Chapter 6

Night was falling on the city of Paris but the red flags of the Reich were still striking against the smoke-filled sky. Above the gunshots, yells of men and explosions there was a large and imperious resonance of marching music. The pounding beat rang through the air, ominous amid the invasion.

Arthur dived, chest hitting the ground and knocking the air out of his lungs as he dodged a volley of bullets. Behind him, he heard his men fall. Not daring to look back, he continued to worm his way forward, his vision filled with the muddy brown of the battlefield.

Something glinting near his head and he looked up to see two German soldiers glaring down at him, both dressed in the tenebrous uniforms of the SS, the taller of the two had a pistol trained on his head. Their names left his mouth before he could register what was going on, "Ludwig? Gilbert?"

The latter slung an arm around his compatriot's shoulder, crimson eyes flashing. "Hear that West? Mr. UK wants to talk to us now. Easy for negotiations when you have a gun pointing at your face, eh, England?"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur stayed down, thinking it better to stay down, "The United Kingdom? England? I'm Arthur! I was at your bar last night Gilbert! And Ludwig, what the hell is happening!?"

A black boot lashed out, smashing into Arthur's face, making him cry out in pain. "Prussia and Germany to you, filth." Gilbert spat, wiping his boot on Arthur's uniform.

Nose throbbing painfully and warmth already sliding down his face, Arthur turned tortured eyes to Ludwig, searching for any hint of mercy. The blue gaze was cool and the dark glove tightened its grip on the gun. "Lu-Germany," The Brit said, "W-what? You… You can't be here… I shouldn't be here. This is World War II. We should be… we should be past this! I never fought in the war, this is all wrong!"

A frown creased the German's brow. "You think we should be past this? You never fought this war?" Ludwig questioned, "What year is it?"

"Two-thousand and something?" Arthur replied.

At this, Prussia let out a bark-like laugh. "Two-thousand? It's 1940 you idiot, the year we took down the idiot Frenchman. Shoot him West, he's gone insane."

Arthur awoke with a start, surprised to find himself on the floor, limbs tangled within the red sheets. Suddenly understanding why his dream at felt so real, he rolled onto his stomach, head now throbbing painfully from the impact and from the massive hangover. A moment passed in which he realized that marching music was still playing, but he was sure that he was no longer in France. Indeed the peeling, yellowed paint of the hotel wall was clearly different than the dark, dank battlefield. Gently, he reached up and prodded his nose, which was fortunately still in one piece, solidifying his belief that this was reality and not some messed up dream.

Untangling himself from the linen, while trying to keep his pounding head as still as possible, Arthur got to his feet. When he tried to stretch, he only managed to uncurl for a second before hunching over again, covering his face with his hands and groaning. That goddamned marching music was still playing, the constant beat of the drums and the low rumble of the brass driving directly into his brain.

He shuffled over to the door where the music was issuing as eased it open. The volume increased and he was hard-pressed not to slam the door shut, dive back into his bed, and wallow there until his hangover passed. Ludwig was sitting outside his door, a small, black set of speakers on his left, which were vibrating slightly from the intensity of the volume. He seemed to be taking nails and hammering them into the wall, as though on this day he had nothing better to do than make Arthur's head even worse.

"You seen Francis?" He asked, still holding a hand to his temple, resisting the urge to kick the music player down the stairs.

Ludwig reached over and flipped a knob on the boom box. Arthur almost moaned from delight at the silence. "No," The German searched him, taking in his dishevelled look and bloodshot eyes, "You spent last night at the bar." he said finally, a statement; not a question.

Figuring it would be better to tell the truth than lie, Arthur nodded. "Yeah. Bartender's an ass, though." He mentioned casually, thinking about the albino's somewhat uncouth approach to the fine world of drinking. "Kinda weird too…"

The mechanic got to his feet. "Gilbert isn't exactly the most tactful of people." Ludwig said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Arthur snorted, sending a pang of pain through his head. "That's an understatement. I have yet to meet a cheekier bastard." He frowned, "You know him well?"

"He's my brother."

"Oh." Arthur stared at Ludwig, realizing that he was a very, very tall, very burly man. Not wanting to offend the man anymore, "I'm going to go now." He started to back into his room, until a gloved hand found around his shoulder, halting him.

"Don't worry." Ludwig said, "I understand."

Once Arthur managed to escape past the German fully clothed (barely making it due to that accursed music he had begun to replay) he left the hotel, flipping his collar up as the cold fog began to prick against his skin and dull the throb in his head. It wasn't raining hard but a low brume now hung around the street, making Arthur feel slightly homesick.

Making sure to give "Five Meters" a wide berth, Arthur finally arrived at Tramonto, opening the door and sighing happily at the warmth of the interior of the restaurant. Sitting near the window, a leg crossed over the other, a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside him as he perused a small green book, was Francis. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and a smile spread across his face. "Ah, Sourcils. How good to see you among the living."

"Urg…" Arthur grunted in response, sliding into the chair beside him and laying his head on the wood, closing his eyes.

And was promptly slapped on the back as Roma exploded into the room. "Buongiorno!" He crowed while the Englishman groaned loudly, clutching his head between his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry!" He said, still in that unlawfully bright voice, "I heard you got drunk last night! You must have a massive hangover!"

"Something like that…"

The laughter was perhaps even worse than the militia marching music. "Don't worry! I've got the perfect cure!" And with one last agonizing shout of laughter, Roma left.

"Don't say a word." Arthur ground out, fixing Francis with a single bloodshot eye. Francis merely chuckled, sipping at his coffee and returning to his book. Roma arrived a few minutes later and slid a plate onto the table followed by a mug. Giving Arthur hearty wink, Roma sauntered back to his kitchen while Arthur dragged himself off the table and stared at the food.

Two sunny-side up eggs with a piece of bacon under them, tilted up at the sides sat on the red plate. "My breakfast is smiling at me." He said, picking up his fork and poking one of the yokes with it. Yellow liquid oozed out of the film, running down the plate.

"And now you've gone and made it sad." Francis said, not looking up from his book.

Arthur jabbed his fork in the Frenchman's direction. "I said to keep your gob shut." And promptly speared one of the eggs, transferring it to his mouth. With a shudder, he reached down and quickly scooped up the other egg, and swallowed it quickly so that he barely tasted it. "I hate eggs…" He muttered, picking up the piece of bacon and shoving it in after, trying to rid himself off the slimy aftertaste. The savour still lingering, he reached over and threw back the mug's content, surprised to find milk inside. After chugging the entire drink, he slammed the cup back onto the table, making Francis look up from his book.

"Ah, Arthur…" Francis tapped his twitching upper lip with a long finger, "You've got a little something here…" Arthur's tongue flicked out, running along his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at a slightly pink Francis, "It's still there…" Sitting forward in his seat, Francis reached out with a napkin, wiping Arthur's face with it.

When he returned to his sitting position, both were blushing, pointedly avoiding each other gazes. "S-so," Arthur said, clearing his throat, staring at his empty mug, "What do you want to do today?"

"Roma's invited us down to the docks." Francis said.

At the mention of his name, the Roman appeared, a large brown coat around his broad shoulders. "It's Tuesday, so I go down to the docks and pick up my fish." He grinned slightly sheepishly, "I thought you might want to see more of the city."

Arthur got to his feet, stretching. His headache was fading rapidly and he suddenly felt very awake. "That would be great," He said, making Francis stare at him with a look of utter incredulity. As Roma left - he had to go ready the vehicle apparently - Arthur stopped at the door, turning back to Francis and saying a low voice, "But I doubt we'll see anything, it's so bloody foggy out there."

"And I was worried you lost your tongue." Francis sighed, following after the Brit.

In the street, grinning widely at them, was Roma. He was sitting atop a light blue Vespa with a small sidecar attached, holding out two helmets. "Let's get going!" After a few minutes of positioning everyone onto the rickety scooter, Arthur found himself in the sidecar while Francis was wrapped around Roma. "Everyone on? Okay! Let's go!" The motor revved into life and the scooter jumped forward.

Arthur yelped, clutching the sides of the small car tightly, keeping his eyes trained on his lap, waiting for the crash to come. Trying to distract his mind, he looked down at the book Francis had thrown into the sidecar, saying that he couldn't carry it while riding with the Roman. It was a book of poetry, but not in French, the Englishman realized with a start, but in German. Making a mental note to question Francis further about the book's origins, he spent the rest of the trip staring at the book's golden title, trying to keep his breakfast down.

The scooter stopped and Arthur raised his head. On his left, Francis uncurled himself from Roma, looking slightly ruffled. "Here we are!" The chef said, stepping off the bike and kicking the scooter's stand down, "The docks! Aren't they great?" The harbour were nothing more than a collection of small houses placed near docks that stretched out and disappeared into the wall of fog that hung heavy on the ocean. Arthur suspected that this was probably a million-dollar-view when there wasn't London weather here.

"You can wait here. I'll just be down at that house right there." Roma jumped over the low wall, climbing down the steep stairs that clung to the cliff that overlooked the docks. Arthur watched as five people appeared from the house, all Asian and all scrambling over each other to greet Roma. The eldest among them, as far as Arthur could tell from the way he whacked the loudest over the head, had long brown hair, dressed in a rich red.

"Wish we could see the sunset," Arthur muttered, tearing his eyes away from the gaggle of people near the dock and leaned against the wall, folding his arms on the stone. His eyes trailed up murky docks all the way out into the open ocean. He watched the outline of the sun shine feebly behind the heavy clouds.

Francis wasn't listening. He had his back to the docks and was currently grinning warmly at a couple of young Italian girls, flicking his blond hair over his shoulder. The Brit snorted, rubbing his face into his arms, sighing heavily. He didn't actually care about the sunset, he just wanted to get out of the fog. Wasn't Italy supposed to be warm and sunny and not like his home where Alfred was currently residing with his new boyfriend? He sighed, forgetting Alfred was harder than he expected, or maybe he was just going to keep being reminded of Alfred until the end of his miserable, lonely life. Everything that would every remind him, food, water, even the sun was going to constantly prompt some memory involving the American. He knew one thing though, Francis was never going to-

"So it would be safe for me to assume that you only agreed to join me on my trip because you were emotionally unstable and clearly were looking for something to keep you from drowning in a pit of your own misery?" Was what Arthur heard, while in reality, Francis had merely said, "Can I ask you a personal question Arthur? About this, Alfred person?"

He could feel his entire body go rigid as he turned to face the Frenchman. "Al-alfred? Who's that? I've never even heard of that name," a nervous laugh bubbled up from his throat, feeling unpleasant in his mouth, "Seriously? I don't even know who you're talking about."

An elegant eyebrow quirked. "Sourcils, you are a terrible actor."

"I-I…" Arthur let his head fall forward in defeat, "Okay, you're right. I'm a terrible actor."

"Admitting your mistake won't get you out of the question." Francis said, eyebrows still raised as he turned around, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms across his chest.

Knowing that his only escape probably meant jumping over the wall and falling down the stairs, Arthur tried to assemble his thoughts. "I met Alfred two years ago while he was visiting from our American branch," despite himself, Arthur could feel a nostalgic smile creep onto his face, "He was loud, obnoxious, American and probably everything I don't like about people all bundled up in one annoyingly energetic person. And I had to deal with him. He was one of those young CEO types… thinks they can solve all the world's problems just by being a hero. But he was enchanting… in a little yapper dog kind of way." Laughing, he ran a hand through his short hair. "Listen to me. I sound like a love-struck sap."

"No, it's an interesting side of you Sourcils." Francis said, scratching his neck, "Please continue."

Wondering about Francis' sudden interest in his failed love life, Arthur frowned before answering, "We argued constantly. Over everything and anything, from tea versus coffee to what kind of paper worked better in the fax machines. I grew to love arguing with him and even went out of my way to bother him. He constantly argued back and it became our kind of flirting. It was the Christmas when we actually took that next step…"

Arthur leaned against the window of his office, watching the partygoers dance to the badly sung karaoke around their cubicles and the table of snacks and punch. He sipped from the red plastic cup, laughing slightly as an intern got up on a table and lifted her shirt, much to the approving whoops and cheers from the crowd.

"You sure know how to party." The door to his bureau was open and Alfred's head was looking inside, cheeks slightly flushed, "I never thought I'd have so much fun at a Brit party." He said, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind him.

Snorting, Arthur took a large swig of the drink, preparing himself for the coming battle. "Yeah, we Limeys sure know how to throw 'em." He grimaced as the American laughed loudly. "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be up singing or something?"

Still laughing, Alfred came to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder. "Didn't you see my wonderful performance of 'Never Gonna Give You Up?' " Arthur rolled his eyes, trying to keep the screeching memory far in the back on his mind. They said nothing else for a few minutes, simply drinking in silence, watching the woman topple off the table, falling into the arms of the Vice-President.

As Arthur turned to Alfred, ready to tell him that he had enough of this and was going home, he was surprised to find Alfred's blue eyes boring into him. He stumbled back, but caught himself. "W-what are you doing? Scared me half to death."

Leaning forward, Alfred kissed him, sliding his hand around Arthur's neck and pulling him close. Arthur's first thought was nothing more than a white space with large black words that read 'OH MY GOD WHAT?' Following that, he managed to notice that even though he had watched Alfred down two whole cups of beer, there was still the faint taste of coffee. His third thought was something around "Oh god why am I thinking about what Alfred tastes like?" Near the fourth though, his brain seemed to have stopped all cohesive function.

By this time, Alfred had pulled away and was watching Arthur with a concerned look. It was not often that after a kiss the recipient went still as the grave. "A-arthur?" He asked, stroking his neck, unable to keep the frightened stutter out of his voice. "Are you alright?"

Hands found his chest and shoved him away. He recoiled, slamming into the glass. Rubbing his head, Alfred looked up to see Arthur against his desk, chest heaving, face tomato red and his lips fumbled. "Al-alfred!?" He squeaked, flustered, "What the fuck!?"

"I-I was just. Well, I thought… You know, it being Christmas and all… Shit…" Alfred ran a hand through his hair, his own face turning red, "Arthur, if you don't… we, I just… look, we can forget this ever happened alright? It won't be awkward, I swear! All my mistake, we can just say we were drunk! Yeah, that's it, we were really drunk."

Sighing, Alfred growled low in his throat, racking his hair with both his hands. "I'm sorry, I just thought this would've worked! But, it's my mistake, I'm just gonna go…" Alfred looked as though he was hard-pressed not to run to the door and throw it open, catch the next plane to LA and never see Arthur again.

"Wait!" Alfred froze, his hand on the doorknob, "Alfred, just, wait a fucking second." Wondering what exactly he was going to say, Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn't take a step towards the man, preferring to stay anchored to his desk, seeing it as somewhat of a safe haven.

Gradually, Alfred's hand uncurled from the handle and he faced Arthur, shoulders slightly hunched, as if to protect himself from the looming burst of rage. "Art?" He tried, resigning to the nickname.

The knots in the wood of his desk felt particularly rough as he clutched it. "I don't mean. I…" Arthur sighed, trying to find the words that escaped him at such a crucial moment, "You just… surprised me. And… I was… no, it was my fault. Don't take it the wrong way, I was just a bit… shocked. But I do…I do like you."

Another silence. Arthur noticed that the entire company was up against the glass of his office, all staring, wide-eyed at the two of them. His fingers gripped the desk even tighter and he let his head drop, trying to hide his blush from the watching crowd. There was a sudden set of quick footsteps and Arthur looked up just in time to have Alfred slam his lips into his. He closed his eyes, releasing the desk and wrapping his arms around Alfred's neck, telling his mind to shut up and enjoy the kiss.

Outside, the assembled partygoers cheered loudly, wolf whistles and hoots filling the air.

"After that, I guess we just…"

"Fell in love?" Francis finished, giving him a cheerless smile.

"Or some rubbish like that." Arthur said. His shoulders slumped as he buried his face in his arms. His eyes felt uncomfortably hot and he tried to not to sniffle, wanting to keep at least some of his dignity - though ending up drunk and pantless pretty much destroyed any he may have had left - in front of Francis.

He jumped slightly as a hand found his shoulder, squeezing it. "I'm sorry Sourcils." Francis smiled at him as Arthur looked up from his arms, brushing a finger under his eye.

"S'no problem." The Brit muttered, doing his best not to pout.

"Hey! What's going on up here!?" the two men turned round to see Roma jogging up the stairs, a large icebox in his arms, filled to the brim with fish, a large grin on his face. Francis' hand quickly left Arthur's back as they both straightened, trying to look innocent, though the chef's smile suggested that he knew much more. "I've got some good news and bad news. Good news, is that I'm going to lend you my scooter so you can visit more of the city tonight." Roma said, walking over to the Vespa and setting the icebox down so that he could secure his helmet under his chin.

Arthur and Francis followed suit, putting on helmets and slipping into their respective seats. "What's the bad news?" Arthur asked, accidentally catching the Frenchman's eye and feeling his face heat up at once. Sure, he shares one intimate story with the man and he's reduced to a blubbering, blushing pile of mush.

Something plopped onto his lap and immediately he was assaulted by a strong, salty stench of fish. "You're sharing shotgun with my salmon."

Author's Note

I really have to thank firephantom24 for helping me come up with what Germany would lend France to read. I would've never thought of poetry. Pure genius on her part!

I HAVE A BUFFER. THANK GOD. Just in time too, school's just started and it's my final grade before University, so I've got the buckle down. (luckily there's no chem this term, so I don't have to worry about that =A=) Might start updating whenever and not just once a week, we'll see.

Eggs and milk are actually a very good cure for hangovers. Not that I checked or anything.

And why the canon-esque Hetalia scene at the beginning? No idea, your guess is as good as mine. *wanted reason to have Gilbo kick Iggy in face while wearing boots*