Francis watched with disinterest as the kettle emitted steam and water boiled inside its plastic shell. Grabbing two striped coffee mugs from the cupboard above the sink the Frenchman measured out a teaspoon of coffee granules into his cup and placed a tea bag in the other for the Briton. How had it come to this? How it had it come down to him being a counsellor to Arthur about his failing love life? Not that he hadn't done it in the past, of course, but back then it was all teasing, now it was serious; there was actually a love in the Englishman's life. Things seemed so much more complicated nowadays.
Pouring steaming water into each cup and stirring both amounts of liquid with a silver spoon France paused in placing the two mugs on a sunflower yellow tray. What he didn't understand was if Arthur was in love with Alfred why did he run to him? Why had they kissed? Why was England sitting on his couch right now waiting for him? Too many questions. It made his head hurt.
OoOo
"Mmf! Angleterre! – stop!" Francis pulled away from the Englishman with a shocked expression on his face, his eyes looked frantic. England ignored this protest and reached up to crash his lips once more to the Frenchman's, tugging at France's clothes and hair, drawing him in nearer.
It felt good, being this way with Arthur, the way England obviously wanted him, yet it wasn't right, it wasn't right at all. As much as France hated America he didn't want a raging boyfriend on his case.
"Stop!" he pushed Arthur away again, more force in his actions this time, before holding the man at an arms length. England's eyes were still wet with salty droplets of moisture and were rimmed red. Arthur wiped his tears away with the back of his hand before sniffing and all but yelling
"Why? Isn't this what you want? You wanted me to come crying back to you all along, just let me be the weak one for once, I don't care, I don't, I-" hands desperately tugged on Francis' sleeves
"-I-I need you, I want you, I don't want to think, please Francis"
France felt his resistance wearing; the look that England was giving him was slowly chipping away at his bold exterior. What did he mean? What was this? Arthur's eyes filled up with a fresh round of water and he closed his eyes as the moisture flooded down his cheeks. Only then did Francis notice-
"What has happened to your eye, Angleterre?" France reached out gently to touch delicate fingers to the Englishman's face yet Arthur flinched away, as though fearing the contact. A light bruising was present around the Englishman's eye socket and eye lid, a fresh marking.
"Nothing – I, um, I-I fell. You know I'm barely ever looking where I'm going" a forced sounding chuckle escaped the Briton's lips, his lips twitching up into a smile before a wince crossed his features and he let it fall.
"What has Alfred done to vous?" Arthur's eyes were open now and gazing in a reserved manor at the Frenchman's own blue gems.
"Arthur?"
"He didn't do anything wrong." more bruising unveiled itself to France's eyes as England turned his head to the side, deep green and purple marks were trailed along his jaw line and neck, as though he had been held in a choke hold.
OoOo
That was how he had excused himself to the kitchen, offering promises of a long chat over tea when in actuality all he had wanted to do was vomit. He didn't want to understand, he realised, it was blatantly obvious what was happening between those two. How could America stoop that low?
"Frog? What's taking you so bloody long?" Arthur called from the sitting room.
What was even worse was the fact that England refused to acknowledge anything was wrong, he viewed it as 'normal', as 'something that came with a serious relationship.'
Picking up the patterned tea tray Francis grabbed the biscuit tin and a box of tissues as a precautionary measure and pushed on the kitchen door with his hip so it swung open. Arthur smiled tightly when he saw the Frenchman, his tears had dried up by now but the bruises were becoming darker by the second, at least to France's eyes anyway.
"D'accord, so, here vous go Angleterre, a nice cup of tea" he handed over the red and white striped mug, flinching when his fingers brushed against the ice cold texture of England's skin, before picking up his own green and blue striped cup and settling back into an arm chair opposite the Briton; he didn't want to be too close.
Arthur nodded his thanks before blowing on the liquid and taking a sip, his mouth puckered up for a second at the taste before he sighed and decided that he really didn't have it in him to complain about the quality of the tea bags Francis used. That made France agitated; usually England was always up for a good bashing at him, even if it was in a joking way.
Nibbling on a biscuit and watching Arthur from beneath his lashes France let the silence they were sitting in stretch out. Being unsure of what to say was a weakness that the Frenchman barely ever suffered from, he could usually think of 101 pick up lines in a split second when he set eyes on a girl, but in this particular instance he was useless.
How did you react when you found out that that the love of your life is being abused by their partner? Francis pursed his lips.
"He's not a bad person." England finally spoke up, taking another sip of his tea before swallowing quickly so not to let the taste linger on his tongue. France said nothing and the Englishman hurried on "You know how he is Francis, he's full of this "I'm a hero" bravado and his mind is like a child's. He doesn't mean it, he doesn't know his own strength."
Why was Arthur making excuses for him? Surely he couldn't still love the man, he came running to his house in tears for heaven's sake.
"Amérique is a grown man, Arthur.-" France said slowly
"-He isn't dense, he knows what he is doing"
England set down his tea cup on its saucer and stared down at the tea granules sticking to the bottom of the china.
"In a sense I suppose... but it doesn't change anything. He's still the annoying loud mouthed git he always has been, and I...I love him"
Francis flinched at hearing the words and his half eaten biscuit fell from his fingers. Cursing under his breath the Frenchman apologised and knelt down to retrieve it.
Arthur took this opportunity to bend down near to France, his hands found the biscuit before Francis did and England gently pressed it into the other man's palm.
"Don't worry about me, frog." another forced smile on the Briton's lips, Francis felt an iron fist close around his heart.
"W-what did vous mean when vous said vous needed me?"
"When? Earlier?"
France nodded hesitantly. England inhaled a deep lungful of air before letting it escape gradually out through his lips.
"Exactly what I said...I need you, even if it's not in the way you would like."
"Will that ever change?"
An echo of a memory, those words that often haunted the Frenchman rang out loud in his mind.
"Do you think you'll ever adore moi?"
Like the first time he had asked when the Englishman was a mere child Arthur said nothing for a minute or so before his eyes flicked up again to meet France's questionable gaze.
"Maybe, Francis. Maybe.."
How he hated that word, it was such an indecisive thing to say to somebody, it left you hanging, not knowing whether your future promised you love or heart ache.
There had been too many 'maybes' in Francis' life. He needed a proper answer for once, a straight answer. He deserved that much didn't he?
Just as the Frenchman was about to confront Arthur with this point a low droning noise rang around them, that infamous Nokia theme tune they play in cinemas to tell you to turn your mobile phone off before the movie.
England leant back on his haunches and pulled the cellular device from his trouser pocket, his battered face paled.
"It's Alfred"
A second to decide and the Briton decided to risk it, his thumb pressed down on the 'end call' button and the ringing ceased. It was obvious from the Englishman's expression that he would most likely pay for that later. Francis once again felt sick to his stomach.
"Go." France said, pushing himself up from the floorboards and looking down to the Briton. His eyes glazed over slightly as he tried to stop himself from showing too much emotion.
"I'd like vous to leave now, Angleterre" Arthur looked to the Frenchman with a slight smile on his lips, as though he thought France would be joking and be just about to invite him to stay a while longer. When no punch line followed the Frenchman's last statement the smile faded quickly.
"Oh...I see" England slowly hoisted himself up, using the sofa as a support before he stood awkwardly looking at Francis. Arthur stepped forwards, hesitated, and then placed a chaste kiss to the Frenchman's cheek.
"Thank-you" France kept his expression smooth and didn't say a word.
The closing of a door and a lock clicking into place broke Francis' calm state of mind. His hand flew to his mouth and he had to quickly manoeuvre himself into a chair before his legs gave way.
Shaking with involuntary tears falling silently down from his eyes France watched through the window as Arthur's Union Flag Mini drove up the street, took a left and then disappeared from view.
OoOo
"Leave me alone" France groaned, his hands lodged in his knotted blonde hair as the trill of the phone started up again. He knew it was England, or if not him then America calling on the Englishman's behalf. A small part of him wondered if the American had got the news of Arthur's visit quite yet, or if the Briton had been smart and lied as to where had had gone. He decided he didn't want to think about it, even to care.
The phone calls had started around a week ago, around four weeks after England's tear filled visit. At first France had picked up, played a part in a pointless conversation, asking after the Briton's health and such like, before Francis realised that it wasn't the Arthur he knew and loved he was talking to; it was this new Arthur that America had sculpted, the man who was battered, bruised, flinching and unsure of himself. This new man had no confidence.
It wasn't long after that first conversation that France began dodging calls from the Briton, he even installed Caller ID so he could tell who was calling. Half the time the calls were coming from America's land line and that just made things ten times worse. Who knew what horrific torture the American was dishing out? A small part of France's brain spoke up then and suggested that perhaps Alfred was a sadist, a person who enjoyed seeing other people's pain and perhaps got sexual pleasure from it. That thought inevitably led to Francis chucking his lungs up over the toilet.
It began to become a routine in the weeks that followed, France would stay at home either watching TV or listening to the radio, doing trivial things, washing up, sketching, reading a book. Anything so not to remind himself of the outside world and the people that inhabited it. His government rang a couple of times to make sure he was still breathing and around a dozen or so girls rang to see why he had bailed on their dates but other than that nobody enquired as to his absence.
Memories flitted around the Frenchman's head when he sat at his window, enjoying the sunshine streaming through and warming his skin. One day in particular came to the forefront of his mind as he caught a glimpse of a family walking in swimming costumes, towels draped round their shoulders, and carrying beach necessities walking towards the coastline he lived near.
OoOo
"Why do we have to go the bloody beach of all places? I've been there plenty of times."
Arthur whined incessantly as they pulled in at the car park next to the small boat rental hut perched at the top of a steep hill that led down to the sand.
"Parce que I say so, aussi-" France grinned broadly, unbuckling his seatbelt "Vous have not been to my beaches before, they are sandy, not full of stones are yours are. It's much nicer"
"Oh piss off, will you" England grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and making no move to exit the vehicle.
Francis sighed and raised an eyebrow before saying exasperatedly "I'll buy vous an ice cream?"
Arthur snorted "You think I'm that cheap that I'd sell out for a ?"
Shrugging, the Frenchman smirked "Are vous?"
England pursed his lips together tightly before he slowly unclipped his seatbelt.
"Only because I'm hungry, frog, the moral high ground is still mine"
"Hah! Vous never had it in the first place mon petit~"
As they climbed out the Peugeot that France owned they were suddenly buffeted by great winds rolling off the sea and heading inland. England screeched and held on to the car door handle for dear life and Francis let out a roaring laugh.
"Ahhaaaa! Oh, Angleterre, you do amuse me!"
"Oh fuck off!" Arthur spat, trying now to flatten down his windswept hair and regain his dignity despite his red stained cheeks.
Grabbing their towels and picnic basket the two nations began walking down the steep gravel walk way to the indeed sandy beach that lay before them. Francis inhaled the sea air deeply and smiled broadly before turning round to his companion and fighting to suppress a laugh.
"Oi!, twat! Don't just leave me to carry all the bloody stuff!" England tried to juggle the towels and beach equipment under one arm whilst swinging the picnic basket from where he had balanced it on his palm.
Noticing the Briton starting to topple over the Frenchman leaped forwards and put his arms out just as the towels and and sun umbrella came crashing down, Arthur somehow managed to trip over his own feet and he would've fallen flat on his face if Francis hadn't have grabbed the man round the middle at the last moment.
"Merde! Watch your step Angleterre!" France hurriedly tried to drag England away from the edge of the walkway where a steep drop led down to the part of the beach that was dotted with jagged looking rocks.
Arthur seemed too stunned to move for a second before his eyes widened and he tried to rush back towards the ledge, fighting against the Frenchman's grip on his waist.
"Angleterre?"
"The picnic basket fell over!" England yelled, once again being grabbed at the last second by France before he spiralled off the edge and to his doom.
Francis gave the other man a look of disbelief before he began to laugh
"Vous were ready to risk getting yourself killed for some food?"
England pouted slightly before he mumbled "Not just any food. I had some scones in there..."
Rolling his eyes at the Englishman's child like tendency to retrieve anything that is lost Francis kissed Arthur's neck as a thank-you for his thoughtful gesture before finally managing to get England away from the danger zone.
"Shall we?" France asked, gesturing with a hand down to the golden sand.
Arthur coughed slightly, trying to remain aloof despite his cheeks growing more crimson every second. "Sure, lets go"
The wind was still strong on the beach and Arthur still seemed a bit uneven as he walked so the Frenchman took the Briton's hand and squeezed it, ignoring how England's eyes seemed to bulge at the contact and how he tried to disentangle himself. After a couple of minutes however the Englishman couldn't seem to be bothered to retort any more and they walked along hand in hand in silence. It was a truly beautiful day, the sky was a bright shade of blue and dotted with puffy white clouds, the sunshine reflected off the sea water and made it seem as though it was sparkling.
"Bugger!" Arthur shrieked, hopping around on one foot as he desperately tried to shove his other bare foot back in to his sandal. Another thing to add was that the sand was scorching hot, an aspect that the Briton had obviously not expected.
"I think I burnt it!" England wailed, leaning on the Frenchman and making "aaah" and "eee" noises as he prodded at the bottom of his foot.
"I doubt vous burnt it mon ami" Francis shook his head slightly but then smiled when he saw Arthur's glare.
"Ah, fine. I shall give vous a piggy back, seeing as I am so nice, non?"
"Wha-? NO!" before he could even begin to run or perhaps hop away France had grabbed the Englishman and was forcing him to climb onto his back with an almost superhuman strength.
"This looks ridiculous, frog! Get me the fuck down from here!" England panicked, looking around helplessly as Francis began walking further along the beach.
"Hold on, mon petit lapin, I do not want vous to fall off" Francis hummed happily as he strolled along, his hands holding Arthur securely under his thighs near his knees.
Noticing a couple of children pointing and laughing at their situation the Briton awkwardly complied, crossing his legs over one another around the Frenchman's middle, slipping his arms round France's neck and then burying his face into his companions hair so to hide his face.
"I hate you sometimes, I really do" he grumbled, still listening to the youngster's laughter.
"Et je t'aime aussi mon petit" Francis chuckled before breaking out into a chorus of his national anthem as he often did at awkward moments.
After what seemed like an eternity of walking Francis began to slow, looking around at his surroundings and then letting a satisfactory smile cross his features.
"We're here mon petit!"
Silence.
"...Angleterre?" France tried to crane his neck to look back over his shoulder and as he did so he felt England's hands start to slip from around his neck.
"Eeek!" quickly improvising so the Englishman would land gently on to the sand rather than fall off roughly the Frenchman looked down with an amused expression at the sleeping Arthur.
"Typical, non?"
He supposed that the Briton had fallen asleep a while ago; his breathing was deep and he kept rolling around or twitching as though in the middle of a dream. Francis couldn't exactly remember when Arthur had nodded off, perhaps though because he took the Englishman's silence to be him listening intently to everything the Frenchman had to say. Rolling his eyes at his previous naïve thought Francis set up the sun umbrella over England's head so to douse him in shade.
Shaking out a couple of towels France set to work arranging a comfortable sitting arrangement for himself. As the sun brightened in the sky he popped some sunglasses on his nose and then did the same for the sleeping England. It was rather boring just sitting there, even with the beautiful sea just in front of him, so, after a moments pondering,the Frenchman decided he could do what he wanted to with the Brit. After all, as he remembered from their childhood years, Arthur was a terribly deep sleeper.
Applying sun screen to the Briton's pale form was the first task on his agenda, a sun burnt Arthur would be no fun at all, especially if he was complaining all the time. Removing the ugliest shirt he had ever seen from the Englishman's chest France continued to lather his companion in sun block. It was incredibly weird doing this whilst Arthur was sleeping, it was as though he had a England doll he could do whatever he wanted with. That was, of course, if you weren't on a public beach with children around.
Somehow he managed to change England into a pair of bright red swimming trunks without the man waking up and anybody seeing, the umbrella probably helped a lot though in concealing them from view. France changed into a pair of athletic swimming shorts and lay down on the sand next to Arthur, watching him and pouting slightly.
"Vous are most boring when vous are sleeping, Angleterre"
A sudden thought sprang to mind and the Frenchman's eyes glinted. It was so evil but...oh so brilliant. Shuffling on his knees back over to the Englishman France began undoing the button and zip on Arthur's khaki shorts. They were truly horrific to look at so perhaps England would thank him for ridding him of such undesirable clothing. Off came the Briton's boxer shorts and then finally his sandals. Francis smiled demoniacally down at Arthur's nude form.
Gathering the man up in his arms France lifted the Englishman up how you would a baby or a cat and cradled him to his chest. Slipping on his flip flops Francis walked as quietly as he could, trying not to make any sudden movements to alert the Briton of movement, as he crept towards the rolling waves. Arthur's mouth fell open into a small perfect 'O' and France couldn't help but make a slight adoring noise.
"Un, deux..." France stepped into the shallow edge of the water, letting the sea salt swirl up to around his ankles. "Trois!" dropping the Englishman into the ocean in a explosion of water the Frenchman made a mad dash up the beach towards their bags and towels.
A pair of waving arms was the first thing France saw, followed by lots of splashing and the appearance of a coughing head above the waves.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Arthur screeched, kicking his legs into action as he started swimming to keep himself afloat.
France roared with laughter, clutching his sides and rolling all over the place.
"Ah mon dieu! Stop it, you're killing me Angleterre!" tears spiked in the Frenchman's eyes as he laughed harder.
"Y-YOU! YOU DID THIS? WHY YOU LITTLE!- I'M COMING FOR YOU!"
Francis hiccuped from shortness of breath before once more he was pushed into hysterics by the sight of the totally unaware nude England standing up out the waves.
"Look Mother! A naked man, in the sea!" a small boy called in French, pointing towards Arthur with eyes as large as dinner plates.
"Naked?" France heard England murmur to himself before he looked down and -
"OH HOLY SHIT. BLOODY HELL. WANKER. BOLLOCKS.!" buckling at the waist the Englishman leapt back down under the cover of the waves. His face was the most red France had ever seen.
After practically dying of laughter and hiccups Francis hopped up and strolled down to the waters edge where Arthur was sitting, hugging his knees and cursing.
"You're such a bloody wanker, France"
"Oh? So vous don't want my help?"
"Were you going to offer any?"
"Hmmm..Maybe..mais...this is too good an opportunity"
"Wha- WOAH! NO! STAY AWAY! KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF, FRANCIS!"
OoOo
Francis was jolted out of his memory by a sudden knocking at the door. At first he was hesitant to go and answer it, suppose it was Arthur once again? He didn't really want to deal with that right now, especially as the man behind the door might be battered by bruises into an unrecognisable lump.
Sighing slightly the Frenchman lifted himself up from his window seat and strolled over to look through the peep hole in the wooden door.
What he saw took him completely by surprise. His stomach twisted as though a knife was wedged in it and he found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. Amérique. He was standing on his doorstep. What on earth could he want?
"Francis, open this fuckin' door!" Alfred growled from the other side of the paintwork, France could even hear his foot tapping against the corridor floor. Mustering up all his confidence and gripping the door knob tightly Francis pulled the door open towards him.
America stood very close to the door frame, so much so that France flinched back when he realised. The American was wearing his usual bomber jacket yet with a plain white tee-shirt underneath that showed off his obvious muscle toning. On his legs he was wearing dark navy blue jeans and what looked like Nike trainers on his feet.
Alfred's expression was one you might imagine a murderer to wear and he looked less than happy to see the Frenchman. Francis swallowed.
"You son of a bitch" America spat, his lips twisting up into a ugly vicious smile. His eyes looked crazy.
Francis couldn't speak, words were lost on his tongue. He stepped backwards, almost tripping over himself as America moved forwards, advancing.
It wasn't until the baseball bat was in contact with the side of his head that Francis realised the American was armed, but, of course, by then it was too late; the Frenchman was already seeing
stars.
TO BE CONTINUED...