Chapter Text
“The time is right, your perfume fills my head
The stars get red, and, oh, the night’s so blue
And then I go and spoil it all
By saying somethin’ stupid like, ‘I love you’”
“Somethin’ Stupid” – Frank Sinatra, Nancy Sinatra
Francis has always liked Arthur despite their bickering and frivolous rivalry. As the representative of France, there was a particular zest to him despite his intimate relationships with women on a monthly basis. Arthur, representing England, appeared as his polar opposite, serving as a “refine and distinguished” version of him.
It was hard to express why Francis’ affections were directed to this personification of England, which embodied practically everything Francis hated. The standard of gentlemen differed and yet, there were their similarities. Francis was much more colourful and artistic, foiling the monotony of Arthur’s style and cuisine. This was helped by the English infection into America, sharing similar food flavouring regardless of how much they made fun of each other, America’s food was just more on the sodium-rich and fattening side.
Canada had become distinct. One could argue that Canada belonged to France, especially in consideration of their French province. In reality, Canada was brought up by England just as much as America, even in despite of the disparity between them.
Francis would invite Canada’s representative, Matthew, to visit “glamourous and splendid” France. They visited the Louvre, France’s famous pyramid-shaped art museum. They browsed the paintings on display, pausing to observe, analyze, and listen to Francis’ ramblings about its “hidden meaning” and historical value.
Francis stopped for a moment, looking at Matthew with a sad smile. “If only that Angleterre hadn’t stolen you from me, perhaps you could have a greater appreciation for beauty. It’s certainly a relief that you retained the language of love. At least you’re the better half of America. Your politeness certainly isn’t from England, and it does have its sights.”
When coming across a painting featuring two lovers, Francis began talking about his recent break-up, which he initiated upon the mention of the romantics of old age. She was a Englishwoman who had arrived in France with a passion for art and culture, even engaging in the art of painting herself. Francis would discuss the beauty of her looks, emphasizing on her short blonde hair and green eyes he missed.
“Doesn’t that sound like England to you?”
He was quick on the defensive. “I am not in love with England!” He paused and thought about it, sighing. “Though, admittedly, he does have his perks.”
“You’ve dated a lot of girls from across Europe, haven’t you? Why does she stand out?”
Francis thought to himself. At first, he wasn’t sure. “I suppose her attraction to proper art and culture was what made me approach her in the first place. She definitely humoured me with her strange laugh and awful jokes. And she had the worst comebacks, I couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, and her beauty was absolutely stunning. You’d expect longer locks on a girl, yet, its short length suited her perfectly and her green eyes too, like a gorgeous feature of nature itself.” He paused. “But I’m rambling on, aren’t I? She was certainly beautiful, that was for sure.”
“She’s quite similar to England.”
Francis continued to defend his position, even if he knew otherwise. There has always been a degree of likeness for the strange Englishman. Francis has never hated Arthur, but love was a strong way of putting it, but there were no other words.
As he settled at home, Francis thought back on it. Oftentimes, he didn’t want to admit that Arthur was even the slightest bit attractive in any way shape or form. It was a ridiculous notion, enough to suppress into oblivion. As their countries have gradually become closer over time, it’s become harder to ignore it.
He had thought on it long enough to begin pacing his room in the dead of night. The moonlight slipped into his room. Eventually, he sat on a chair near the window. From a pot, he took a rose, overlooking the city. He couldn’t help but wonder if Arthur was looking at the same crescent moon that hung in the sky.
Arthur was certainly a wonder.
Arthur was resting comfortably in his bed, however, had woken up in the early hours of the morning. It was the reality of being the number one country according to him, and this truth wasn’t all hysterical, however, they were far from the “best country” in the world. He ate breakfast and reviewed the world’s happenings via newspaper. Afterwards a thought came to him.
“Right, the Allies are having a meeting soon, aren’t we?” He sipped his tea. “We should prepare for such an event, shouldn’t we.”
The flying mint bunny nodded their head enthusiastically. “I hear it’s going to be in France!”
Arthur grimaced a little with a sigh. “Ah yes, France…” Arthur did not want to go to France. He was content here in England where everything he liked was here—everything he liked was not in France. “I suppose it can’t be helped.” He said to nobody. “I did host the last meeting and America the one before. Better France than Russia.”
The meeting was in a few days.
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in going early.” Arthur decided, and so, he went to France.
Arthur made it to the room that Francis had booked for the incoming nations. He settled in with not much baggage to organize through. “Of course,” he said. “Just too much work to incorporate a simple kettle.” He reached into his suitcase. “What would I do if I hadn’t brought my own? How would I make any tea in these conditions?” He retrieved a kettle and set it on the long table across from his bed, with the edition of a portable stove.
Unexpectedly, Francis stumbled out of the closet, cursing at himself before becoming face-to-face with England’s representative. Strangely, he was shirtless. Arthur jumped, quickly grabbing the kettle and aiming it at Francis. “What the bollocks!?”
“Fancy seeing you here,” Francis chuckled to himself.
Arthur furrowed his eyebrows together, mouth agape in surprise. He turned the kettle to the portable stove. “What the hell are you doing in my closet?!” He yelled at Francis. “What sort of plan have you thought up?!”
“No no, Angleterre!” Francis waved his hands defensively. “It’s no sabotage, I assure you!” Francis looked at the paper in his hand and quickly shoved it behind is back. “I did not expect you to arrive so early.”
“That hardly explains a thing!” Arthur narrowed his eyes at Francis. “And what is that thing behind your back?!” Arthur confronted, closing the space between him and Francis. Arthur stopped at the corner of the bed as Francis hit the closet door, which he frantically closed. “Perhaps it’s a thing to ruin me!”
“Of course it isn’t!” Francis laughed nervously. “It’s nothing, seriously!”
Arthur didn’t believe that. “Give it to me!” Arthur charged at Francis, inciting a wrestling match.
Francis kept the paper as far as possible from Arthur. Arthur tried to discern it as he reached for it, but it was intelligible from afar. Arthur tugged on Francis’ arm and swung to grab it. He almost did, and Francis saw this. In a moment of defence, Francis shoved Arthur by twisting around and shoved the paper into his pants. It was enough to stun Arthur to stop. “Aha! If you’re so determined to read this paper, you’ll have to search my pants!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Arthur watched in disbelief as Francis laughed to himself. “I’m not—I’m not searching your trousers!” Arthur didn’t like the idea that Francis had gained the upper hand on him, but he didn’t know what else to do. Even thinking about it seemed reprehensible, enough to make him flustered.
“What are you going to do now, Angleterre?” Francis relished in the moment. “It seems like I have won.”
“You haven’t won a darn thing, you wanker!” He spat. “That was a dirty trick!”
Francis managed to reduce his laughter to a smirk. Spitefully, he blew a kiss to Arthur. This sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine.
“I don’t need to see your schtewpid paper, you idiot!” Arthur crossed his arms. “Whatever you’ve done to my room, I’ll find it! Now get out of my room before you ruin my appetite for tea!”
Francis chuckled, walking past Arthur and to the door. Arthur watched as Francis retrieved the paper and held it up for Arthur to see. He wouldn’t repeat his action, standing there and grossed out by the paper. Even if he wanted to see it, he certainly did not want to touch it.
Francis moved through the door with a grin, looking into the room from the hallway to wave the paper and Arthur watched with sewn eyebrows. Francis’ attention was caught by the yelling representative to his left.
“Hey, what’s up my man! What were you doing coming out of England’s room shirtless! That’s really weird!”
“Oh,” Francis turned. “Hello America.” He looked to the right of America’s representative, seeing a familiar face, however, he had almost missed him. “And Canada.” He had forgotten he had invited Matthew to the meeting when they were at the Louvre.
Arthur moved to the doorway and looked into the hallway. “I didn’t know you invited Canada.”
“He was in the vicinity and I thought it wouldn’t hurt. It might be nice to have someone who isn’t obnoxious and appreciates the language of love for once.”
It wasn’t that Canada “appreciated” the French language but more of the fact that there were too many Frenchmen and women in Canada to ignore the language.
As everyone went their separate ways, Matthew would spot Francis tossing the paper into a recycling bin, nearly missing. Arthur retreated back into his room and began preparing tea, creating a homely feel to the French hotel room. As he waited, he searched the room clean, looking under his mattress and even his own luggage. There was nothing that Arthur could find that Francis had tampered with, and it certainly didn’t help that this was a foreign territory.
He surveyed the city below as he sipped his tea like the Englishman he was, watching the crowds below. He took in the tranquility, even he had to admit there was a beauty to France, and Francis personified that even despite his retched personality and bizarre antics.
The nighttime was considerably calm, faintly hearing America’s representative, Alfred, down the hall—luckily, he wasn’t situated as Arthur’s neighbour. He had the privilege of being sandwiched between the representatives of China and Canada, two relatively quiet individuals. Arthur wore his goofy night gown and cap comfortably in bed.
In the distance, Francis looked from his window, wearing his expensive pink faux fur night gown with a smile.
Arthur awoke at the sound of a knock at the door. It was a French messenger, passing a letter to Arthur. Shutting the door, he discovered it was an invitation to lunch with Francis. Arthur had debating on going at all, but it would have been rude to decline. Thus, dressing into his military uniform, Arthur arrived at a restaurant and quickly found Francis sitting at an outside table.
“Is this some sort of apology for breaking and hiding in my room?” Arthur sat down.
“Oh, you’re still stuck on that?”
“It was yesterday, you twit. How could I not?” Arthur took the menu. There was a wide array of items and to Arthur’s pleasure, tea was an option. There was much silence between them, enough for Arthur to feel tense. Francis wasn’t typically this quiet. “Well, you’ve invited me for something. Spit it out.”
Francis blinked, reluctant to speak. When Arthur looked up from the menu, Francis’ face was red. He sighed.
“What embarrassing deal have you conjured up this time?”
Francis took in a breath. “Suppose I were to ask you to marry me—”
Arthur was taken aback, speechless for a long minute. “What the hell is wrong with you? I thought we’ve already established I have no interest in marrying you. Listen, if you need resources, I’d be willing to make a deal. We are allies.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
Arthur leaned closer. “Have you been drinking? You shouldn’t be drinking so much wine so early in the morning.” Arthur eyed him closely, it was hard to determine, but in truth, Francis was drunk. Arthur sighed. “If this is what you brought me around for, I don’t want any part of it.” Arthur stood up.
“ Angleterre. ” Francis reached for Arthur’s hand in a pitiful attempt to make him stay. “Please, you must listen.” Arthur pulled his hand away.
“To hell with your marriage proposals! I have no interest in marrying you, frog.”
“Why not?!”
To Arthur, it seemed like a stupid question to ask. The first proposal was enough. “You’d think you’d have a more dignified way of seeking help. I am not signing any marital registration form, especially from you!” Arthur huffed a breath. “Good day to you, France. I’ll be taking my leave.”
Francis didn’t call out to him. He got his answer, loud and clear. Francis sat there for longer than he wanted, long enough for the waiter to come by to ask what he wanted. Francis waved the waiter away before standing and moving sulkily down the streets of France.
“Aw, how stupid could I have been?” He looked down, a hand in his face as he walked. He ran the hand through his hair, pulling on it a little. “What were you thinking, France?” He accidentally bumped into a girl and offered his apologies and continued on his way.
He stepped into his house, took and wine bottle and gulped it down half empty. He manoeuvred his way up the stairs and into his room. Standing in the center of his room, he heard the door shut behind him. When he turned to look, it was Germany’s representative, Ludwig, standing there wielding a rifle.
Francis uttered a yelp upon seeing him. “Germany! What are you doing in my room?”
Ludwig quickly moved toward Francis and hit the butt of his gun against his head, knocking out Francis. Francis would awaken when being splashed with a wave of cold water by Ludwig. Francis yelped, coughing a little as he shivered. He shook his head, soaked before blinking a couple of times to regain some vision.
“What the—” Francis looked up at Ludwig. “Is this how you treat your prisoners?” He had been tied to a chair in a cell. The ground had been dirt with walls of concrete—they must have been some feet underground.
Ludwig placed the bucket upside down on the ground, sitting on it like a chair. He eyed Francis steadily, almost not blinking. When he did speak, he was direct in the demands he made: territory.
“Ha! Do you really think I’m going to negotiate with you?”
In response, Ludwig stood and took the bucket and dropped it onto Francis’ head, some of the dirt getting onto him. Before Francis could react, Ludwig hit the tin bucket with the blunt edge of his knife. The sound of metal against metal rang into Francis’ ears.
“Take this off my head!”
Ludwig repeated the action. Francis’ head hung back, him groaning a little. It wasn’t like Francis’ head was already hurting from his heavy wine intake from before. It was hard to think through the ringing pulsing head.
Ludwig would leave the bucket on Francis’ head and sit on a chair at the end of the cell, patiently waiting. During his wait, he was reading a book. Time was passing, and the silence was deafening for Francis. Francis requested for Ludwig to take off the bucket and was granted no response. Francis wasn’t completely certain that Ludwig was in the room with him, but he felt someone’s presence.
“Come on, monsieur .” Francis pleaded. “This metallic smell is utterly foul. It’s an invasion of my senses!” No response. “Come on! Talk to me, Germany! Is the silent treatment your next torture regiment?”
Francis was beginning to hate the silence, or rather, the absence of distraction. At some point, he heard some shuffling, then a voice, one that he didn’t recognize.
“Germany, sir. Italy is requesting your help.”
There was a harsh sigh. “ Scheiße , what am I going to do with him?” Ludwig stood up, placing his book on the chair and following the messenger out of the room.
“C’mon, Germany. Don’t leave me in here alone!” Francis called out to him a few times, however, gave up after the first few times. He was certain he was alone.
Alone. He was completely and utterly alone. He couldn’t stand it, enough so that he threw his head forward and shook the bucket around. It hurt, but it was noise, a distraction—up until it flew off his head with a thud.
“ Merde ,” he cursed quietly. He stared at the bucket before hanging his head down, then tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Francis just stared. “ Angleterre… ” he whispered. He felt something in his throat, a lump he couldn’t get rid of. He shut his eyes tight, tasting salt. Francis opened his eyes again with a deep breath. His voice was low, losing every once of enthusiasm it used to have. “Take all of it.” It was almost robotic. “What do I care? What do I do?”
Dirt fell into his eyes and he threw his gaze away from the ceiling. He was vigorously blinking.
“Hey! It looks like you were right!” It was Alfred’s voice, as enthusiastic as ever. “France was kidnapped!”
Ahead were Alfred and Matthew peaking around the corner. Alfred held his gun proudly with Matthew with a handgun. Matthew untied Francis, Francis rubbing at his face before following Alfred out. Alfred hurried over and jumped into the helicopter, hopping into the pilot’s seat.
“Canada told me that you might’ve been kidnapped so here we are!” Alfred announced.
Francis looked to Matthew. “How did you figure that out?”
“I saw Germany carrying your body.” His voice was almost inaudible, but Francis could hear it.
Alfred chimed back in. “How did you get yourself kidnapped anyway?!”
“He ambushed me in my own house. I suppose I need more security.”
“You betcha! Maybe a cool bodyguard stationed outside your house like you’re the president!”
Upon their arrival back to France, Francis requested that they tell the others to postpone the meeting to the day after tomorrow. Alfred ran off, however, Matthew stayed alongside Francis. They walked down the streets of Paris, moving in the direction of Francis’ house.
“I found the letter you made to England.”
Francis almost didn’t hear him, but when he did, he stopped in place. “Letter?”
Matthew showed him the paper he had thrown away before. “I thought you didn’t like England?”
Francis snatched the paper from Matthew and stared down at it. He crushed it in his hand. “I don’t.”
“But—”
“You shouldn’t involve yourself in things that don’t involve you, Canada.” Francis paused with a deep sigh. “I…sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. I just don’t feel like myself at the moment.” I don’t feel like anything at the moment. Francis handed the clumped paper to Matthew, but held onto his hand. Francis pulled him into the hug. “I don’t want you digging through the trash again.”
Matthew wasn’t sure what to say. He held onto the crumpled ball and watched as Francis withdrew and began to walk. His arm raised to rub at his face as he walked. Matthew stood there, uncertain. Something had happened, that much was obvious. Had it happened in the jail cell? Or perhaps before that? He did not know.
Matthew wasn’t sure what to do. It was not often that the other nations interacted with him. He and Francis had been on good terms, but rarely did he, or anyone, ever pay this much attention to him. Even his brothers were often forgetful of him.
He blinked, sighing a little before advancing toward the hotel the other nations were staying at. By the time he arrived, everyone had already been informed of the situation and the extended date of the meeting. England voiced a complaint about staying in France for an extra day longer than he expected, but was relatively unbothered.
The day of the meeting had come by, and the nations arrived one by one. Yao, China’s representative arrived first, then Russia’s representative Ivan. Matthew came next, then Alfred and finally Arthur. It was still quite early and Francis had yet to arrive. When the time came around to begin the meeting, he had not appeared.
Arthur was first to speak. “First he has the audacity to postpone the meeting and now he doesn’t even show up!” He sighed before drinking from his tea cup, which was almost empty from how long he’d been waiting. “Some host he is.”
“It seems France isn’t going to be in attendance today,” Yao said.
“Don’t worry, my dudes! I predicted this would happen, so I came up with the perfect substitute!” Alfred hurried out of the room and came back just as quickly, placing a poorly made cardboard cutout of France. “It’ll be like he’s here, even if he isn’t!”
Everyone stared Alfred’s invention with curiosity.
“How on Earth would you have predicted this?” Arthur commented.
“Because he told me this morning!”
“And you didn’t think to mention it while we were waiting?” Arthur’s eyebrow twitched.
The meeting went on, Alfred pitching some crazed idea to bring down the German troops through some half-assed plan that concluding in him being “the hero”. Arthur was the first to be opposed to this, calling out the unrealistic reality of his imagination. Yao was in agreement and Ivan was silent as he always was.
Arthur would periodically glance at the cardboard cutout of Francis, eyeing the interesting artistic vision of Alfred’s art in crafting Francis’ self-glorified image. Is he really that upset over yesterday? Arthur wondered, lost in thought. Surely not, he excused. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Perhaps he’s busy with some girl, expected of someone like him.
The more he looked at the cardboard Francis, the more it infuriated him. He finally stood. “If you think I’m going to call that thing France you are sorely mistaken!”
Alfred blinked. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What isn’t wrong with it?” Arthur answered bluntly. “Why have a meeting at all when our host is missing? That twit can’t commit to anything!” Arthur surveyed the room. “Do we even know where he’s gone?”
“Maybe he’s sleeping in,” Yao suggested. “With some girl, probably.”
“Then I’ll wake him up and drag him here myself!” Arthur pushed back his chair and marched out of the room. Matthew stood, chasing after him.
“England.” Matthew called out, though his quiet voice didn’t reach Arthur’s ears.
Arthur mumbled to himself before finally bumping into Matthew. He had jumped in front of Arthur’s view, forcing him to look at him.
“Canada. What are you—” Canada handed him a piece of paper. Arthur recognized it as the same one that Francis hid from him and was reluctant to touch it.
“I think France wanted to tell you something.”
Arthur took it. “Whatever he’s got to say, It hardly excuses his absence.” He began to read the letter and his eyes went wide. This ought to be some joke. It was a love letter. Feelings poured out on a single piece of paper in Francis’ dramatic fashion. Was this what he was going to plant in my room? “What the hell is wrong with him?!” Arthur couldn’t force himself to look away from the letter. “I don’t—what is that frog thinking?!”
“Maybe you should be cautious with him. He doesn’t seem like he’s in the best state.”
“Cautious.” Arthur crumbled the paper and aggressively shoved it into his pocket. “He’s out of control. This is just…it’s bollocks! It’s…” Arthur moved past Matthew and mumbled to himself. Arthur made it outside. His first destination was Francis’ house. “What is he even thinking?” He said to nobody as he marched. “Bringing this onto me? How was I supposed to know he was being serious? That freak of nature is never serious. His points are hardly rational!”
When he made it to the house, nobody had been home. Arthur barged in, finding the door unlocked. There was an empty wine bottle on the counter.
Arthur wasn’t sure where to look next. He just walked around the city until he could think of something—anything. He was angry at Francis for putting this onto him, but this would evolve into worry. Francis was nowhere to be seen. Anxiety replaced anger.
At some point, Arthur had arrived outside a brothel. It was unlike Francis to enter these brothels, usually he settled for the girls he found on his own. Regardless, Arthur went inside. It had a bar, which Arthur immediately went to for questions. It took a few pounds to learn that a depressed blond man had paid for time with a few girls.
Arthur marched upstairs. There weren’t many rooms, most unoccupied. He knocked on the first closed door, and it was a whole minute before the knob turned. Arthur had been lucky.
Francis was shocked to see Arthur. He had a wide grin on his seriously red face. Francis had been shirtless with his hair seriously unkempt. Francis had been in complete disarray. “Angleterre!” He embraced Arthur in a hug, his body falling onto Arthur and bringing them down to the ground. “Oh, how am I glad to see you!”
“Get off of me you fobbish twit!” Arthur rolled Francis off of him. He could smell the alcohol from his breath, much stronger than Arthur knew Francis had been used to. He had been completely wasted, and the worst Arthur has ever seen. “Your breath is absolutely dreadful,” he commented. “What on Earth have you been drinking?”
Arthur pulled himself onto his feet and looked into the room. There had been three girls, each one half naked who watched Arthur incredulously. Arthur brushed off his pants and moved into the room.
“Pardon me, ladies.” He moved to the table on the right where Francis’ jacket had been. He searched it and found Francis’ wallet. He took several pounds from its pocket and slammed it on the table. “This should be sufficient. I must apologize for my friend, he’s not in the right mind at the moment.” He took the jacket and tossed it onto Francis’ face. “Put this on.”
Francis mumbled some gibberish. “Where are we going?” he asked through slurred speech.
Arthur crouched down and sat Francis up, helping him shove his arms through the sleeves. It was a miracle that Francis had any motor function. “Elsewhere.” He pulled Francis onto his wobbling feet, swinging his arm over his shoulder to carry. He looked to the women. “Excuse me,” he said before dragging Francis down the stairs, nearly falling to the bottom with how much Francis struggled to balance himself.
Arthur managed to drag Francis to his house, kicking the door open and dragging him upstairs. Arthur had visited Francis before so he roughly knew the layout of his house. There had been a bathroom adjacent to his bedroom, which Arthur aimed to bring him to.
“Nooooo,” Francis grabbed onto the doorframe as Arthur tried to pull him into the bathroom with the intention of tossing him into the bath. “Angleterre please, I don’t want to!”
“C’mon, you’re already a nuisance as it is. We need to sober you up.”
Francis buried his face into Arthur’s shoulder. “I don’t want to sober up.” Francis used his other arm to hug Arthur tighter. “I want to be happy a little while longer.” Francis’ arm fell and Arthur was trapped in Francis’ embrace. “I want to be happy. Please.”
Arthur sighed. “Fine. Whatever.” Arthur made his attempts to exit the bathroom and bumped his back against the wall when nearly tripping over his own feet. “Sleep it is then. Come on then.” Arthur dragged Francis into the bedroom and made an attempt to shove Francis onto the bed. Instead, Francis’ grip onto Arthur was enough to bring them both on the bed. When Arthur tried to push away, Francis just rolled over on top of Arthur.
“Come on, get off of me!” Arthur demanded but Francis didn’t budge. “I’m serious.”
“ Hold me. ” His voice was low, in a whisper. “ Please. I just want to be held. ” There was a crack in his voice, though slurred. “Let me pretend. Let me feel something.”
“Listen, I stand by my answer—”
“ Please Arthur. I don’t want to die alone. ”
Arthur was stunned to say the least. Never did Francis call him by name. His words were enough to stop Arthur from fighting it. “I don’t want to die alone” was certainly nothing to look past. Seeing Francis in such a state was devastating.
Arthur stayed in place, though uncomfortably, until the drunken Francis finally fell asleep. It didn’t take long for it to happen. Arthur, when certain he was out cold, rolled him over to free himself from Francis’ grasp. He propped him properly on the bed. Arthur found that his shoulder was wet—Francis had been crying.
Francis woke up hungover, clutching at his head as it pulsed. He moved wearily out of his bed and shielded himself from the raising sun. He didn’t recall the sun setting, nor did he remember getting into bed. He stepped out of his room and into the adjacent bathroom, splashing water in his face. Looking in the mirror, he could barely recognize himself. His blond hair was unkempt, much like a dog, with eye bags and weary eyes.
Feeling something rising in his throat, Francis clasped at his mouth before kneeling down by the toilet and vomiting. He did his best to move his hair out of the way before falling back and laying his back against the bathtub.
Francis never blackout from alcohol. He watched his alcohol intake careful enough to keep him stable, and besides, hard alcohol was never his taste. What happened? He tried to think, but it only made his headache worse. The most he could recall was telling America he wasn’t going to be at the meeting, and then there was a bar. He couldn’t pinpoint where, but it wasn’t anywhere elegant.
Francis pulled himself to his feet, though with some struggle. He brushed his teeth, hoping to get the foul taste out of his mouth in the process. Mint and vomit wasn’t a good combination. He rinsed his mouth with water.
After doing so, he moved out of the bathroom and down the stairs where he heard sizzling coupled with a foul smell and smoke. Francis lived alone so he was cautious when looking into the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes, blinking a little.
“England?” Francis muttered out. “What are you…” Francis didn’t finish his sentence remembering. Arthur had brought him home. Of course.
Arthur turned around, wearing an apron bearing the English flag plastered onto it. “Finally, you’re awake.” He looked back to the stove, flipping something. “You’ve been out cold the whole day. It’s a miracle you aren’t dead yet. Though I do suppose you have a knack for striking on death.”
Francis sat on the stools of the kitchen island, watching Arthur. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Arthur turned off the stove and placed a plate in front of Francis. “Here, pancakes.” He provided Francis with a plate, utensils and syrup. Arthur headed against the counter and faced Francis. “You’ve already missed breakfast, so I figured I’d help catch you up.”
Francis took a bite out of Arthur’s pancakes and paused. He chewed slowly and gulped it down. He placed down his fork and moved the plate forward a bit. “It would appear I’m full.”
Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, slamming his hands on the kitchen island. “You’ve missed three entire meals, how can you be full?! Great Britain’s pancakes are number one in the world! This was a recipe passed down by my mumzy!”
Francis winced a little from Arthur’s yelling, but quickly recovered. “Your cooking is terrible. Your pancakes are a disgrace to European cuisine.”
Arthur snatched the plate onto his side and began to eat. He didn’t understand why nobody liked his cooking, it was utter perfection to him. Perhaps it was some kind of culture shock, or maybe they weren’t prepared for perfection. For a few moments, Arthur ate contently in silence. Francis’ head hung down, his finger dragging in circles on the counter.
“Why are you here?” Francis finally broke the silence.
“Well, chap, I happened to be the one responsible in bringing you all the way home. Seriously, I don’t know how you expected to get home in that condition—”
“No. Why did you stay ?” Francis never met Arthur’s eyes. “You could’ve left me to rot.”
Arthur blinked, though, not surprised. Arthur was doing everything he could to forget about the letter, even going as far as cooking for Francis if it succeeded in distracting him. It would seem caring for Francis was only a reminder. He took one final bite from the pancake before placing the plate in the sink.
“I don’t know. At the end of the day, we’re the Allies, and we’re supposed to look after each other.” It was true. There was a level of camaraderie among them, even as rivals. When it came down to it, Arthur was willing to help Francis when necessary, especially during wartime.
“That’s it? That’s all it is?” Francis’ lowered his head far enough to have it touch the counter. “Is it so wrong to dream?”
Arthur stared down at Francis. He hated seeing him like this, it was completely unlike him. “Canada told me about your letter.”
Francis lifted his head, propping his chin to rest on his hand. “Of course he did. I suppose I can’t act surprised.”
“What the hell were you thinking? Of all things, you knew I wouldn’t take a marriage proposal seriously.” Arthur crossed his arms.
Francis could only hope. There was a silent prayer in is head. England didn’t know. He didn’t know I was serious. “I suppose I am to blame.” He looked pleadingly at Arthur. “What is your answer now?”
Arthur was reluctant to answer. He saw the state Francis was in, and he couldn’t imagine how much worse it could. “I don’t know.” There was some truth to it. He wasn’t sure what to feel, no matter how much he thought about it. Francis had his good traits, and his worse. Arthur did have a liking to him, but was it love? Hard to say.
“You…don’t know? What kind of answer is that?”
“What do you expect me to say?!” Arthur ran a hand through his hair. “I never thought you’d be in love with me ! Why me? Why not Seychelles? Or Hungary! Quite literally anyone else except me!” Arthur was red.
And in the midst of Arthur’s ramblings, Francis had stood from his chair and moved towards Arthur. Francis embraced Arthur and when he tried to make his move, Arthur was shoved Francis against the kitchen island’s counter.
“What the hell is wrong with you?! Have you lost your marbles?!” Arthur leaned against the counter with a hand in his face. Francis didn’t say anything, he hardly even moved. “My apologies, I should…” Arthur expressed a deep sigh. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.” Arthur moved past Francis, fiddling with the strings of the apron as he approached the door. There was no goodbye or farewell.
Francis sat against the lower cupboards with knees against his chest. He was thinking that maybe he would have been better off being quiet, being loveless.
A France without a romance.