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mothkraft · 8 years ago

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Misunderstandings (this title according to the .doc name)

(You know this is old because I reference the now ex PM Davey boy mc ‘i’m gonna hold a referendum because an internal party squabble’....yeah...this is freakin old fic)

Francis just turned his head to see the Englishman’s form still resting and sleep induced. The light seeped through the thin curtains enough to make the other’s body seem to glow.

He loved brief moments like this, Arthur still dozing, tired from last nights activities (doing how many cubic yards of paperwork provided by that lovely, hateful, annoying moron of a political leader, whose name happen to rhyme with Cavid Dameron, and then his drowsiness leading to an uneventful collapse onto the bed in which the Briton fell asleep rather too quickly for Francis’ liking, wishing to relax the other…though that was admittedly a loss) left him totally vulnerable, though not in that manner. It just left said man looking so…peaceful and docile, looking like someone who had utter peace of mind when they slept…though that was unlikely no matter how much he thought about.

There was something about Arthur’s body that meant it retained such archaic marks over his body. Maybe it was the sheer diversity of his nation, which meant it was for his remembrance, to show all of the variety.

England, the land itself rather than the man sleeping beside him, had always had a certain attraction to it. The temperate weather, which didn’t always rain, but was enough for the soil to remain healthy, and for flora to grow. The once spacious landscape (though now mostly taken by intruding towns and soon-to-be-built major roads and such) with (once) lush terrain. The fact that it seemed great for agriculture, and that it was stable location for defending one’s self. Perhaps that is why so many sought it as their own, he played his own part of course, old Bill wanting the crown. The constant Viking invasions from Scandinavia, like Cnut. Or even older civilisations like Rome conquering the land…

Perhaps all of that made Arthur himself more appealing, just an air of that attraction from his younger days that remained with him. That or the fact that Francis had always been fond of the Briton, the one who ran scared of him at first, fearing similar treatment that he received from his brothers from Francis. The one who grew by his side, slowly, steadily, before fighting to become his own small island. The one who grew to have naval supremacy, thwarting his foes with a cruel demeanour…(though he was glad the man lying next to him was far gentler than the ruthless pirate he had once faced).

Just looking at the alabaster skin, with the few freckles here and there, and seeing the slender outline of the Brit was nice, though he had thought that for a long time anyway. Arthur’s skin was rather pale in comparison to the mainland European nations

It had become this way after the Black Death swept over the island without mercy. True, most of Europe was affected but he never regained the colour of vitality after that; but if anything it just added entirely to the country. That pale complexion mixed with the young yet so ancient body.

He still had old scars from previous battles, even ones from centuries ago. Yes all nations healed faster, but where wounds heal, scars remain.

Francis moved Arthur closer, wanting more contact with the other, said man staying silent and patient.

He ghosted a hand over old scars as he gently examining them like they were old fossils, in a sense they were, after all they were reminders of history long passed.

A hand paused over the other’s chest, visibly seeing the large patch of healed yet marred skin. The centre-left had been entirely ravished ever since the Great Fire of London, though geographically a Capital city may be located anywhere, it always represents the heart of the nation. The skin still looked like recent burn, but had paled over the years. Within that large burn were more scars, tatters and rips from the (considerably recent in comparison) London Blitz. It tore Arthur apart. Though it wasn’t just London that had suffered, scars still remained all over the pale skin. Arthur always wasn’t present during the Blitz, but presence is irrelevant when you are bound to your homeland. He remembered the vicious sight, of Arthur cringing over, struggling to breathe, body twisting, writhing in pain…vast quantities of blood weeping out of wounds ripping across his chest…they weren’t fond ones, but were unforgettable.

The Frenchman’s fingers travelled upwards towards Arthur’s neck. An ever so faint line ran across, all around it.

It took a few moments of thinking back through old memories connect this one to the other’s heritage. He guessed, that with the death of the monarchy, and Cromwell’s rule for though brief years, the beheading of his King had too left the same scar on him. It was now almost invisible, unimportant, but everything mark is part of their history.

Francis too had scars, notably one down his left side where the battle raged on the Western Front during the Great War. The Battles of the Somme took much from him. He had a similar line across his neck, rather he did…the French Revolution did end with many heads being disposed of…after all it required a whole new invention to chop them off more efficiently. Some he had received from the Englishman himself, some that Arthur had, were from him too. He was glad now there was peace between their two countries…it made their relationship more stable, suitable as well…Nations after all can love of their own will, whether the politics may not be so great…but leaders tend to disapprove with fraternising with the enemy, or in their case flirting and even fucking the enemy.

He looked again thinking to himself. He amused himself at his thoughts. It seemed that many thought that England was actually…feminine, and that amused him. Perhaps ever so slightly androgynous, maybe, but Arthur was too rich in culture, pride, strength, to be considered feminine. Who cared if he had seen the other sewing in a meeting out of boredom, apparently Russia knitted anyway...Arthur too had his habits of tending his garden like it was the most beloved thing on Earth (sometimes Francis would feel envious of those few flowers that preoccupied Arthur’s time instead of Francis having the attention…but only slightly).

What he could say though, is that over the years England had become emasculated. It was a simple fact. In his years of imperial power and might, he showed such tender care to most of his colonies, though most of that love turned sour unfortunately, through the ex-empires own greed and lack control at times.

Indeed…but never feminine. He doubted that the Brit’s wiry muscles, and frame would be placed in a ‘feminine’ category. Though, that told a completely different tale of its own.

Arthur wasn’t tall like Sweden, or small like Japan, but an average height. He wasn’t particularly well built, sculpted like some protein snorting bodybuilder, but still showed clear evidence of slender muscles.

He had never been the best soldier either, well at least, not in hand-to-hand melee combat. Yes, he could wield a blade and put it to good use, but his true power had been his skills as a marksman. Such as the Battle of Agincourt, in which (much to his own embarrassment) his heavily armoured troops had been defeated by simple English archers and horsemen.

Tales like Robin Hood, may never have been true, but have links to the truth. That follows with many tales in history though, not all fiction is entirely make-belief, but have been tweaked accordingly, as to seem false, impossible even.

He trailed his hand further up to meet his lover’s face, gently stroking at the cheek, before moving his body forwards and pressing a light kiss onto the other’s nose.

Arthur fidgeted at the new contact, turning in his sleep to face away. Francis chuckled before pulling the Englishman right into his own body, hugging him gently but still with a firm embrace, nuzzling the snoozing man’s neck, probably tickling him with his stubbly chin as Arthur reacted with some odd twitches, an almost ticklish reaction.

After a few minutes of just resting gently like this Francis decided it best for him to wake Arthur, knowing he was sometimes not a morning person and would be grouchy if Francis let him sleep in – he often frowned at this as sometimes Arthur clearly needed the sleep, but decided it’d be wiser just to comply with the thorny man’s request.

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and i never finished this so idk where this headed? was I gonna write banging, was i gonna write angst or fluff???? i’ll never freakin know

#fruk #hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #aph england #aph france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #ficsarefordorks

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mothkraft · 8 years ago

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Losing things (unfinished)

the idea was that sometimes nations go a bit lucid and completely lose any sensible function...I can’t remember where I was going with it but meh

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Arthur lost things often, a ritual clumsiness of memory, slipping away handkerchiefs in pockets and glasses on tables, losing favourite mugs to find them back in the cupboard he'd put them in not 5 minutes prior. Pens on tables under books, phone misplaced on a windowsill he swears he never visited or touched in the day. He loses things; that was expectation.

Sometimes the unexpected happens. And sometimes, Arthur loses his mind. Those days it's all garbled speech, hair ripped out and running through a street half dressed because he's forgotten who he is, where and what he does. This time he's scampered into the middle of the road like some stray animal in the nighttime. He's mowed down in an over 40mph lane, and there's a streak of blood. Nation incidents are always hushed up if they occur in non-local areas. People are paid to forget things unmentionable and threatened if the bribe isn't sufficient. He garbled more in his sleep as his jaw realigns and heals, tore skin and flesh melding together again without need of stitches or casts, bones fade and re-grow in place. He's slipped back into his home with supervision, and Francis has grown tired of babysitting a lost cause, but he can't bare the idea of a second incident. Arthur always comes back, even if for a week he's locked himself up, trying to find that lost spark of sanity. Arthur hasn't come back after a month, but he's gotten better. He doesn't make sense, there's shapes on the walls painted or drawn, they look like memories. Then there's scrawled text and equations, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Newton, Pythagoras, anything he can remember even if they're just lines to him. It's remarkable what there is sometimes, accounts from wars, the truths, such atrocities committed and scrubbed off as quickly as Francis sees them. He doesn't need a reminder, Arthur won't either when he's back

10 weeks. 10 weeks since Arthur spoke words, elaborated or murmured comprehensively. 10 weeks since he was last able to bathe himself without doing something stupid, or even go outside. He's dangerous at best, like this, especially to humans. Most days he's in his study (Francis gives him the Yellow Pages to scribble in, rather than the collection of no doubt priceless books that should be in museums but Arthur has waved off sensibility to keep) with Delilah, his cat. She's a grand old lady now, but he's docile when she slumps into his crossed legs, like an infatuated child he wishes not to disturb her. Francis can hear him half-mumble 'moggy' between sobs. This is a good sign, if not a painful one. Arthur always comes back with red, sore eyes, hours of crying before snapping back, as if nothing has happened. It's the same old story to convince Arthur that there's nothing wrong with him, a dubious intake of alcohol, passing out and a day lost, not a few months, though he always notices. Every nation does and it’s a struggle to just act like it never happened, though it has become a regular oddity amongst themselves...with no evidence that it will stop.

#hetalia #aph england #implied #fruk #ficsarefordorks

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