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“Angleterre,” came the loud, whiny groan from the room adjacent to where Arthur Kirkland adjusted his tie. Arthur glanced up in the general vicinity of the offending area, intelligent green eyes flickering with slight irritation.
“What is it now?” Arthur inquired sharply, and felt a small pang of guilt for the manner in which he had replied. To be honest, though, he truly felt as if he couldn’t really help it. His housemate for the week had been a bother more than he had given Arthur any sort of peace.
“I do not like your tone,” Francis replied from the other room, his own tone purposefully pointed. “We were getting along perfectly well this morning, mon cher, were we not?”
We were not, Arthur mused to himself, recalling in exasperation the few instances in which France had caused him annoyance just this morning.
First, even though Francis had taken the liberty of cooking breakfast, which Arthur appreciated, he just as much resented Francis’s assumption that he would be incapable of cooking (which he was, in fact). Even though the assumption was truthful, it still wounded his ego a tad bit. And a Briton with a bruised ego is not a happy one.
Secondly, Francis had been hogging the bathroom all morning. Arthur had barely been able to brush his teeth and sweep a brush roughly through his golden hair before the Frenchman had annexed the bathroom space for himself. Despite it technically being France’s bathroom originally, Arthur felt (a bit arrogantly, but that came with the fact that he was British) that he was entitled to his own time in the bathroom.
The third reason Arthur was slightly irritated was related to the bathroom incident, but was not directly caused by Francis. He had been pondering why he felt a claim to the bathroom, and thought, with a pang of annoyance, that perhaps he had already made his own claim in every part of Francis’s life anyhow. He felt entitled to a space in Francis’s home now, because he saw it as his own home. This thought made him angrier.
“Well?” The Frenchman prompted from the other room. “Hello? Have you gone deaf in the time I have been gone?”
The prompting snapped Arthur out of his irritated musings. “Pardon me,” he excused himself quickly. “What did you say?” He looked up from the floor just in time to hear the faucet turn off and the offending frog emerge from the swamp.
Francis plopped himself down far too comfortably on the bed right beside England, placing his chin on the other nation’s shoulder. “I said that we have been getting along perfectly fine this morning,” he replied gently, his voice a silky rumble in England’s ear.
Arthur bristled. “Don’t do that,” he huffed, shoving Francis away.
The prickly response from the Englishman only made a wide, smug smirk form on Francis’s face. “Oh? So petulant for so early in the morning. And you are in your favorite man’s apartment, as well! Truly, you have nothing to be so sour about.” Despite England’s argument, Francis chose to lean closer.
“You truly are a vain creature,” England muttered. “Claiming the title of my favorite person. How entitled of you,” he said, hypocritically.
“My ill-tempered Angleterre, who else would be your favorite? Alfred?”
“Canada is currently beating you at the moment.”
“I gave you Matthieu.”
“Correction,” Arthur raised a thick brow. “I won Matthew.”
France gave a dramatic groan, pushing England away and flopping unceremoniously down onto the bed. “Whatever,” he sighed. “You are so stuck in the past that you fail to see the beauty of living in the present. You have a beautiful man beside you and all you can do is brag to him.”
“Beautiful man?” This time, both of Arthur’s brows raised.
“Yes.”
“Ah,” The Englishman hesitantly fell back as well, landing beside Francis so they were both staring up at the grand chandelier that Francis had overlooking his bed. “How can you sleep with something so… sharp? Aren’t you worried it will fall and hurt you?”
Francis gave an absolutely impish grin. “I sleep with sharp things all the time. You, for example, are quite the prickly subject.”
Arthur immediately sat up, an indignant blush spreading across his cheeks. “Sod off!” he chided, scooting a bit further away from Francis on the bed. “We need to be going, anyhow. The meeting starts in an hour.”
Francis followed him up, leaning heavily on Arthur’s side. The Englishman didn’t protest. “An hour? I live barely a kilometre away from the meeting place, mon amour! We have plenty of time.”
Arthur was annoyed again by Francis’s perceptiveness. He chose to spare his dignity by staying silent. He immediately regretted this decision a few seconds later when Francis started laughing at him.
“So quiet all of the sudden! This means that I’ve won.”
“Does it now?” Arthur inquired. The furrow between his brows softened slightly as he looked at Francis’s wide, teasing smile. The Englishman’s hand came up to gently tuck away a lock of Francis’s blonde hair. “Your hair looks… decent. Perhaps the hour you spent in the bathroom wasn’t a complete waste.”
Francis’s eyes widened. “Is that why you are cross with me?” His words dissolved into a flurry of fitful laughter as he gently braced himself against Arthur’s side.
Arthur looked askance, a small blush appearing on his cheeks. “Well, yes,” he replied snappily. “I don’t recall you taking that much time in the bathroom last time we were together.”
The Frenchman gave another small laugh, then replied. “We were in England there. I don’t care what I look like in your nation.”
“So you don’t wish to look nice for me?” Arthur inquired.
“I like to sometimes. But it is similar with you as it would be for Matthieu or Alfred,” France mused. “You all have seen me in all sorts of states: put together for a global banquet, or in my pajamas crying over a movie. I am sure I look gorgeous in both cases, but… I suppose I don't feel the need to dress up for my family.”
The word he used, family, was more touching to Arthur than the Brit would ever like to admit. He puzzled on how to reply for a moment, before finally succumbing to the ever-present urge to give Francis the compliment he was obviously searching for. “You do look nice when you cry,” he attempted clumsily.
Francis laughed. “Do I? I did not know you were a sadist.” he teased, his finger tracing small patterns on Arthur’s palm. He watched as Arthur blushed redder than a carnation in spring, then interrupted the Briton before he could protest. “I am simply teasing you, amour! Thank you for the compliment,” he preened.
“Vain peacock,” Arthur muttered.
“Stubborn oaf.” Francis replied.
Arthur sighed in acquiescence, deciding to change the topic. “Are you ready to go when it is time, at least? Or did your hair take up all your time, and you secretly have five more two-hour-long steps?”
Francis gave him a smug little smirk. “I am ready. I wish I had developed five more extra steps, just to see your face get angry again. You are handsome when you’re angry. Red suits you. Like the coats.”
Arthur shook his head. “You just don’t bother with any pretense, do you, France?”
“Angleterre,” Francis smiled softly, pressing a feather-light kiss to the Briton’s pale cheek. His hand game up to gently cup it, as well. “You know me better than anyone does, non? Surely you of all people know that I am not one for a slow entrance into passion.”
England’s cheeks flushed with an intense rouge color at the kiss, the precise shade of red Francis wished to see from him. He accepted it, however. “Mmhm. Perhaps I don’t know all of that, but I know that you’re a stubborn bastard who enjoys frivolous affection. Those two traits don’t exactly mean you’re ‘patient’ when it comes to receiving it.”
Francis didn’t respond for a moment. Then, softly, "You know me far too well."
After a few moments, he stood slowly, tugging Arthur by his hand. “We should be getting to our cars, non?”
England snapped out of his own foolish trance with a clearing of his throat. “I- er, you’re right, yes. To the conference, to face the music, as they say.” He stood, walking quickly out of the room.
The words came out as a stumbling, awkward stream of language, suggesting to Francis that even if Arthur would never dare say it aloud, the quiet, brief moment of intimacy they had just shared had an equal effect on him as well. Upon noticing this, Francis smiled brightly. “I am right behind you, mon cher!”
~
Francis and Arthur drove separate cars to the conference, which did not play well in Arthur’s favor.
If Francis were riding shotgun in the car with him, perhaps the Frenchman would have pulled the mirror down to check his appearance.
And if Francis pulled the mirror down, perhaps Arthur would have been able to see his own reflection before going into the meeting with all of the most important countries in the world.
And if Arthur saw his reflection, perhaps he would have noticed the lipgloss left on his cheek from France’s earlier affections.
And if he would have noticed the lipgloss print on his cheek and had time to wipe it off before being humiliated by it in front of the entire world's personifications, perhaps he wouldn’t have been irritated by Francis for the umpteenth time that day.