All Francis knew when he woke up was the feeling of gentle breath on his forehead, nose buried in his hair, an arm slung around his waist and another under his head, legs twined under the blankets. He was warm and content and did not plan on ruining the moment by stirring- he knew that it was Arthur above him because his scent, his distinct scent floated around the room, hovering around them like an aura.
Arthur still slept, chest rising and falling, bare. Francis couldn't help but marvel at the strength of those muscles, hand coming to rest on Arthur's abdomen. Almost lecherously he caught himself thinking Arthur should go around shirtless more.
"I know you're awake. You're making funny faces."
Francis's warm chuckle vibrated against Arthur's skin. He made no move to get up, so neither did France, content to just lay pressed against the other nation. The hand under France's head stroked through his hair lazily, twirling the soft strands into loops around Arthur's finger.
"What on earth are we doing?" Came Arthur's soft voice, almost an amused laugh, close to Francis's ear.
He wasn't talking about now, obviously. He was talking about whatever this new thing was- sexual attraction, love, lust, whatever it might be. France was sure it was not the third option. But he ignored the question for the time being with his own question.
"Aren't most nations asexual?" France murmured, lips barely brushing against Arthur's bare skin. He felt Arthur's hum reverberate through his whole body. A personification's body was wired differently than humans: sex was not their foremost concern, although, back when things were less civilized, nations would take over other nations in that way, nonconsensual. But things changed.
"So am I." Their eyes met, and Arthur's lips quirked up sheepishly. "So was I? I don't even know at this point."
"We can... admit it, then?" France tentatively asked, throat dry and chest constricting.
Arthur huffed, staring up at the ceiling. "That we obviously feel something for each other that surprisingly isn't hate? I guess it's about time we stop acting like awkward human teenagers and faced it."
How strange, France thought amusedly, heart swelling at Arthur's words. We loathed each other's guts a week ago, and I'm sure we wanted each other dead on that mission. And now we're suddenly tripping head over heels for each other. If there truly is a higher power, He brings people together in the strangest, most mysterious ways.
"We are no longer enemies, then?"
Arthur looked at him incredulously, eyes shining playfully. "Heavens, of course we'll always be enemies! Honestly, I couldn't image a world without you contradicting my every word."
"I could."
"Exactly."
After a moment's pause, France admitted, "Being a favourite of the British Empire isn't as bad as I thought." He vainly tried not to laugh at Arthur's unimpressed expression.
Yanking his hair slightly, England retorted, "Watch it, you tosser." But the look in Arthur's eyes said something entirely different, and France inwardly melted at the sight.
Being a favourite of the British Empire isn't as bad as I thought, because when he loves you, he loves you completely, almost overwhelmingly. He'd give his own body, his own heart to protect yours in an instant. He's loyal and faithful, and although it's hard to win his love, it's the most rewarding thing to have, to be the only one who sees him with his guard down, completely vulnerable for you.
"I'm going to take a shower," Arthur sighed out, pushing himself out of bed with one last affectionate tug of France's hair. Trying not to stare at his toned body or the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips, France rolled over with a muffled sound of acknowledgment, burying his face into the nearest pillow that smelled like England before pushing himself up and out of bed.
The sudden sound of England's front door being swung open and loud footsteps thumping down the hall made them both jolt, eyes wide. "Get in the shower!" France hissed, pushing England into the bathroom and quickly shutting the door behind him, right as Liechtenstein burst into the room.
"England! I need to tell you..." she trailed off in confusion, staring at France. "And just what are you doing in here?"
Luckily, France was quick on his feet, and stammered, "I'm...taking a shower! Oui, that's exactly what I'm doing."
She frowned, tilting her head. "Don't you have a shower in your room?"
"Er... well..." France swallowed, trying to look anywhere but at her. "It... it wasn't heating up! A-and England offered to let me use his. So, I'll just be off-"
He turned and opened the bathroom door, but Liechtenstein, in her sweet voice, asked, "Wait, France... Can I talk to you?"
Before Francis could protest, she pushed in, shutting the door behind them. Reluctantly, France reached into the shower, sure not to open the curtain too wide and reveal England, and turned the water on. "I promise I won't bother you for too long, it's just that... I need to get something off my chest..." she trailed off again with a small huff of laughter. Pointing at the now-steaming shower, she said, "I'm pretty sure you can get in, France."
"Oh," France laughed weakly. "Yes. Right. Ok." He opened the curtain slightly, preparing to step in, when Liechtenstein stopped her monologue, laughing again.
"Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" Seeing his mortified expression, she turned her head, closing her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't peek. As I was saying, I just have this feeling that I don't live up to Switzerland's expectations..."
"Oh," France returned, voice just as effete as previously, stripping completely. This was going to be the most awkward experience, and he couldn't imagine what Arthur was thinking behind the curtain. But, he couldn't stand around naked next to the sink, so swallowing his pride, he brushed the curtain aside and carefully stepped in.
Arthur made room for France as he crowded in, crossing his arms over his chest, water dripping down his face. Tentatively, they glanced at each other, face to face: out of his peripheral vision Francis could see that England still had his sweatpants on. Steam rose around them and hopefully concealed France's very naked lower half. Liechtenstein continued rambling on, France calling out quietly, "Right."
Their eyes awkwardly avoided each other. Arthur looked nonchalantly at the wall and France stared holes into the curtain as the water poured onto the back of his head, running in rivulets down his shoulders.
Arthur couldn't take it anymore, and spotted a washcloth behind France. He reached over, grabbing the flimsy wet old cloth, and plopped it over his eyes, tilting his head up into the water spray so that the washcloth wouldn't slide off and his wandering eyes wouldn't betray him.
Entire body shaking with wild laughter, France covered his mouth to contain himself at the comical sight. He gave England a half-hearted glare, trying not to make any noises, but couldn't stop laughing when he saw the grin on his face and the finger lifted to his lips. Everything happened to be hilarious when you weren't allowed to laugh.
It wasn't too long until Liechtenstein seemed content, sighing out, "Well, thanks for listening. Have fun!" He voice carried a lilt that almost sounded conniving, as if she knew more than she'd admit as the door shut and her footsteps echoed down the hallway. France finally burst out into fits of laughter, hands clutching at his stomach. England laughed too and finally opened his eyes, washcloth discarded at the floor as France stumbled out of the shower.
"Dieu," France cried out, voice trembling with mirth. "You idiot."
A chilly breeze swept through the town as France and England emerged out of England's temporary house, walking down the steps side by side. Wind blowing his hair around, France murmured, "We should contact Russia and get out of this mess."
Arthur hummed his agreement, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin: Francis tried (and failed) not to stare. "I almost forgot. Good thinking."
For some odd reason, France felt proud at the praise, walking alongside England as they approached Switzerland. He glared at them, currently drying clothes on his clothesline, and snapped, "What? Make this quick, God knows I don't have all day-"
"We need to contact Ivan Braginsky," France quickly cut in, not wanting to spend more time than necessary with the other irritating nation.
Switzerland raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, but then shrugged, pointing back at the city hall. "Telephone's in there."
France glanced at England, following him as they walked the path to the big building. Telephones were still practically new, and it took Francis and Arthur about half an hour to actually figure out how to contact the Russian government's building, let alone call Ivan's office. "Zdravstvujtye?"
England's lips quirked up at the sound of Ivan's young voice almost fondly. "Russia? This is England."
"Ah!" He quickly transitioned out of Russian, smile evident from his voice. "Англия! It's been awhile!"
"France is here, too."
Russia quickly silenced, obviously miffed, and France huffed, crossing his arms. Apparently, someone was still sore from the Napoleonic wars. "Merde, can't you just drop it?"
"This better be good, England," Ivan warned.
Arthur could practically see him crossing his arms and pouting. It made him smile. "Well... France and I have found ourselves in a pickle. Our bosses forced us into working together on a mission to protect the Archduke of Austria-"
Russia snorted. "That obviously went well."
France growled, but England continued before he could snap back. "Unfortunately, we found ourselves fleeing across the Austrian Empire. A certain organization set us up, and now the Austrian police are hunting us down. And I don't want to do this, love, but I must ask of you a small favor."
Laughing softly over the line, Ivan replied, "Anything, Arthur. All you need do is ask."
England smiled. France frowned- apparently England and Russia had bonded in friendship since his Napoleonic era, although it shouldn't have taken him by surprise. During that time, France had nearly conquered all Europe... except for a certain infuriating, powerful country called England, who would simply always remain unbeatable. He'd encouraged all of the countries under France- including Russia- to rise up and fight with the island nation. France would never have that kind of thrilling control or power again.
"Could you come get us? It's not safe for us to travel."
Ivan hummed as if he were nodding. "And perhaps clear your name?"
"Names," France corrected pointedly. England rolled his eyes.
"That would be wonderful, thank you, darling." He proceeded to give Ivan their coordinates, twirling the cord around his finger aimlessly. France zoned out, England's voice fading from his mind as his nose picked up the familiar scent of burning.
Perhaps someone was starting a bonfire outside. Lost in thought, France didn't think much of it, staring out the window. What does England think of my old self, the once power-hungry empire that almost took over all of Europe? Did he bond with Russia over hate for me? Almost jealous, France remembered Waterloo and shuddered.
"Surrender!" England spat, forcing France down into the mud, staining the white and blue. Green eyes glittered with contempt and loathing, compelling France into submission, bowing his grime-streaked forehead in defeat. England was everything he hated in that memory.
But if he'd thought the battlefield was cold, the atmosphere in the treaty-room was frigid, tense. England and his boss held a certain authority that no one dare challenge, complete dominance over the conference. France could smell the haughtiness from his place at the end of the table, slouched forward miserably as the now-freed countries he'd dominated slandered and scoffed at him as if he weren't there.
A hand touched his shoulder, fingertips pressing slightly, reminding him of Rome, his abuse, everything he despised and feared. He looked up, jaw clenched and hands curled into angry fists in his lap. He probably looked awful, bags under his eyes, pale and dirty, greasy hair, malnourished- and when he looked up at England, whose hand remained still on his shoulder, he saw concern, not contempt.
At the time, he'd thought nothing of it. But the memory, however despondent, almost brightened up France. England had cared even back then, even if neither of them knew it. Nations couldn't control themselves when leaders thirsted for power, and France had fallen into that tempting trap many a time.
His thoughts trailed off as that strange smell returned, sharper and prominent. Brow scrunching, France opened the door to get some fresh air, when the smell suddenly assaulted him, overpowering. Arthur finally ended the call, walking over to him. Noticing his miffed expression, he frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Something's burning," France murmured, confused.
That was when everything exploded into chaos.
A loud blast rocketed close, too close, throwing both nations off their feet and to the ground. Dizzily, France forced himself to his knees, ears ringing- England said something, perhaps he screamed grenade!, eyes wide, but in his disoriented state of mind France couldn't make out sounds. He suddenly was lifted to his feet, leaning against England, and the sound came rushing back into his ears.
People screamed. The village was under attack, and it was burning. Someone had set the houses on fire- smoke billowed everywhere, as far as the eye could see. Eyes watering, France held England close to him, their eyes connecting.
"The Black Hand," Francis gasped out, eyes widening in terror. "They found us, they've come to kill us-"
England interrupted his almost hysterical words with two hands cupping his cheeks. "You stay with me. Don't let me lose sight of you, you hear?"
France nodded, eyes trustingly boring into England's, but froze when he caught sight of an agent, dressed in black, machine gun in his arms. England whipped around as the man called out, voice scratchy and deep. "So. The two countries outsmarted the Black Hand." His smirk grew vicious. "But you can't outsmart an assassin, can you?"
England turned, gripped France's wrist, and ran, both disappearing into the thick grey smoke. The assassin chuckled, calling out, "Run as fast as you can, pretty nations. I'll catch you." If his targets thought they could outsmart him, they were in for a rude awakening.
Navigating through heavy smoke and flames, Arthur and Francis raced through the village, terrified people running all around them, grabbing their children and belongings and their loved ones and fleeing for their lives. We did this, France couldn't help but think in despair. We brought death and fire to this happy town.
"Move out of the way!" Arthur shouted, voice hoarse, shoving people aside as they raced through the chaotic mass, grip on Francis tightening. The assassin's words echoed through their minds as they sprinted out of the town, headed for the rocky, dangerous mountains that surrounded the village.
They were so close to reaching the cover of the mountains, when Arthur suddenly halted, eyes growing wide in disbelief.
In the chaos and panic, they had forgotten about the deep raging river that separated the town from the mountains. Panicked, Arthur released France's hand, running up and down the bank, trying to find a makeshift bridge. No, no, no. This can't be happening. We were so close, so close to safety-
"We could wade across!" France desperately called out, eyes wildly scanning the bank, searching for God knows what in the opposite direction of Arthur.
"How could we get down there?" Arthur now sounded hysterical, turning to France. "It's too steep of a drop to even approach-" He trailed off, eyes locking on the figure that emerged through the smoke.
The assassin chuckled, lips quirking up cruelly. "Let's finish this, shall we?" He said crisply, nonchalantly, pointing his weapon at the first target, the older one with the long hair. Everything suddenly dissolved into slow motion to England, eyes wide in panic. He caught sight of France, France in danger, and acted on instinct and a promise.
"France!"
Shocked into paralysis, Francis could barely register England's voice. In a matter of seconds Arthur's figure skidded to a halt in front of him: he held his arms out wide in front of France, giving the assassin a perfect shot.
He's sacrificing himself for me.
"Angleterre!" France gasped out in anguish, expression horrified, overshadowed by BANG! BANG! BANG!
Green eyes widened a fraction, inhaling sharply. For a brief moment, time stood still.
England stumbled backwards, his weight falling completely onto France, who couldn't hold them both. They plummeted over the steep embankment and into the water, France letting out a sharp cry. The secret assassin turned, his job complete, disappearing into the smoky, blazing village, shrieks lighting up the air.
The plunge into piercingly cold water shocked France, making him give a muffled yelp underwater. Freezing and almost numb, he pushed himself up above the waves, gasping for breath desperately. The water threw his body around like he was nothing, tossing him back and forth, drenching him, sucking him under. Flailing, France wildly scanned the waves for England, shouting his name. "England!? Arthur!? "
"Fran-" the gurgled cry caught France's attention, and he swam toward the figure, gripping his arm and pulling him close to his chest. Arthur gripped him and opened his mouth to cry out something, but the two were promptly sucked underwater, inhaling mouthfuls of liquid.
Kicking as hard as possible, Francis pulled them up above the surface, coughing and gasping for breath, hair plastered to his face. Eyes scanned the sides, the shoreline, but as hard as Francis kicked, the current pulled him just as strongly. He couldn't reach the edge. His wild gaze caught the dip of the water into none other than a waterfall, and he struggled, gritted screaming between clenched teeth, trying to pull the drenched body in his arms to land.
It was no use, and with a terrified glance back at the waterfall, all France could do was grip England to him as they plummeted downward, bodies beginning to slip, free falling without control. France felt his head spin and his grip on England disappear, vision fading into black.
Everything after that was numb.
A lake of water shallow enough to touch the bottom lay at the bottom of the waterfall, banks muddy. France, gasping for air, broke the surface, throwing his head back as he panted and hacked up water. Finally he draped himself along the muddy bank, collapsing and uncaring as mud smeared his face, his hands, his shirt. He tried catching his breath, replaying fuzzy memories of moments ago-
Frantically, his eyes shot open and his head shot up, scanning for England.
His gaze fell upon the small figure huddled on the other side of the bank, chest heaving up and down. Francis bolted up, splashing unsteadily through the water to England's side, falling to his knees beside him. Fingers trailed through soaked blonde hair, pushing it away from Arthur's forehead, breaths coming quicker as he sought the gaze of his companion. Green eyes opened weakly. "Francis," England whispered with a small smile, relieved, reaching up to touch his face-
He dropped his hand and wailed out in sudden pain, arching his back, squeezing France's wrist. No longer on the adrenaline high, Arthur's eyes watered, rolling back- the sight of his delirious agony frightened France, who cupped both of his cheeks and cried out, "Look at me, Ange. Look at me."
Arthur focused his blurry gaze on Francis once more, wanting to pass out to relieve the pain. But France needed him, and he tried to be strong, gritting his teeth and biting his lip, unable to stop shaking.
"Arthur," Francis whispered, trembling fingers drifting down towards his chest, where dark, fresh blood stained his clothes and the shadowed mud beneath them. A choked sound fell from France's mouth, staring at three gunshot wounds: two buried in Arthur's gut and one right below his heart. "Oh, God, Dieu, Arthur. You... you imbecile, why would you-" his lower lip quivered dangerously, furious and heartbroken and terrified.
"I t-told you... I'd always... p-protect you," England breathed out painfully, brow scrunching, almost whimpering in delirium. Every breath meant more pain, but still he flashed a cheeky smile up at France.
He was so beautiful, and France had just found him, and now France was going to loose him.
He looked up to the grey, bleak sky, gripping his own dirty hair with angry, angry hands. He screamed furiously at whoever was up there, a long, drawn-out sound, because Francis found himself just as much in agony as did Arthur. The assassins were coming back. They'd find them, alone and wounded and defenseless at the bottom of a waterfall. Francis frantically tried to move Arthur, but the other cried out in anguish, "Stop, it's... n-no use, p-princess. It's over."
"It's not," Francis snarled, but his words held no bite, fingers barely touching Arthur's cheeks. His dirty forehead touched Arthur's, who stared up at him blearily.
It was over. They had failed, and the Black Hand was going to find them.
Francis carefully maneuvered behind Arthur with shaky hands, laying his back against Francis's chest. Arthur's head rolled back onto Francis's shoulder, nose nuzzling into his neck, his blonde hair. They sat in defeat, in what was probably their last moment, because Arthur was going to bleed out and Francis was going to be captured.
Everything was quiet. They listened to each other breath, Arthur's eyes catching Francis's, trying to feel as close to him as possible.
"F-Fran?"
Francis angled his head down, pressing his nose to England's cheek and breathing in raggedly. "I'm here."
"I need you to... to bond with me, n-now." He swallowed harshly. "We both know I'm not going to..." He trailed off, but despite Francis's choked protests, Arthur continued, "I trust... I trust you, and only you."
France knew what he was doing, and he hated it. He loathed England for dying, for protecting him, for making him do this.
"Our countries will merge. The United Empire of France and Britain. You take care of my people, p-prat." England chuckled weakly, leaning heavily against France.
Chest swelling painfully, Francis buried his face in Arthur's hair, tears wetting his mussed scalp. "Don't. Don't you dare."
"Please." Arthur's voice broke, breathing out. And to his despair, France couldn't deny him anything. All he'd ever wanted, once, was to have England, the land. And now, when he was finally presented with it, he didn't want it. He despised it. He'd never want it again. In his desperation France found himself praying to God, please, please, spare him, I'll never speak to him again if you wish, just don't let him die, please, please, I love him...
England took France's hands and closed his eyes. A mysterious force circled between them, two countries vowing to unite as one: in effect as soon as the other died. Nothing would break the bond, not even their bosses. Only England himself now could break it, and both of them knew he wouldn't.
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Francis panicked, holding Arthur close, rocking him and crying, "No, no, no." Arthur gripped his arms, chest heaving painfully, a choked sob escaping his sore throat. They had been so close to safety and freedom. So close. And now it was over.
Rain started to fall from the dark, dull sky, fat drops that beat Francis over the head, like God reprimanding him, saying, This is what you deserve. The agents of the Black Hand finally approached, stopping their horses, glaring down at the pathetic scene with contempt. Francis glared hatefully back like a cornered alley cat, lips drawn back in a dangerous snarl, trying to protect Arthur, his rival, his best friend, the one he loved, his everything.
Pitilessly, they threw ropes around Francis, still on their horses as if he didn't deserve their feet to touch the ground, and they started to pull. With a sharp yelp, Francis was dragged away from Arthur, fighting back every step, a hand reaching out for Arthur as his boots slipped on the mud and sent him to the ground. They laughed, and as Francis strained against the ropes holding him, one muttered, "Leave the other. He isn't going to make it."
Arthur, flipped onto his stomach painfully, reached out for Francis, grabbing his face tenderly, desperately, and pressed their lips together. For a split second, Francis forgot everything. He kissed Arthur, chaste and desperate and raw emotion, feeling his lips capture Arthur's bottom lip gently, everything a first kiss should have been except in the wrong circumstances.
Reality slammed into him as ropes tugged him harshly backwards like an animal, and with desperate screams, Francis fought, fought until his hands were tied and bleeding, fought until Arthur, crouched on the ground, bleeding out, calling out for him with watery eyes, disappeared from view.
A/N time!
This AU differs from most of the Hetalia fics I've written. If any of you have read my other canon-verse fics, you'll know that the nations are immortal, can not bond or merge their countries together, and are definitely NOT born asexual. Haha. I've wanted to try out some new Hetalia ideas though.