[fanfiction] Two Weeks of Sunshine 11/17
I love this constant “ARG, WHEN ARE THEY GONNA KISS!?” And truth be told, I don’t know myself, but I’m as eager as you guys to find out!
Chapter 11
Arthur wondered how his initial plan of “tour vineyards of France and forget failed love life in constant drunken stupor” had become “go to Rome with insufferably charming Frenchman, stay in hostel run by Italian brothers and go to beach with said Italians and their pseudo-grandfather, a German repairman, a Spanish dancer, a Finnish writer, a Swedish interior designer and a Prussian bartender. Drink. No. Wine.”
Oh well. At least it had stopped raining. The Italian sunshine had finally shown itself, glowing and brilliant as dawn rose. Feliciano had practically run into their room shouting at the top of his lungs, making them both bolt awake. “The beaaaach!” Arthur managed to decipher in the Italian’s blabbering. “I brought you suits! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s gooooooo!” Feliciano flung an article of clothing at them each and fled the room, giggling wildly.
Arthur sat up, and pulled the bathing suit off his head. “The beach?” He’d asked, looking at Francis, who yawned widely, shrugging. They said nothing to each other as they prepared for the day and stumbled down the stairs. The entire hostel, plus Gilbert, was assembled outside, either looking thrilled or completely dead to the world.
“ ‘morning,” Arthur said to Gilbert, “You’re comin’ too?”
The albino grinned at him, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small thermos and taking a swig. “Want some?”
Nodding, Arthur took the bottle, making sure to sniff the contents - he didn’t need another mouthful of Gilbert’s Cojones - and took a sip. He tasted the ice tea right before the bitter alcohol overpowered the sweetness. “Mmmm…” He muttered, smacking his lips, “That’s good.”
Gilbert winked at him. “You know it.”
“Okay, let’s get going.” Ludwig’s head poked out of the window of the white van they were gathered around, “We haven’t got all day.”
Tino, Berwald, Antonio and Gilbert - after screaming “SHOTGUN” at the top of his lungs - piled into the van, while the two Italian brothers were pulling on helmets. As Arthur pulled open the side of the van, he realized two people were missing. Roma and Francis appeared from behind the van, both talking in quiet voices. Francis was holding a basket that Arthur was sure he didn’t have before, but before he could ask, the chef had run towards him, throwing an arm around his shoulder and hugging him tight. “Gooooooooood morning!” He crowed, rubbing his fist into a flailing Arthur’s head, “Ready for the beach!?”
“Slightly…” The Englishman said, wrestling out of Roma’s grip and rubbing his neck, “What’s in the basket?”
Francis gave him an innocent look, as if he wasn’t even holding a basket. “A surprise.” He said, with the shadow of a wink, and climbed into the car. Grumbling, Arthur scrambled in after him, over Tino’s lap and plopped down in the backseat.
With a small honk, Roma’s tiny scooter pulled ahead. The van rumbled into life and puttered after the three Italians. Gilbert had his head hanging out the window, wolf-whistling at anything that looked his way. Arthur kept trying to open the basket, but Francis would have none of it, cradling it against his chest, flicking Arthur in the forehead.
After a quick pit stop at coop - in which Arthur bought sunglasses and the one English novel in the entire store The Very Virile Viking - they finally arrived Ostina. Pristine sand stretched in every direction, disappearing into the turquoise sea. Cotton clouds drifted across the sky while people were littered around the beach.
Once Roma and Ludwig had set up their small base, everyone broke apart, starting the day. Tino and Berwald were already in the water, splashing each other playfully, while Lovino and Antonio were down the way, the Spaniard’s hand on the Italian’s hip. Near the water, Roma, Ludwig and Feliciano were building a small sandcastle and over at the small gelato stand, Gilbert and Francis were attempting to pick up chicks.
Meanwhile, Arthur had positioned himself under an umbrella and - after a brief two hour nap in the sunshine - was opening his book, shaking his head at the pantless man on the cover. “Chapter 1. Autumn, the Norselands,” Arthur snorted, “A.D 999. In days of old when men were…whatever… Magnus Ericsson was a simple man.”
And Arthur Kirkland was a man bored out of his mind. He thought, sighing heavily. Growing up in Britain had never really done much for Arthur’s love of the beach. The sea was supposed to be rough and murky not bright and clear. Placing his book on his legs, he played with the edge of his sunglasses, glancing around, wondering which activity he was going to participate in besides reading about Vikings.
He spotted Francis’ basket sitting only a few feet away. Glancing over his shoulder, making sure that they were still talking to the girls, he crawled over to the wicker hamper. With a trembling hand, he reached over and flipped the cover, but he didn’t glance in right away. Did he really want to ruin this? He didn’t even know what it was and he already felt guilty.
“I got you lemon~”
Francis was behind him, holding out a small cup of gelato. His smile clearly said ‘take a look in that basket and I’ll rip your face off.’ Arthur scurried back to his umbrella, acting as if nothing had happen. Taking a seat beside him, Francis passed over the cup, leaning back, his golden curls mixing with the sand as he stretched languidly. Arthur made sure to keep his eyes trained on anything but the slim body.
Just as he was reaching for his novel, he stopped suddenly. Francis had rolled on top of him, elbows on either side of Arthur’s hips and he propped his chin on the palms of his hands. “You’re not eating…” He said playfully, picking up the gelato, “C’mon, open up.” He dipped the spoon into the ice and lifted it to Arthur’s lips.
By now, Arthur could see every person on the beach staring at him - Antonio was using the distraction to pull Lovino closer without the Italian complaining. - “F-francis!” He stammered, his ears flushed a bright pink as he tried to wiggle out from under the Frenchman, but the elbow held him tight. “Get off me!”
“Non.” Francis purred, “I’ll show you how, Sourcils.” He carefully placed the spoon in his mouth, pulling it out with a deliberate slowness that made something other than Arthur’s face heat up. “Your turn~”
Sliding up Arthur’s trembling body, Francis placed the cup of gelato aside and the Englishman noticed at that exact moment he wasn’t about to be fed lemon. Long fingers pulled off his sunglasses, tossing them aside and gripping his chin.
“Good morning, Francis, Arthur.” The two men froze, looking round. Roderich and Elizaveta were standing over them. Roderich was in a pair of royal purple shorts while Elizaveta had a bright green bikini on, a sarong casually tied around her hips. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He said, arching his elegant eyebrows.
Francis flopped off Arthur, lying on his stomach while Arthur waved awkwardly at the Austrian. “Good morning… What are you doing here?”
Wrapping her arm around Roderich’s Elizaveta said, “We thought we’d get a walk before the rain comes back.”
“RODDY! LIZZIE” Gilbert crashed into the pair, knocking Elizaveta’s arms out of Roderich’s and flinging his arms around their shoulders. “Fancy meetin’ you here! I bet you came cause you could see my hunkness a mile away!” He grinned at them.
In a flash, the bartender was on the ground, Elizaveta’s foot on his chest. “Are you alright dear?” She asked, smiling sweetly. Her consort nodded, adjusting his glasses. “And you, Gilbo, how are you doing?” She pushed her foot down on his chest, making him cough.
“Oy! Lizzie! Get off me!”
“What did I say about touching Roderich?”
“He’s my cousin! I can do whatever- ack- Liz!”
“What did I say?”
“You said ‘never, ever, ever, touch him, ever.’ Now get off me!”
“Only if you say you’re sorry.”
Arthur and Francis had watched the entire exchange with slightly bemused looks. Clearly, this happened more often than not. Gilbert’s floundering lips quickly turned into a smirk. “I’m not sorry and I can see right up your skirt.” Elizaveta yelped, jumping away from the Prussian. Cackling wildly, Gilbert hopped to his feet and started sprinting to the ocean. Composing herself, the Hungarian pealed after him, shouting obscenities that made even Arthur gasp in shock.
After watching the chase for a few moments, Roderich turned back to Arthur. “I have all your documents prepared.” He said calmly, as if his girlfriend was not attempting to drown his cousin in the sea, “You can come by and pick them up tomorrow.”
“O-oh.” Arthur stammered, watching Elizaveta stalk back towards them, dragging a half-alive Gilbert onto the beach and depositing him beside a fretting Feliciano and a disappointed Ludwig. “That’s great. I-I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Roderich nodded and, taking Elizaveta’s arm, continued their walk along the beach.
Arthur stared out at the horizon, not quite sure what to say, or if there was anything to say. That was it, his ticket home was all lined up and London was waiting. His fingers drew swirls in the sand. Did he want to go back? At all? He loved his country, but Rome… Rome had it’s perks. Could he live in the hostel forever? Find a job, pay a monthly rent, live with F-
“Sourcils…” He glanced to his side to see Francis looking at his book, “The Very Virile Viking…” Francis said, shaking with silent laughter.
Glad it wasn’t his to break the silence, Arthur snatched the book out of his hands. “It’s the only one they had in English… That or Great Expectations which I had enough of in school.”
Francis laughed. “You are an odd one Arthur.”
Arthur just scowled and opened his book. “Shall I read aloud?” He asked, in his most British voice.
The chuckles increased. “Why that would be most agreeable Sir. Kirkland.” Francis said, shifting so that he rest against Arthur, “Please, do read.”
“No! I’ll read!” Gilbert was running towards them, apparently over his near-death experience, “Gimmie that!” He grabbed the book and before Arthur could stop him, began reading aloud.
“Magnus Ericsson was a simple man. He loved the smell of fresh-turned dirt after springtime ploughing. He loved the feel of a soft woman under him in the bed furs… when engaged in another type of ploughing…”
For hours Gilbert talked, slowly the rest of their friends came and sat around Gilbert. Every new character got a new voice and the bartender even acted out some of the scenes, managing to convince Berwald to play Magnus, which quickly earned him the title of ‘the very virile Viking’ much to the amusement of the others. The Thermos was passed around numerous times and when Francis stood and told Arthur to follow him, the Englishman was already a little wobbly on his feet.
The sun was setting, it’s last beams of lights stretching over the ocean and painting the clouds and sky with fiery hues of crimson and tangerine while the encroaching night was bringing dusky shades of twilight and navy. As they walked away, they could still hear Gilbert practically shouting the part of the woman in a very explicit sex-scene with a very displeased Berwald. Arthur enjoyed the warm sand between his toes and the cool ocean that would wash over his feet before returning to the deep. A breeze played in the air, chasing the seagulls through the sky, urging them to retire in their nests for the night.
Francis walked beside him, his shirt undone and carrying the small basket. After a minute of questions, he had finally revealed that the surprise wasn’t romantic in the slightest.
“So I bet you like long walks on the beach?” Arthur said, casting a glance at his comrade and giving him a quirked grin.
A blue eye peered at him and Francis stopped walking. “That and candlelit dinners.” he said, winking, “Which reminds me…” He placed the basket down and rummaged in it, pulling out an old, grey blanket. With a flourish he laid it out on the sand, pulled out a tray covered in tinfoil, placing it on the blanket and stood back, admiring his work. “The surprise.”
Arthur eyed the setup warily. “You said this wasn’t romantic…”
“It isn’t.” Francis flopped down, patting the place beside him. Carefully, Arthur sat down, tucking his legs under himself. Reaching into the basket, Francis pulled out two plates, handing one to Arthur. “Are you ready?” He asked, quivering slightly in his excitement.
Arthur nodded slowly. Reaching forward, Francis pulled the tinfoil. “Voilà!” Underneath the shining covering was a small, slightly squished trifle. Arthur stared at it and, his mind a little muffled from the spiked ice tea, reached a finger, sticking it knuckle deep into the cake. Grinning at the appalled look on the Frenchman’s face, he stuck it in his mouth, humming happily.
“Roma helped me bake it…” Francis said, his offended expression giving face to an exasperation shake of his head and a crooked smile, “Sorry it’s a bit squished.”
But Arthur was too concerned with eating more of his favourite treat than listening to Francis. Sighing Francis slapped the wiggling fingers away and reached into the basket, pulling out a fork. “At least eat like you’re a civilised British man.”
A quarter of the trifle was gone in fifteen minutes and Arthur leaned back, his head pleasantly warm and he set his fork aside. Francis was idly poking at one of the cherries that decorated the trifled, spearing it on his fork and plopping it into his mouth. “Oh, I’ve got another one more surprise.” From inside the basket, he withdrew a long-necked bottle.
Arthur gasped, taking the bottle from Francis and starting at it. “Where did you get this?” He breathed, unable to keep himself from hugging the bottle tight. “Wine! Sweet wine!”
“Gilbert said he just got it in…” Francis said, shuffling closer to Arthur and examining the bottle, “Why? Is it special?”
“This is Eiswein, Ice Wine…” Arthur explained, his months of training kicking in despite his buzz, “It’s terribly hard to make, not to mention almost impossible to find outside of Canada, Germany or speciality shops…” He paused, looking down at the magnum clutching to his chest, “Francis, you must’ve paid a fortune for this! I swear once I get back to London, I will pay you back every cent. I’m serious-”
Francis leaned over and kissed his cheek, effectively quieting him. “Just drink the wine and enjoy the food Arthur.” Blushing, Arthur nodded dumbly, letting Francis pour them two glasses. “What shall we cheer to?” The Frenchman said, swirling the reddish-brown liquid around his glasses, watching it glint in the fading sunlight.
Arthur raised his glass. “To Vikings.”
Laughing, Francis tapped their glasses together. “To Vikings.”
They spent the rest of the night eating the trifle and slowly drinking their way through the Eiswein, Arthur admittedly drinking at least two more glasses than Francis. Eventually, they stumbled back to the main beach, Arthur piggybacked on Francis’ back, shouting loudly about the time he was the greatest nation on earth (he seemed to think he was the British Empire.) Ludwig and Roma had a fire crackling and Gilbert was still reading the novel, albeit much quieter. The warmth from the fire and Francis, whom he was leaning against, the quiet whisper of the ocean coupled with Gilbert’s slightly-accented voice and the rise and fall of the Frenchman’s chest quickly had Arthur snoring, completely asleep.
Chapter 12>>
Author’s Note
I now have a French beta and an English one, WHICH IS KIND OF AWESOME. ilu guys <3