Chapter 3

"Francis?"

They had been home for over half an hour now, and nothing the Brit had done could elicit a response from the Frenchman. He just sat there, silent tears streaming down his face, as Arthur tried to coax him out of his reverie. Cups of tea, jammy dodgers, and a pitiful attempt at toast, all lay rejected across the table. Arthur sighed. It was time for some action.

"Look, Francis… I know that wanker said some pretty harsh things, but he was wrong. Anyone can spout bollocks like that; it doesn't mean they're right. Even I know you don't do that stuff, and you know how bloody ignorant I can be."

"Jeanne." The handsome blonde barely spoke above a whisper.

"I don't know what I can tell you," Arthur said, throwing his hands up.
"I mean, I'm sorry she's gone, but… isn't it time to move on? You're not the only one who's lost someone they loved."

"I didn't do those things." Francis spoke like a child.

"I know. That's what I said, isn't it? Just because some total bludger down at the bar reckons you did, doesn't mean it's true."

"You believe me?" Fresh tears began to fall from the sapphire eyes.

"Of course I believe you! That's what I've been saying the whole bloody time, you idiot! Why don't you listen to me?"

Arthur sighed, plonked himself down on the couch, and wrapped an arm around Francis. The Frenchman leaned gently on him, glad for the support. Arthur leaned his head against his blonde, silky hair, squeezing Francis gently.

"You're okay, aren't you? I mean, they're just words. We've gone through a whole lot worse that just words."

"Words hurt, Angleterre. More than simple wounds."

"Well that's what I'm here for, isn't it? I may not be a lot of help with your real wounds; in fact I probably caused most of them. But I can sit, and listen, and give terrible advice, which you will immediately ignore."

Francis chuckled gently, sitting up to face the Brit.

"Your advice isn't that bad, mon chere."

"Don't lie to me, frog." Arthur shoved Francis' arm playfully, and before they knew it, they were jostling each other back and forth, laughter cutting through the once tense atmosphere. A particularly hard shove from Arthur caused the Frenchman to topple backwards, falling towards the ground. He reached out, grabbing the Brit's collar in an attempt to steady himself, only succeeding in pulling them both down.

Francis lay on his back, golden curls gently fanning out across the navy carpet, Arthur's hands on either side of his shoulders. The sandy haired man froze, realising that her was basically straddling the Frenchman, before they both burst into laughter again.

"You bloody idiot, what did you do that for?"

"You pushed me first, mon chere, I simply retaliated!"

"Stupid frog," chuckled Arthur as he rolled to the side, getting off Francis. "Er, sorry about landing on you though."

"Ah, but I did not mind at all! In fact, if you would like to do it again-"

"Argh! Shut up, you wanker!" Arthur turned an interesting shade of magenta as he processed Francis' words.

"I kid, I kid. Well, I don't really, but it was worth a shot, oui?"

"It wasn't worth anything, and you know it!"

Francis just sat there, grinning cockily at the infuriated Englishman. Well, at least he wasn't sobbing his heart out anymore.

"It would be fun though, oui? Well, it would be fun for you. I cannot say much for your… skills, shall we say-"

"Are you trying to say that I'm a bad kisser!?" Arthur's mouth was hanging open, aghast at the accusation. "How the bloody hell would you even know?"

"Ah, it is instinct, mon chere! I can tell at a glance," chuckled the Frenchman, amused at the offended look on the Brit's face.

"Oh please, I could snog you into next week and you know it!"

"And what makes you say that, Angleterre? How do you know if I even find you attractive?" The cocked eyebrow that Francis gave made something in the Brit's brain click; he'd show that frog something real special.

"Maybe not now…" Arthur smirked. "But you will."

And with that, he jumped up of the floor and hurried towards his bedroom, leaving a perplexed Francis to pull himself onto the couch and wonder what on earth Arthur was planning. He could hear the Brit bustling around in his room, then footsteps coming back down the hall, pausing before entering the room.

"Oi, frog, close your eyes!"

Francis chuckled softly, closing his eyes. He heard Arthur moving across the carpet, and a curious click-thud noise, almost like… an amplifier? What the hell was he up to?

"Angleterre? What are y-" He was cut off by an ear-splitting guitar riff, causing his eyes to snap open.

"Mon dieu…"

Arthur was standing there, a black and red Slayer emblazoned with the British flag free-hanging in his arms. A pair of smokey grey skinny jeans, carelessly ripped not only at the knees but scandalously high up his thighs, accentuated his long legs, while his feet were clad in matte black platform boots that reached halfway up his calves, the deep purple laces crossing over and over before falling casually to the ground, left sloppily untied by the British punk.

His simple white dress shirt, now uncovered by the atrocious suit jacket, was torn off at the sleeves to reveal milky white, slender arms, while a bandana emblazoned with the British flag - how typical of Arthur - was tied messily around his neck. Smirking at Francis, the Brit stood cockily, his legs further than shoulder width apart, and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Arthur? I… wow," the Frenchman chuckled. "This is certainly not what I was expecting."

"But you like what you see, don't you." It was not a question.

"My, someone is confident today!" Almost, but not quite, against his will, Francis allowed his eyes to travel down Arthur's slender form, before trailing back up to look him in the eyes. "Oui, I do."

"I see." He opened his mouth, as if to say more, then shrugged, slung his guitar over his shoulders, and carefully replaced it on its stand. "Mission accomplished, then."

"Something the matter, Angleterre? Were you, perhaps, expecting me to swoon at your feet and throw roses?"

"Don't be ridiculous, frog!" The easily angered Brit was all ready to get fired up again, but Francis simply grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him down onto the couch.

"I will save that for next time, oui?"

"You can save it for never, you dammed Frenchie…" grumbled Arthur, folding his arms and pouting childishly. "Will you never let off on that?"

"Non, never," sighed the blonde, shifting his position to lean against the Brit. Surprisingly, Arthur made no move to push him off, instead threading his long, slender fingers through Francis' golden hair.

"Are you okay now?"

"Oui… I think so," Francis smiled sadly, looking up at Arthur. It was odd to see him like this, so fragile and emotional. "It seems you do care after all, Angleterre."

"Of course I bloody care, you idiot!" The Brit couldn't help but laugh, wrapping a slender arm around Francis' chest. "I don't like it, that's for sure. But for some strange reason," he sighed, "I care about you."

Francis blinked slowly, not expecting that reaction. "I care about you too, Arthur." It seemed like the appropriate response, and after all, he did care about the stuffy Englishman. He leaned up, placing a gentle kiss upon Arthur's cheek, grinning at the red haze that covered the pale face.

"Oh come now, you can do better than that," Arthur teased, although his blush was still quite apparent on his face. Damn his emotions, damn them all to hell! Another raised eyebrow from Francis, and all caution was simply thrown to the wind. Screw it all, he was the United bloody Kingdom and he would do what he wanted. And so he did.

When their lips finally parted, Arthur's hand lingered at the back of Francis' silky golden hair, his long fingers threading through it gently. How on earth did he get it so soft?

"I've been wanting to do that for rather a long time, you know." The Frenchman smiled softly, leaning back against Arthur. "I am glad that you made the move."

"Yes, well someone had to do it, might as well have been me," the Brit said quickly, trying to cover his embarrassment. What had possessed him to snog Francis, of all the things to do? Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, quite the opposite in fact. And he rather agreed with Francis; if he hadn't made that move, he suspected neither of them ever would. "Look what you've done to me, you fool, I feel like a bloody schoolgirl!"

"My schoolgirl," mused Francis, slipping his hand into Arthur's. "Although I much prefer my punk. He is very good looking, oui?"

"Of course he is, he's me!" There was that dammed blush again, he just couldn't seem to control his blood supply today; but he noticed that Francis too had a pink tinge across his cheeks. Perhaps they were both that hopeless, if you really looked into it.

"And I hope that you never change, mon chere. I love you just the way you are."

"Love? Who said anything about love?!"

"I did, lapin! It has been over two hundred years, no? I think that constitutes love."

"You always were so straight forward…" Arthur glanced nervously down at Francis, not wanting to hurt his already tender heart. "I don't know if I love you, Francis. Not yet, at least… I have trouble with my feelings, you know that."

"Then I will wait," came the simple reply. "I will wait forever, until the day that you can wake up and honestly say that you love me, as I love you."

Arthur sighed, wrapping his arms protectively around the French nation, resting his chin gently on the fair head. While the words were poetic, he didn't know how long the poor man would have to wait.

"Speak to me, Angleterre… I like the sound of your voice."

"That's a rather odd thing to say," chuckled the Brit. "What should I talk about?"

"Talk about me. I want to know how you see me."

"Alright then," Arthur considered for a moment, before deciding that the truth would be best. "You are insufferable. You interrupt me when I speak, you make lovey dovey faces at me all the time, and you interfere where you are not wanted. You are annoying, flirty, and have absolutely no sense of personal space…" He stopped for a breath, trying to ignore the tensed body lying across him. "And yet, somehow, you manage to be caring and sweet and kind to everyone, no matter how much they shoot you down. You're even kind to me, which is an accomplishment worthy of a medal. So, all in all… I suppose I'm rather fond of you. I just have a funny way of showing it. In essence, you are you. And I don't want that to change."

Silence. Arthur looked down at Francis' bowed head, a puddle of worry spreading through his stomach. He'd done it now, hadn't he? Right when the Frenchman was so fragile, he just had to go and tell him what he really thought… it wasn't all bad though, was it?

"Oh god, Francis, I'm sorry… I didn't mean half of that, I just let my mouth run away from me as usual, I just-"

"Thank you," interrupted the blonde. "You told me what you truly think… and that means everything to me."

"Oh… right then." He really was hopeless. The usually confident, outspoken Brit had absolutely no words left. Yet he didn't need words, when Francis was right there, as if for Arthur, and Arthur only. Long, bony fingers intertwined with soft, feminine ones, conveying the words that neither of them felt the need to speak.

Did they love each other? Of course they did. That would be apparent to any watching spirit, whether it was a stranger or close friend. No matter how Arthur tried to deny it, the fact was there; he loved that idiotic Frenchie, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The shared moment turned into hours, the emotionally drained Frenchman slowly drifting off to sleep in the protective embrace of the equally exhausted Brit. Discovered, hours later, by a frantic Alfred, worried over the lack of attention given to the pair's phones. Hurriedly shushed by a more perceptive Matthew, who pointed out their obvious need for privacy, the Canadian wrapped one of Arthur's crocheted blankets affectionately around the sleeping couple.

"Took their time, didn't they?" Alfred just barely managed to keep his voice below a shout.

"Papa will be so happy now," smiled the Canadian. He knew how long Francis had been waiting for this, and had long suspected Arthur reciprocated those feelings.

"Yeah, if you say so..."

"Come on, let's leave them alone," Matthew frowned at his brother, gently pulling him away from the couch. What was up with him?

A sneaky snapshot later (perhaps three or four), the brothers slipped back out of the house, leaving the lovebirds to wake up on their own.

AN

I feel like this chapter is kinda sucky… sorry. It'll get a bit more interesting later on, hopefully. This is turning out a lot longer than I originally intended, and I might throw in a few other pairings… any suggestions? Anyways, thanks for reading, please review! =^-^=

/AN