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Description
FrUK

Francis visits Arthur. Arthur tries to get Francis to leave him alone. And fails.

-----

“Mm, you smell like tea, lapin.”

Arthur looked up from the book he was reading into the eyes of a certain Frenchman was currently hovering right above his face. “...What?”

“You smell like tea,” he repeated “Earl Grey, I zhink, your favorite kind?”

“Tea? ...you know what, I'm not even going to try and understand you.” England went back to his book, but looked up soon after, irritated that he was disturbed again. Francis had decided that for whatever reason he was going to continue bothering England, and sat down right next to him. The armchair they were in was fairly large, so they weren't squished together (Arthur shuddered at the thought) but France was sitting a little too close for comfort.

(Even if Francis was a million light-years away it would still be too close for comfort, but this was pushing it.)

Arthur tried to ignore him and turned away, trying to concentrate on the book in front of him. It was one of his favorites, so there was no reason for him to be distracted—”Ever heard of personal space, Frog?” Francis had scooted closer to him and thrown his arm around Arthur, pulling him even closer to him.

“Oui. I believe it is a concept invented by poor, prudish Englishmen who 'ave absolutely no taste—”

“Good taste, my arse! What does that have to do with personal space!”

“—and 'orrendous eyebrows—”

“My eyebrows are just fine, you git! You're the one with hair so long that you look like a bloody female—”

“—slayer of virgins—”

“Now that's it. You're just begging for this aren't you?” England pushed France's hand off his waist and stood up. He closed his book gently, then muttered a quick apology to its author. Francis looked amused at his devotion to an inanimate object.

What happened next was not as amusing to Francis (though it seemed to amuse Arthur quite a bit)

“Aïe! Dieu, my head!” He cradled his head carefully with one hand and delicately felt the left side of his forehead, where England had hit him. The book was a thick, hardcover collection of almost all of the Sherlock Holmes stories (Arthur had some of the original copies, but he didn't read them much in fear of damaging them) and, merde, that hurt.

France grimaced as bolts of pain shot through his skull, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It wasn't that bad (he was a nation, you got used to pain after a few wars and rebellions) but the smaller nation was a lot stronger than he looked.

(Especially if it had anything to do with someone very...French)

He stayed there, breathing steadily and trying to ignore the pain. He barely noticed when Arthur sat back down next to him.

“Hey, Frog.”

Francis cracked one eye open. “Yes?” he asked hesitantly.

“Move.”

“...Quoi?”

“Move your hand. So I can see,” he clarified.

“Oh...okay.” France lifted his hand and looked up, slightly confused.

England held his head and slowly turned France around until they were facing each other. He brushed some stray strands of hair away from his face, and softly touched the already-darkening bruise. France winced slightly. “That looks like it hurts.”

He nodded. “It does. Kiss it better?” He leaned forward slightly, curious to see what England’s reaction would be.

Surprisingly, Arthur took his joke seriously. He brushed his lips against Francis's forehead, so light that he barely felt it. When he pulled back, his entire face was colored with an adorable blush. “I-I should get some...ice. Stay here.” England got up hurriedly and started towards the kitchen.

France was slightly shocked, but his expression turned into a smile when he realized what just happened. England came back, his blush toned down somewhat. “I love 'ow you can be so...motherly sometimes.” He suddenly got up and glomped Arthur before he could protest. “Tu es trop mignon!”

“S-shut up, Frog!” he spluttered out. “And get off me!” He pushed Francis so he lost his balance and fell back into the armchair. “You want to be hit again? I always knew you were a masochist but...” England held up the book threateningly.

He held his hands up in surrender. ”Ah, non, I'm fine.”

“Good. Now, let me see that.” He bent down a little, pressing a soft cloth soaked with ice-cold water against the French nation's forehead.

France flinched from the cold, but eventually the freezing water numbed the pain and he closed his eyes in relief. “I'm serious. You would make une bonne mère.”

“Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Oui.” He ignored his protests. “Now sit down,” he said, moving a little and patting the spot next to him invitingly.

“It's only meant for one person...oh, fuck it.” He sat down slowly, making sure to keep the cloth gently pressed against Francis's head.

“I can 'old zhat for you...”

“...fine.”

The two rivals/enemies/friends/who-knows-what-now sat in relative peace, the only sound being their quiet breathing.

That was until France moved a little closer, and placed his hand on Arthur's waist. He slowly dipped his hand lower, and lower, and—

“Do you want me to break your hand?” England had caught his wandering hand by the wrist before it could reach its intended target. Francis tried to pull his hand out of his grasp (when did the rosbif get so strong?) but failed.

“Non, s'il te plaît.” Arthur loosened his grip slightly, allowing Francis to pull his hand out. He shook it, trying to get some feeling back in. “Mon Angleterre is so mean…” he pouted. “First you try to give me a concussion—“

“That would be a problem if you even had a brain to begin with—”

“—and zhen you almost broke my arm! Attacking an injured, defenseless man like zhat…”

“Injured? That was barely anything! And I’d hardly call you defenseless…you are a nation.” France didn’t respond. “Hey, wine bastard, you listening?” He ignored him and turned away. “You’re still sulking?” No answer. “If you think ignoring me is going to do anything then…France?” England was getting slightly worried. He shook France’s shoulders, trying to get a response. “You git, look at me!”

Francis turned around suddenly, and pulled Arthur into a tight embrace, nuzzling his neck. The cloth fell from his forehead. “You’re so…adorable when you’re worried like zhat—très mignon!”

“You idiot, let me go!” He found that his arms were trapped. “I should never have helped you…”

“Angleterre? Are you angry with me?”

He blushed nervously. “I should be…you disturbed me when I was in the middle of reading peacefully…but I guess I already hit you enough…”

“You didn’t answer zhe question, mon petit chou.”

“I-I’m not your…cabbage? What the hell?”

“You’re still avoiding it, mon cher.”

“I-I’m not too angry…but I still don’t like it—a-and I still hate you, Frog!” England gave up on trying to push France away.

“Japon was right, you really are a tsundere.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

“What language are you speaking now, wino?” He sounds like Japan, when he gets that weird look in his eye and starts taking pictures of everything…but that can’t be right… “We’re in my house, so speak English properly!”

“D’accord, d’accord,” he said, deliberately using French to annoy England even further. “So does zhat mean I can stay ‘ere like zhis?” he asked, gesturing to the way his head was resting on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Of course not! Leave this instant!”

“Aw, you don’t really mean zhat, right chaton?”

“Actually, I do. Now sod off.” France pretended not to hear him.

“You’re so warm, Angleterre.” He buried his nose into the crook of Arthur’s neck and he flinched. “Quoi?”

“Y-your nose is cold, Frog!”

“Ouais, je sais. Zhat’s why I’m ‘ere, non?” France breathed in deeply. “You really do smell like zhat Earl Grey tea you are so fond of. With a little somezhing else…it’s like your own personal perfume.” Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably, determined not to let the Frenchman figure out how much his actions were bothering him. That was until he felt something…wet…and warm…

France fell off the armchair from the force of the blow. “You—you—what the bloody hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, disgusted.

Francis smiled weakly and clutched his stomach. “Licking, bien sûr.” When Arthur had realized exactly what Francis was doing, he had immediately elbowed him in the stomach.

“That’s not—it’s—and why would you…do somethinglikethat?” He stumbled over his words.

“To see how you taste, silly Anglais.” Arthur blushed even deeper at the implications of that sentence. “Tea…with a bit of lemon and mint. It’s nice…and refreshing.” He stood up, wincing a little. “It seems zhis always ‘appens when I visit you. Do you do zhis to all your guests? And I zhought you said you were a gentleman.”

“You were uninvited and very unwelcome. That hardly makes you a guest. Now if you would kindly take your leave…” He pointed to the doorway.

France left the room, making England believe that he was finally gone for good. But then he came back, looking slightly pale, and placed a hand on his heart dramatically. “Non! I cannot!”

“Why not?” Let’s see what excuses the Frog can come up with this time.

He pointed accusingly at the window. “See?”

Arthur seemed indifferent. “It’s raining. So?”

“Rain? Zhat’s not just pluie, mon ami anglais, c’est un orage!” He flailed his arms frantically. This time, he wasn’t just being dramatic; there was actually lightning and thunder outside. “I’ll die if I try to go outside in zhese conditions!”

England sighed. “You're a nation, you can't die...fine. You can stay in the guest room, if and only if you promise to not do anything.”

He was suddenly tackled to the ground by France. “Merci, merci beaucoup!” He got up, realizing that he had pinned England to the floor. (Normally, he would’ve stayed there like that, but there was always the risk of getting kicked out into the storm.) “Ah, can I ask you one more favor?”

“What?” Arthur was clearly annoyed.

“Can I 'ave some ice?” Francis pointed to the dark bruise on his forehead, smiling a bit sheepishly. The pain had faded a little into a dull throbbing, but it still hurt.

“Fine.” He got up, and took Francis’s hand in his own, pulling him towards the kitchen.

Francis didn’t argue, and instead stared at where their hands were entwined together, feeling strangely warm with his heart fluttering.

Is this what love feels like?

Description
FrUK

Francis visits Arthur. Arthur tries to get Francis to leave him alone. And fails.

-----

“Mm, you smell like tea, lapin.”

Arthur looked up from the book he was reading into the eyes of a certain Frenchman was currently hovering right above his face. “...What?”

“You smell like tea,” he repeated “Earl Grey, I zhink, your favorite kind?”

“Tea? ...you know what, I'm not even going to try and understand you.” England went back to his book, but looked up soon after, irritated that he was disturbed again. Francis had decided that for whatever reason he was going to continue bothering England, and sat down right next to him. The armchair they were in was fairly large, so they weren't squished together (Arthur shuddered at the thought) but France was sitting a little too close for comfort.

(Even if Francis was a million light-years away it would still be too close for comfort, but this was pushing it.)

Arthur tried to ignore him and turned away, trying to concentrate on the book in front of him. It was one of his favorites, so there was no reason for him to be distracted—”Ever heard of personal space, Frog?” Francis had scooted closer to him and thrown his arm around Arthur, pulling him even closer to him.

“Oui. I believe it is a concept invented by poor, prudish Englishmen who 'ave absolutely no taste—”

“Good taste, my arse! What does that have to do with personal space!”

“—and 'orrendous eyebrows—”

“My eyebrows are just fine, you git! You're the one with hair so long that you look like a bloody female—”

“—slayer of virgins—”

“Now that's it. You're just begging for this aren't you?” England pushed France's hand off his waist and stood up. He closed his book gently, then muttered a quick apology to its author. Francis looked amused at his devotion to an inanimate object.

What happened next was not as amusing to Francis (though it seemed to amuse Arthur quite a bit)

“Aïe! Dieu, my head!” He cradled his head carefully with one hand and delicately felt the left side of his forehead, where England had hit him. The book was a thick, hardcover collection of almost all of the Sherlock Holmes stories (Arthur had some of the original copies, but he didn't read them much in fear of damaging them) and, merde, that hurt.

France grimaced as bolts of pain shot through his skull, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It wasn't that bad (he was a nation, you got used to pain after a few wars and rebellions) but the smaller nation was a lot stronger than he looked.

(Especially if it had anything to do with someone very...French)

He stayed there, breathing steadily and trying to ignore the pain. He barely noticed when Arthur sat back down next to him.

“Hey, Frog.”

Francis cracked one eye open. “Yes?” he asked hesitantly.

“Move.”

“...Quoi?”

“Move your hand. So I can see,” he clarified.

“Oh...okay.” France lifted his hand and looked up, slightly confused.

England held his head and slowly turned France around until they were facing each other. He brushed some stray strands of hair away from his face, and softly touched the already-darkening bruise. France winced slightly. “That looks like it hurts.”

He nodded. “It does. Kiss it better?” He leaned forward slightly, curious to see what England’s reaction would be.

Surprisingly, Arthur took his joke seriously. He brushed his lips against Francis's forehead, so light that he barely felt it. When he pulled back, his entire face was colored with an adorable blush. “I-I should get some...ice. Stay here.” England got up hurriedly and started towards the kitchen.

France was slightly shocked, but his expression turned into a smile when he realized what just happened. England came back, his blush toned down somewhat. “I love 'ow you can be so...motherly sometimes.” He suddenly got up and glomped Arthur before he could protest. “Tu es trop mignon!”

“S-shut up, Frog!” he spluttered out. “And get off me!” He pushed Francis so he lost his balance and fell back into the armchair. “You want to be hit again? I always knew you were a masochist but...” England held up the book threateningly.

He held his hands up in surrender. ”Ah, non, I'm fine.”

“Good. Now, let me see that.” He bent down a little, pressing a soft cloth soaked with ice-cold water against the French nation's forehead.

France flinched from the cold, but eventually the freezing water numbed the pain and he closed his eyes in relief. “I'm serious. You would make une bonne mère.”

“Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Oui.” He ignored his protests. “Now sit down,” he said, moving a little and patting the spot next to him invitingly.

“It's only meant for one person...oh, fuck it.” He sat down slowly, making sure to keep the cloth gently pressed against Francis's head.

“I can 'old zhat for you...”

“...fine.”

The two rivals/enemies/friends/who-knows-what-now sat in relative peace, the only sound being their quiet breathing.

That was until France moved a little closer, and placed his hand on Arthur's waist. He slowly dipped his hand lower, and lower, and—

“Do you want me to break your hand?” England had caught his wandering hand by the wrist before it could reach its intended target. Francis tried to pull his hand out of his grasp (when did the rosbif get so strong?) but failed.

“Non, s'il te plaît.” Arthur loosened his grip slightly, allowing Francis to pull his hand out. He shook it, trying to get some feeling back in. “Mon Angleterre is so mean…” he pouted. “First you try to give me a concussion—“

“That would be a problem if you even had a brain to begin with—”

“—and zhen you almost broke my arm! Attacking an injured, defenseless man like zhat…”

“Injured? That was barely anything! And I’d hardly call you defenseless…you are a nation.” France didn’t respond. “Hey, wine bastard, you listening?” He ignored him and turned away. “You’re still sulking?” No answer. “If you think ignoring me is going to do anything then…France?” England was getting slightly worried. He shook France’s shoulders, trying to get a response. “You git, look at me!”

Francis turned around suddenly, and pulled Arthur into a tight embrace, nuzzling his neck. The cloth fell from his forehead. “You’re so…adorable when you’re worried like zhat—très mignon!”

“You idiot, let me go!” He found that his arms were trapped. “I should never have helped you…”

“Angleterre? Are you angry with me?”

He blushed nervously. “I should be…you disturbed me when I was in the middle of reading peacefully…but I guess I already hit you enough…”

“You didn’t answer zhe question, mon petit chou.”

“I-I’m not your…cabbage? What the hell?”

“You’re still avoiding it, mon cher.”

“I-I’m not too angry…but I still don’t like it—a-and I still hate you, Frog!” England gave up on trying to push France away.

“Japon was right, you really are a tsundere.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

“What language are you speaking now, wino?” He sounds like Japan, when he gets that weird look in his eye and starts taking pictures of everything…but that can’t be right… “We’re in my house, so speak English properly!”

“D’accord, d’accord,” he said, deliberately using French to annoy England even further. “So does zhat mean I can stay ‘ere like zhis?” he asked, gesturing to the way his head was resting on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Of course not! Leave this instant!”

“Aw, you don’t really mean zhat, right chaton?”

“Actually, I do. Now sod off.” France pretended not to hear him.

“You’re so warm, Angleterre.” He buried his nose into the crook of Arthur’s neck and he flinched. “Quoi?”

“Y-your nose is cold, Frog!”

“Ouais, je sais. Zhat’s why I’m ‘ere, non?” France breathed in deeply. “You really do smell like zhat Earl Grey tea you are so fond of. With a little somezhing else…it’s like your own personal perfume.” Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably, determined not to let the Frenchman figure out how much his actions were bothering him. That was until he felt something…wet…and warm…

France fell off the armchair from the force of the blow. “You—you—what the bloody hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, disgusted.

Francis smiled weakly and clutched his stomach. “Licking, bien sûr.” When Arthur had realized exactly what Francis was doing, he had immediately elbowed him in the stomach.

“That’s not—it’s—and why would you…do somethinglikethat?” He stumbled over his words.

“To see how you taste, silly Anglais.” Arthur blushed even deeper at the implications of that sentence. “Tea…with a bit of lemon and mint. It’s nice…and refreshing.” He stood up, wincing a little. “It seems zhis always ‘appens when I visit you. Do you do zhis to all your guests? And I zhought you said you were a gentleman.”

“You were uninvited and very unwelcome. That hardly makes you a guest. Now if you would kindly take your leave…” He pointed to the doorway.

France left the room, making England believe that he was finally gone for good. But then he came back, looking slightly pale, and placed a hand on his heart dramatically. “Non! I cannot!”

“Why not?” Let’s see what excuses the Frog can come up with this time.

He pointed accusingly at the window. “See?”

Arthur seemed indifferent. “It’s raining. So?”

“Rain? Zhat’s not just pluie, mon ami anglais, c’est un orage!” He flailed his arms frantically. This time, he wasn’t just being dramatic; there was actually lightning and thunder outside. “I’ll die if I try to go outside in zhese conditions!”

England sighed. “You're a nation, you can't die...fine. You can stay in the guest room, if and only if you promise to not do anything.”

He was suddenly tackled to the ground by France. “Merci, merci beaucoup!” He got up, realizing that he had pinned England to the floor. (Normally, he would’ve stayed there like that, but there was always the risk of getting kicked out into the storm.) “Ah, can I ask you one more favor?”

“What?” Arthur was clearly annoyed.

“Can I 'ave some ice?” Francis pointed to the dark bruise on his forehead, smiling a bit sheepishly. The pain had faded a little into a dull throbbing, but it still hurt.

“Fine.” He got up, and took Francis’s hand in his own, pulling him towards the kitchen.

Francis didn’t argue, and instead stared at where their hands were entwined together, feeling strangely warm with his heart fluttering.

Is this what love feels like?