attempting to read his reaction to those words. France didn't understand why he was doing that, but he smiled at him nonetheless, refraining to point out that their feelings weren't sour, per se. It was that single fear that he did not know how to tackle, probably because it concerned England.
And England was honestly the only thing he cared about.
The world could fall around them, but France knew that with him by his side he could survive anything. He couldn't do without him, because he was the only one who gave him the strength to fight anything else.
"I'll get you a knife, then."
"Wait, we don't need it."
England forced France to face him once again, took a bite of the pastry and then offered the remaining half to his lover, letting it linger in front of his lips. France blushed in surprise, before smiling widely and taking the Mogador in his mouth, taking care to get England's fingers with it.
Much to his surprise, England didn't take them out and just kept staring deeply into France's eyes. France finished swallowing the cake, then, and began cleaning England's fingers from the chocolate in the dirtiest way he could manage while offering him his most innocent stare.
France saw England swallowing, so he kept twirling his tongue around his fingers even when he had finished cleaning them. Eventually it was too much for England, and he pulled his fingers out France's mouth, cupped his jaw with his hand and led him closer, until their lips almost touched.
Only a quick glance was needed to confirm that they both wanted the same thing and, before France knew it, he felt England's soft lips on his. The light brush of skin against skin was all they allowed to one another, until England's tongue began teasing playfully the outlines of France's mouth, returning the favour cleaning his lips from the chocolate. He showed way less patience than France did, though, and soon resumed to kiss him deeply and mind-blowingly slowly.
France felt shivers running down his back and throughout his whole body, shivers he couldn't understand whether he being ticklish caused them or it was the simple pleasure of feeling his lover so at ease in his arms that not even something as easy as a kiss felt the same. It was each time different, each time a surprise, each time as much as a failure as it was perfection.
As long as they loved it this way, however, why should either of them feel bothered?
England hated it when France tickled him, because he couldn't fight off his attacks properly and he felt like losing the upper hand. France hated it when England teased him halfway through sex or a kiss, because it frustrated him to no end.
Yet, France would never have it any other way, since England saying or doing something improper, making him laugh or causing a commotion when he wasn't supposed to was what made everything special. France's mind told him that love had its rules, but England's unorthodox way to love him was much better, so much better that he wouldn't know what to do without him.
Was it the same for England, though? As he asked himself this, England stopped kissing him to rest his forehead against France's, his eyes still closed apparently to attempt getting back a bit of control after the heated kiss.
"You are definitively an idiot, my love."
"I-"
"France, it's alright to be scared of something." England reassured him, staring deeply into his eyes. "God knows how much I'd prefer you doing something to protect yourself out of fear, instead of heading towards disaster each and every time-"
"You usually are the source of the disaster, to be fair."
"That's beside the point and a completely different topic." England declared, cupping France's jaw with both hands before caressing him down the curve of his neck and close his arms around it. "I love tormenting you, but you must know that I need you."
"What if something happens and-"
"France, you are too amusing. I adore your pout, your skills, your lack of reason. I physically need someone like you by my side. " England countered, punctuating each phrase with a kiss. "I need someone to need me to the point of reaching out to me through everything he does, and there is no one other than you in this world that needs me as much as you do. I need this to live and breathe."
"Isn't it a bit dark as a thing to say?"
"Isn't it dark wanting me to admit that I can't live without you?" England pointed out, resting once again his forehead against France's, allowing France to see how scared he honestly looked. "Because it's true: there's no way that I can live without you. That's why your fears have no reason to exist, only mines that you could do without me."
"How did you-?"
"I know you since forever, France." England tightened more his arms around France's neck and hid his face there, unable to hold his stare anymore. "That's how I know why you are scared, because I feel the same."
France sighed hearing his confession and held England tight around his waist protectively, dragging him closer.
"There's no way that I will ever leave you, mon lapin."
"What if something happens to you? I still wouldn't be able to exist without you." England admitted. "And if something were to happen to me... Would I be so easy to replace in your heart?"
France felt somehow comforted by the knowledge that England had been having similar thoughts, but something still didn't add up to it.
"How are you able to stand it?" He dared to ask in a weak voice. "You don't look as frightened as I feel."
"The reason behind it is what makes me feel great when we are together, I feel like my other half is with me and I'm finally complete. That feeling alone is worth any fear that overthinking consequences can bring."
"It sounds reasonable to just focus on the present instead of fearing a future that might not even happen."
"Yeah. The fear is still there, though, you just ignore it."
"You don't have to fret, mon amour, for me a life without you is so not an option." France hastened to reassure England, tightening his arms around him and brushing his cheek against his spiky hair. "The chance of something happening to you never occurred to me, though: no matter what future will bring, you will keep standing. That's what makes me enjoy all of our teasing to the fullest: no matter what I do, you will just get back to me more beautiful and stronger."
France's words finally made England rising his head from his niche to stare surprised at his lover, before a soft adoring smile crossed his lips.
"Then it makes as both invincible, because I'll die before allowing something to hurt you."
They both busted into a relieved laugh that erased, in its simplicity, all the doubts and fears they still had in their hearts. Their lips met in another hungry kiss that soon became a quick series of pecks on any available piece of skin they could reach, until England used the leverage he had to tighten his legs around France's waist and drag him down over him while he let himself fall back on the sofa.
"You said you liked being needed, should I show you how much I do need you?" France teased England, starting to unbutton the first buttons of his lover's shirt. "What else did we learn today?"
"That we don't need to fret about one another, because we'll always be together." England said seductively, allowing France to gently kiss him once again, before adding in a smart voice. "And that you are an idiot: you left your sword in Spain's hands."
"Merde!"
The end
