A/N:
Don't ask me why I waited so long to update... xD But, here it is! I'm also working on a new series, which is why this has been lagged for a bit.
OTL I have gone such a long stretch in this chapter regarding Fr and Uk's relationship. My original plan was that they weren't even going to kiss, let alone see each other naked. They were just going to be BFF's from the moment they meet (okay not EXACTLY from the moment they meet) until the end. xD
Oh well... I hope I don't offend any pro-USUK Rochu shippers here. This chapter also depicts a paradigm shift in their relationship, which I hope you keep a lookout for. Well, it technically happened during the last Fruk update, but it manifests itself more here. This chapter is on another of their pointless conversations and then, the French Revolution.
Also, just to warn you, this one may be a bit ideologically disturbing, mostly due to France's kind of character juxtaposed with sensitive subject matter. Your discretion is advised, and the flames box is always open.
"And you thought I needed to bathe?" France murmured into England's bare sweaty chest, his tongue grazing the salt on his skin.
"Well, I don't think so anymore, if that is any consolation." England grumbled, his chapped lips scratching against the crown of France's head. His hair was damp, musty, and not to mention, a little frizzy.
"Why not?"
Not bothering to answer, England gave a long sigh. As his ribcage fell, so did France.
He looked out the window— It was a warm, mild, rather charming afternoon. The curtains were left wide open, pouring sunlight into the bedroom. England entertained the thought of shoving France against the glass where the whole world could see, and do another round with him there.
But, he found a more creative way to irk him.
Reaching to the side of France's neck, he lightly pulled loose the blue ribbon around his hair and tossed it aside. England clawed the single braid apart, splaying golden hair across his shoulders. France stayed silent and didn't resist, patiently waiting for the other to verbally justify such an action.
England pursed his lips uncomfortably. Ill feelings were rutting his ribcage.
England ran a hand down France's scalp, his hair felt soft as air. But, it was a little too long for a man's mane, nor should it be gleaming in the sunlight.
England didn't like what he saw. Not one bit.
"Cut your hair, Francis." He muttered.
France tilted his head up and blinked perplexedly. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I don't like being reminded that I am in bed with a woman. You know that very notion makes me cringe."
"What, don't you don't think I'm handsome?" France asked, a little hurt.
England blinked twice. "No," he lied, lazily flicking away a fly that had landed upon France's back.
France chuckled, unconvinced. "Why is that?"
"Because..." He paused, and looked up at the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, in search for the rest of his answer.
Having thought of a comeback, he said, comically imitating the dark and brooding air of a German scholar, "Because, beauty is only deemed as such when the voyeur associates it with a previous evocation that had already been crowned the same title..."
After his grand soliloquy, England was met with silence.
France seriously wondered whether he was being sarcastic, and hoped to God he was.
A few seconds later, France let out a nervous giggle. "And what do you 'associate' yourself with, England?" He asked, sticking out his tongue at him, "Bad tea and even worse literature?"
England rolled his eyes at the slight defeat. "Oh, what is the point of reasoning with you, Francis, when reason itself is only the slave of our passions?"
France facepalmed on the inside, but grinned outwardly.
Though little England deserved applause for his ambition, France thought it was so cute how he would pretend to be a deep thinker, but was actually as transparent as a glass of water. Deciding not to call him out on his inappropriate allusion to Hume, he asked boredly, "So, tell me, what are your so-called 'passions' telling you to do right now?"
England raised one of the caterpillars on his forehead evilly. "To not fuck you again, until you cut your hair~" He sang, and grinned at his little victory.
France moued girlishly. "Oh Arthur, you are so cruel to me!" he whined, pounding his fists against the other's chest, "What in the heavens is wrong with my beautiful hair that you must damn it to hell?"
England shrugged. "It's too long." He muttered, his one hand working to comb out the stubborn knots.
Without warning, he grabbed a handful in his fist and twisted it around France's neck. France gasped in surprise, and held his breath—
"—And," England leaned over and whispered into his ear, his hot, moist breath licking his skin, "It reminds me too much of lynching rope..."
France made a face at the comment. He wondered what had made England so awfully morbid today. "You do not want to kill me, Arthur." France said smartly, despite the growing discomfort, "If I died, who would cook for you on Sundays?"
He looked into England's acid green eyes and gave a stiff smirk, before being smothered by the other man's lips crashing into his.
A sea of shouts and gunfire drowned the streets of Paris, making the windows of Francis' bedroom rattle.
"Vive la république!"
Francis was a little annoyed that the noise outside was ruining his spa day.
He coughed a little— He had a bit of a cold, must be the weather.
"Marie, darling~" He sang, waving to his maid who was standing by the doorway. She had a pretty face and a delicate figure, and couldn't be over the age of seventeen. The girl walked to the vanity desk where Francis was sitting.
"You called, sir?" She groveled, as a pair of ample breasts poured forth. Yes, that was why he kept her around, plus that she was quite nimble with her hands.
With a deafening boom followed by the clattering of broken glass, the cathedral down yonder fell to its knees. Francis ignored it, and kindly asked her, "Stand behind me, if you please?"
She obeyed, but from his mirror, Francis could see that sweat was beginning to trickle down her temples.
"Vive la France!"
The girl's father was supposedly a star figure among the rebels, and by the sounds of those cannons, he had probably met his demise already.
Francis looked into his mirror, and gave his reflection a serene smile. The shade lamp emanated a lukewarm light, which gave his skin a gentle, caramel glow. It made the blemishes on his face a little harder to see, and not to mention, that little scar along his jawline from when Arthur was testing out his new dagger. On the desk was a bouquet of lilies in a glass vase, as well as a music box that Francis had flipped open, which was tinkling the tune of Brahm's lullaby. To the right sat a pair of scissors, which France poised his hand and gripped, and handed it to his maid.
"Cut my hair." Francis ordered politely.
"But sir, I don't think—" The girl whispered.
"Please do as you are told, Marie." Francis pressed on, though not tossing away the mildness in his tone.
"Y-yes sir." She said, taking the scissors with her petite hands.
For a few brief seconds, all was silent except for Marie's snipping, as well as the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock standing by the window.
"Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort!"
She stopped.
"What are you waiting for, darling?" Francis asked, finding it harder to mask his impatience. He began tapping his nails against the desk's lacquered surface.
Another thunderous rumble had taunted Marie to take a peek outside, but she found that the window was shielded by a bath of crimson curtains. "Um," she sputtered, "It is just that... do forgive me... but don't you think we should leave this for another day?"
Francis spoke, his voice suddenly deepening, "Marie, I hope you take in account of the amount of money I am paying you just to remain here, safe, with me." He turned his head to the door and back at her, "Though, if you insist on leaving, very well. I give you that freedom."
"Off with his head!"
Marie bit her lip. "Yes, I'll stay," she finally said.
"Good. Now, where were we?"
After it was done, Marie cleaned up, bowed, and took her leave, and he was left alone in his bedroom. Francis' hair had been reduced to a shoulder length, and in a way, he felt that a weight had finally lifted from his shoulders.
Then, suddenly, it came— a twisting, stabbing pain gnawing inside ribcage. He fell onto his desk, heaving, his hand clutching his chest. It felt like he was repeatedly being impaled by a molten blade, without mercy nor regret. Francis gasped and fell to the floor, his body rolled into the corner of his room, beside his bookshelf.
Despite his clenched face, Francis' lips managed a smirk.
These were normal, natural symptoms he was experiencing. The streets of Paris were burning, and people were screaming in agony. If he wasn't in pain as well, he would be deemd heartless.
His hand reached into his coat pocket and produced a heart-shaped diamond pendant. It was large, roughly half of the size of his palm, and possessed a faint blue glare. The diamond seemed to had cracked in two, with the other half sliding off onto the carpet. France managed to pick it up, and held it up in front his eye.
Another stab of pain had caused him to drop it, as he jerked and writhed. Sweat dripped down his face, soaking his new haircut.
But for as long as Francis had been hurting, he could only think of Arthur.
Notes:
- Made vain, vague allusions to Kantian aesthetics, and Hume.
- The French Revolution (1789-1799) was a period of radical political change in France. It impacted the rest of Europe greatly, and even today, it is considered to be an iconic historical moment, one that is fondly remembered by left-wing political savvies as the pioneering event of liberalism. Fueled by the Enlightenment's "Yes we can!" attitude.
- The Hope Diamond fell in possession of of Louis XVI. After his death, it was stolen, and eventually fell in the hands of King George IV of the UK. It was cut, somewhere along the way.