[fanfiction] Two Weeks of Sunshine 5/17

[comptine]

*pointless rant, feel free to skip*

This is the only chapter I didn’t have massive outline for. The chapter plot was: “Arthur goes to Prussia’s bar. Asks for wine, gets none, gets drunk anyway.” When usually the outline will be about a page and a bit including dialogue and subtle directions. so my week kinda went like this:

23rd - updates chapter 4

24th - messes around responding to reviews (wonders why she has barely any comments on lj. Angsts in Arthur-ish fashion by drowning herself in tea)

25th - says, “Fuck it” and posts chapter on FrUK comm. (continues to wallow in angst and plays Team Fortress2/Oblivion)

26th - RESPONDS TO MASS OVERLOAD OF COMMENTS ON LIVEJOURNAL. FEELS SO AWESOME, and colours instead of writing. (Drinks timmy hos coffee, tea is for brits.)

27th - basks in the glory of her own awesome (you guys are terrible for my ego =___=)

28th - spends day shopping. Gets home, realizes she had 3000 words to write. Writes until wee hours of morning, almost passes out on keyboard. (drinks non-caffeinated tea)

29th - spends day with dras and firephantom (watches Full-Metal Alchemist and Anastasia while eating delicious bagels and muffins), gets home and writes/edits like a madman. Berates self for not doing a buffer. Drinks tea and eats nachos for dinner.

30th - posts chapter and then realizes she has school the next day. Freaks out and runs around house like an idiot until falling asleep.

/pointlessness


okay, before you read this chapter GO CHECK OUT ALL THE WONDERFUL, AMAZING, INCREDIBLE ART PEOPLE HAVE BEEN SPOILING ME WITH. I COULD NOT THANK YOU GUYS ENOUGH =A= I love every single piece, every comment and... and... this story has been a pleasure to write because you have all been so wonderful with your constant support ;A; So I thank each and everyone of you from the very bottom of my heart.

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Chapter 5

Being the incredibly well balanced, cool-headed and logical man that he was, Arthur decided that there was only one course of action he could take in light of finding out that he was going to be stuck in Rome for a very long time. And what exactly did this practical and commonsensical plan entail?

Drinking.

Sneaking out of the hostel while Francis was in the washroom -and changing out of the turtleneck, slightly reluctantly- he ran along the road, the few streetlights illuminating the dark road. Lovino had given him instructions to the only bar in the vicinity, “Five Meters” and, judging from the story-tall sign that was something out of Sin City announcing the name of the bar in large obtrusive letters, he had probably found the right location.

He was almost surprised that there were no strippers up on the tables. Inside was an incredibly refined room, nothing like the cheap theme he had imagined in his head upon seeing the sign. A large oak bar was at the opposite end; tall shelves behind it sporting an impressive collection of oddly shaped bottles and exotic looking liquors. The rest of the lounge was dressed as if from an old 1920’s speakeasy, casual with a simplistic elegance, giving the feel that men should be there with beautiful women, discussing world matters over Cuban cigars and rich brandies. With such a regal atmosphere, Arthur couldn’t figure out why no one was here.

His answer came faster than he would’ve liked upon reflection of the night’s events.

“Hey! You! Bush-Brow! What do you want to drink!?” A voice shouted at him, a German accent lightly brushed mixed into the words. A man had appeared from behind the bar, skin and hair both unbelievably pale but his red eyes were even more disquieting. Not quite albino, but Arthur was almost positive this man had probably never seen the sun or else he really just failed at tanning.

Arthur approached the bar, peering at the random German text on the man’s black undershirt, half hidden by his open red dress shirt. “Uh, have any wine?” He asked, sliding onto a stood.

The bartender laughed, placing his hands on his hips, “Wine is for girls! This is a man’s bar! For hunks like me,” His laughter died as he saw the severely unimpressed expression on his customer’s face, “Not from around here are you?” He said, pulling a cloth off his shoulder and beginning to polish the already burnished bar.

“How did you guess?” Arthur said, making sure to draw out his brogue.

A cheeky grin which did not remind him of Alfred in the slightest. “I’m just that awesome.” Not reminded, not reminded, not reminded. “So, what do ya wanna drink?”

Arthur eyed the impressive collection of liquors behind the man, trying to decide what he wanted to wet his palette with. “And you’re sure you’ve got no wine?” The barman nodded, now idly spinning the cloth around his finger, “Fine, just… just…” He was about to say scotch but the bartender slammed his hand on the bar.

“I know exactly what you need! My specialty!” He spun on his heel, the cloth flipping back over his shoulder as he began to pull bottles off the shelves, mixing them all into a glass with a lot of over-exaggerated and flamboyant actions. Sitting back a bit, Arthur could only watch in a contemplative silence, wondering that if he had a break for the door, if the bartender would chase after him or throw a bottle at him and try to knock him out. Before he could make the run, a glass slammed onto the bar. Inside a bright red liquid shone up at him.

Arthur reached forward and gripped the glass, rolling the liquid around the glass, watching it stick slide down sluggishly. “What is it?”

The man dipped in finger into the drink and shoved it into his mouth. He sighed happily. “Delicious.” He wiped his hand on the cloth, “I named it after myself. I call it Gilbo’s Cojones.”

“Charming.” Arthur sniffed the drink, recoiling and coughing violently. “What’s in there!? Glue!? Jesus Christ!” But the man wasn’t paying attention, rather mixing another concoction. The Brit nudged his glass away, “Your name is ‘Gilbo’?”

“Hardly,” He turned back to face Arthur, giving him an incredulous look, “Gilbert. Only the ladies can call me ‘Gilbo’. ” The German said, lifting his glass, waiting for Arthur to do the same.

Wondering if this was going to be the death of him, Arthur carefully picked up his drink and, with one quick prayer, threw it back. It had the consistency of milk but tasted like peaches, hamburger, carpet, cinnamon and somehow, a touch of his own cooking. He retched slightly, barely able to keep the drink down, slamming the glass back onto the bar. Hamburger! Endless reminders! Even in his drinks! “Don’t you have any taste?” He coughed out, wiping his watering his eyes on the back of his hand, “That’s terrible!”

Gilbert only shrugged, licking his lips free of the crimson drink. “A drink’s a drink. Might be too strong for a Brit like you.” He quirked an eyebrow, watching Arthur carefully, daring him. The green eyes glared back, determined not to be stared down by some narcissistic German bartender. There was a tense silence in which Arthur's eyebrows furrowed with quiet rage and Gilbert's hand found his hip, gently rocking back and forth. Red eyes blinked.

“Get me another.” Arthur said with a wicked smile.

It probably wasn’t the wisest decision having another drink, but when his drinking was challenged, the English in him simply had to come out. Arthur hadn’t eaten since early that morning and coupled with his rather low alcohol tolerance at inconvenient times that seemed to match his mood fluctuations it meant that he wasn't exactly ready for a drinking match. After two more of “Gilbo’s Cojones” he was teetering on his stool, clutching the bar to make sure he didn’t fall over.

“And then…” He said, throwing an arm up in the air, “He dumpsh me! Sheriously!”

Gilbert shook his head, shaking from laughter. “You’re totally wasted.” He said, taking Arthur’s empty glass before the man’s flailing knocked it over, “You should probably call it a night buddy.”

Bloodshot eyes glared at the bartender as Arthur sagged forward onto the bar, his breath fogging the varnished wood. “N-no. Imfine!” Again, Gilbert laughed, bending over and placing the glasses into a small tub. Something glittered at his neck and, not really thinking, Arthur’s hand lashed out, grasping it. “Whatsh thish?” He said, eyes going wide while Gilbert attempted to wrestle the necklace out of the tight grip and at the same time making sure Arthur didn't choke him.

“Just an Iron Cross,” the bartender said, easing it out of Arthur’s hand. He stepped back, holding up the necklace to the light, admiring it himself. The two men stared at it, entranced. The German was the first to recover, sliding the cross back under his shirt, “I was in the army with my brother for a bit. Did something that was incredibly awesome at the time but ended up being stupid and I ended up almost killing myself and a few other guys. My brother and I -mostly me though- managed to save the soldiers and ourselves. The higher-ups thought it was brave so I got a Cross.”

The Briton wasn’t listening, rather attempting to blow a bubble using his lips. It expanded from his lips and popped as soon as he started to giggle feebly, eyes-half lidded. Slightly ticked off at being ignored, Gilbert slammed his hand down on the bar, making his patron jump, almost flailing off his stool. “Hey! Listen! I’m a war hero you’re lucky to be even talking to be! I almost died! What have you done like that? Nothing. I’m the hunk here! I’m the one with the Iron Cross! I'm the one who can hold his drink!”

Arthur’s attention perked at the mention of the cross. “Well I burnt myshelf on an iron once. I almosht had to the hoshpital, look, I shtill have the s-shcar.” It was at this point, Arthur would usually realize that pulling one’s pants completely off to show a scar that could easily been seen just by lowering the waistband a bit was not a good idea. Arguably, in his inebriated state, realization wasn’t exactly his forte.

His fingers fumbled with the belt, giving Gilbert enough time to realize exactly what was going on. “H-hey!” He said, putting his glass down and starting to sidle around the bar, “What do you think you’re doing!?”

“I’m gonnashow you my shcar!” Arthur had taken off his belt and had slide down his pants so they hung around his knees while his fingers were tugging at his boxers, "It'sh right here-"

Gilbert rushed around the bar, seizing Arthur in a bear hug. “Not in my bar,” He growled, keeping Arthur’s arms pinned to his sides. “Now, you’re going to pull those pants back up. I’m not some queer and I don’t need to see your... your vital regions.” His colourless cheeks were tinted a light pink.

The Englishman fought against the hold, fingers still scrambling at his underwear. “No! You musht shee! My honour dependsh on it!” He fought harder and Gilbert held him fast, fists tightening directly under Arthur’s sternum.

The Brit stepped on the German’s foot. “Scheiße!” Gilbert cried out, loosening his grip slightly.

“Lemmie go!” Arthur shouted. With a particularly strong jerk, he managed to throw himself off balance, so that he and Gilbert toppled to the ground just as the door to the bar opened.

Francis returned to his room, surprised to find Arthur not there. Poking his head out of the French Doors to make sure the man hadn’t escaped using bedsheets tied to the balcony railing, he hurried down the stairs. He made sure to grab his jacket, knowing his gut feeling that Arthur was not inside playing a game of cards with Lovino was probably right.

Lovino and Feliciano were both in the lobby, bent over a light grey and blue gameboard. In the armchair, Ludwig was sitting, blue eyes trailing lazily over the words in his book, occasionally flickering to the two Italians when the elder’s voice rose. “You can’t buy Broadway!” Lovino said, his fist clenched and trembling slightly.

The younger brother frowned, tilting his head. “Why not Lovi?”

“Because I’m going to buy it!”

Francis walked over to the pair. “Have you seen Arthur?” He asked, casually reaching down and plucking the little silver dog from the board and examining it.

Snatching the dog out of the Frenchman’s fingers, Lovino placed it back on the board. “I haven’t seen him.” He said, and adding with an intense, very pointed glare, “Have you Ludwig?” The German shook his head. “So there. We haven’t seen him.”

A blond eyebrow quirked. “Feliciano, buy Broadway. You have enough money, mon cher.” Francis said, picking up a few bills from the Italian’s substantial pile and placing them in the white plastic bank. Picking a red house out of the box top, he positioned it on the board. “There, all done~” He smiled at Lovino.

Not saying a word, Lovino picked up the dice and rolled them. He moved the little dog three places and landing right on the square currently being occupied by the tophat. “Look Lovi!” Feliciano said, smiling from ear-to-ear, “We’re on the same place now! That means we share right?”

“Oh no Feliciano,” Francis said before his brother could speak, “It means that Lovino has to pay you. In fact,” The blue eyes roamed over Lovino’s very small pile of colourful bills, “I think he owes you all his money.”Francis grinned at Lovino, who glared at Feliciano, who was staring blankly between the two while Ludwig had closed his book, now watching the three carefully.

In a sudden, violent move, Lovino upended the board, shouting, “Fuck this game!”

As the pieces fell to the ground and paper fluttered around, Francis brushed a hotel out of his hair. “Where is Arthur?” He asked calmly.

“At the bar! The bar, you bastard!” Lovino cried, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. He sniffled, Feliciano attempted to placate him with a comforting hug, but was shoved away as his brother fled the room, running up the stairs, now crying loudly. A door slammed followed by very worried whispers of Spanish.

Clapping Feliciano on the back and winking at Ludwig, who had a blue fifty sitting on his head, Francis slipped out of the lobby into the rainy night. He flipped up the collar of his coat, realizing that he had no idea where this bar was. Knowing that it was probably not best to go back into the hostel at the moment, he set out along the road. It only took him a few minutes to get completely soaked and a few more to actually find the bar, shivering, he reached back with his hands, wringing water out of his ponytail. Shaking himself like a dog, he opened the door to the bar.

“Lemmie go!” Someone shouted. In the middle of the bar, a pale, white-haired man had pantless Arthur pinned to the ground. He could only watch in horror as Arthur squirmed beneath the man, obviously trying to fight him off. Adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins, Francis rushed forward, tackling the man off of Arthur.

“Was!?” The man shouted, staring up at the Frenchman with vivid red eyes. Francis attempted to pin his arms, but boots found his chest, kicking him off. His head contacted the bar and the world flickered. Moaning, Francis clutched his head as a shadow passed over him. “What the hell is going on!? Who are you?!” An arm automatically raised to protect himself. When there was no impact from a kick or a punch, he lowered his arm. The man stared down at him, huffing slightly, hands gripping his hips.

“Who am I!? Mon Dieu! What were you doing on top of Sourcils!?” Francis demanded, trying to get to his feet. He glanced over at the aforementioned man, who now appeared to be passed out, dozing quietly in the middle of the bar, his pants still around his ankles. At least he was still breathing.

The two men stared at each other, Francis still looking utterly appalled while the German simply looked confused. Sighing, Gilbert ran a hand through his hair. “This guy started taking off his pants in the middle of my bar and I was just trying to stop him.” He slid back behind his bar, folding his arms and leaning against the counter, “I don’t swing that way. A hunk like me could do so much better than him.” Francis gave the bartender a weak smile, letting out his held breath.

Walking over to the unconscious man, Francis gently pulled him to his feet, slinging Arthur’s arm around his shoulder, gripping his waist and hauling him out of the bar. The rained seemed to wake him up slightly so that Arthur groaned, his eyes blinking up slowly at Francis, a dopey smile plastered on his face. “Oy… Francis…What’re you doin’ here…”

“I’m taking you back to the hostel,” He hoisted the Brit higher, wondering how someone so small could possibly be so heavy, “You got drunk."

There was silence save for the gentle patter of rain and the slap of shoes of wet pavement. The hostel's puke-coloured wall had never seemed more inviting than when Francis had dragged the drunk Arthur inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. Feliciano jumped to his feet as the two men stumbled inside."Che macello!" He cried, scurrying over to Arthur's other side and slinging the loose arm over his shoulders. The Italian trembled under the weight and Francis soon found all the Englishman's heaviness back on his own back, but he appreciated Feliciano's gesture. "Mi dispiace... Let me run a bath..."

Francis followed the owner up the stairs, now panting from the effort it was taking to keep his companion upright, who seemed barely cohesive, staring blankly ahead, a muzzy grin still at his lips. Once in the bathroom, Francis deposited Arthur onto the toilet, and straightened, placing the hands on his back, cracking his spine. Feliciano was bent over the taps, playing with them as steaming water filled the old-looking tub. Once it was almost filled to the brim, he turned off the faucets and left, coming back a minute later with a stack of mismatched towels held in his arms.

"Okay Arthur," Francis said, taking one of the towels and stepping out of the bathroom, "Just get into the bath. Call if you need anything." The drunk man nodded lethargically and began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. Closing the bathroom door, Francis went to his own room, pulling off his wet clothes, toweling his body off. Once he had a dry shirt and pants on, he draped the towel over his still-soaking hair, and trundled back up the stairs, knocking on the door and calling out, "Arthur? Are you alright in there?"

There was a moan, followed by a thump as something heavy hit the wall. Francis didn't hesitate to open the door. Arthur was sagged against the side of the bathtub, wearing nothing but boxers and his dress-shirt. His coat and pants lay against the wall, slumped and drenching the tile. Wondering for a moment if it was possible to just leave Arthur there and come back in the morning and face him then, Francis moved into the small room, shutting the door. He knelt beside Arthur, gently tapping the flushed cheek until the green eyes open and blinked at him.

"I couldn't..." He said, pointing at the buttons, "Too hard..."

Francis reached forward and started undoing Arthur's shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it beside the discarded pants. Glancing the boxers, the Frenchman decided that it would be better to leave them on. After a minute of awkward pushing and shoving, he finally managed to deposit the Brit in the tub. Arthur slide down the side, his mouth sitting in the water, bubbling in time with his exhales. Francis flopped down beside the tub, beginning to rub the towel through his hair.

A warm hand closed around his wrist and he looked around to see Arthur gazing at him, eyebrows knotted, "Lemmie do it..." he said, batting the towel. "I wanna..."

Francis began to shake his head but hands had already seized his head, beginning to move back and forth. Surprised at the gentle motions, the Frenchman let his hands fall into his lap, closing his eyes as the fingers began to massage his hair. Arthur hummed absently under his breath, words still slurred and occasionally his fingers would get tangled in the blond hair and he would have to wait for a wincing-Francis to disentangle his hair from the fingers.

"Careful." Francis warned, breathing in the warm air of the bathroom. It was so odd, Arthur was so violent and yet under the influence of alcohol and a warm bath, he was quiet and -though it almost pained Francis to admit it- kind of cute, but that wasn't his place to say as much. Arthur was clearly still recovering from a relationship and while he didn't know all the details, the short time he had spent with the Brit allowed him to figure out that Alfred had obviously been someone important. Knowing that even if he did try and make a move on Arthur - not that he hadn't been flirting with him the entirety of the trip and would most likely continue - it would be shot down and most likely end with severe pain. Sighing, he leaned his head back, trying to clear his mind.

Fifteen minutes passed before Arthur passed out, snoring loudly in the tub, leaving Francis to drag him out of the water, dry him off, get him in clothes (he'd just have to deal with wet boxers) and into bed. Wondering why in the world he had to pick such a handful to bring on the trip, the Frenchman slid into his own bed, falling asleep immediately.

<< Chapter 4/Chapter 6 >>

Author's Note

Scheiße! - shit!

was?! - what?!

Che macello! - What a mess!

Mi dispiace... - I'm sorry...

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In the Hetalia world, Monopoly is srs bsns.
ALSO, comments about how Prussia’s character was would be mightily appreciated! He’s tough for me and since he shows up in the next two requests I’m doing (everyone lubs Prussia~), any advice or critique would be wonderful.