A/N: Well, this is the product of last night's America-induced insomnia, paired with an insane writer's block on Arthur Kirkland and the Monster of the Deep and a rather complicated love-hate issue with my friend, who might as well be the non-Hetalia embodiment of Italy.
Somehow it all added up to make something reminiscent of fluff. Inspired by Greyson Chance's version of Paparazzi. Enjoy.
France sat across the conference room, just watching. For once he was content to just watch. It wasn't very often that something like this happened, but when it did, he wasn't about to ruin it by breaking the fragile spell, holding this moment together by a tiny thread.
He was drinking in every detail of that face that he already knew by heart; the sparkling green eyes, messy blond hair, full pink lips. He knew that face almost better than his own.
But this time, England was laughing. Was it sad that Francis had almost never seen him laugh before? He wished he had; England was so beautiful when he smiled.
France snuck his camera lens just over the side of the table and snapped the picture before anyone could tell him not to.
He stood on the corner of the sidewalk, just watching. Again, he was content to just watch. He didn't get to see England like this very much.
The man stood in his back yard, not doing anything particularly extraordinary, but to France it meant quite a lot. Arthur was watering the rose bushes, carefully tending to each one and running the tips of his slim fingers over each brilliant scarlet bloom. The red brought out his eyes so nicely, Francis thought.
It looked almost as though he were talking to them. As Francis watched, England gently picked one of the roses and straightened up, walking back toward the house with the flower held loosely in one hand.
Had he looked back, he would've seen France raise his camera to freeze that moment forever.
Francis sat in the soft grass, just watching. When it was England, he never got tired of watching; there was always more to see.
Arthur sat on a park bench overlooking the river, the sunset's rays shimmering on the water and setting his green eyes alight with fire. His arm rested lightly over the back, those long fingers gently tapping an unheard rhythm to an unseen piano. Did Arthur play piano? Francis had always thought that was Austria's job.
But then again, there was a lot that Francis didn't know about Arthur, even after all these years of watching and hoping and praying. He pressed the button to take the photo and smiled softly, hearing a bird's call in the distance. Francis rose from his spot on the grass and tucked the camera carefully out of sight as he walked quietly toward the bench and sat down next to England.
"Do you play piano?"
"...What's this?"
England sat on the floor of the living room, an old photo album in his hands. He trailed his fingertips over the worn cover, reading the elegant golden script that swirled across it: Remember the Roses.
Upon opening the book, he found it to be filled with pictures of only himself; small, very special moments in his life that he'd thought were forgotten long ago. Like the time he'd been watering the roses and thinking of France. Every image was a masterpiece. Who had taken all of these?
"What are you doing, mon cher?"
Arthur looked up to see Francis come padding down the stairs, the dust rag in his hands. They had been cleaning house today, so he just wore a t-shirt and jeans. Somehow he still managed to look nothing short of angelic, however.
Well, maybe not angelic. Seeing as France was the opposite of angelic. But beautiful.
Arthur turned another page as Francis tossed the dust rag onto the back of a chair and came over to sit next to him on the carpet. He smiled, slipping an arm around England's shoulders.
"These pictures..." Arthur murmured. "Who took them?"
France gave Arthur's shoulders a little squeeze. "I did, Angleterre."
Arthur stared at him with something very closely reminiscent of alarm. "Y-you stalked me?" he sputtered.
Francis laughed, lightly kissing the other's nose. "I was in love with you long before you knew it," he smiled.
"You're not denying it," Arthur muttered skeptically, still mostly hung up on the 'stalking' issue of this conversation. But then he smiled, kissing France full on the mouth with a small murmur under his breath:
"I'll remember the roses."
Review? Pweaz?
I wuv FrUK.