[fanfiction] Divine Intervention 5/9
This morning I was woken up by the cleaning lady yelling “tabernac” when she walked into my room and saw me sleeping.
Best morning ever.
Chapter 5
Francis awoke to the sound of a smash and loud curse. Pulling the sheets off himself, he wandered downstairs, pushing the blond strands away from his face. “Arthur? I really hope you aren’t-” He leaned his head in the doorway, treated to the leave-nothing-to-the-imagination sight of Arthur bent over, picking up shards of china “-What happened?”
“What does it look like?” Arthur snapped, loading the broken pieces onto the saucer, “I dropped a goddamn teacup and now I’m cleaning it up.” Straightening, he looked at Francis, his abnormally thick brows contracted, forming an angry and fuzzy ‘v.’ As he deposited them in the sink, Francis looked the odd clothes the Brit was wearing; a white dress shirt, suspenders drawn tight over his shoulders. At least he was still wearing skinny jeans, which meant some sense remained the world. As much sense as living with his own personal seraph could have.
“Just thought I’d ask.” Francis said, picking out his favourite mug and putting on the coffee, ignoring the sneer Arthur gave the bitter drink. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He said sweetly, pouring himself a cup and smiling.
He offered another mug to Arthur who turned it down, reaching into the sink, pulling out a fully repaired teacup filled to the brim with Earl Grey. “And I’m not a beggar.” The Brit took a long sip, smirking at the Frenchman the entire time.
Taking a small drink of his coffee, Francis leaned against the counter. “Why are you so dressed up?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“We’re going to the symphony tonight.” Arthur answered smoothly, finishing his tea and putting the cup into the sink, “Do you have a suit?”
Francis thinks to his closet. Of the tailored suit he wore to funeral and another, buried deep within his closet, only worn once, now covered in dust and bad memories.
-
“Francis!” Antonio whines, pulling at the collar of his white shirt while desperately tugging at the too-tight knot of his dark tie, “I don’t wanna wear this anymore!” His green eyes close and he fidgets restlessly in the front row seat.
Touching the Spaniard’s shoulder, Francis gives him a comforting smile. “You’ll be fine Tony.” He says quietly as the light dim and he takes his hand off the tailored shoulder to clap politely along with the rest of the crowd. He does not want to be here, neither does Antonio but when Gilbert asked them - blushing furiously - if they would come to his concert, they couldn't say no. However, when they arrived at the concert hall, they almost immediately regretted agreeing.
They are out-of-place here. No matter how fancy they dress, they stand out among the high society Gilbert has worked so hard to escape and break free from. Antonio and Francis do their best to blend in as the Prussian walks out on the stage, his white hair blazing in the spotlight. The crimson eyes gaze at the crowd, first catching sight of Francis and Antonio - his concentration breaks for only a moment with a flicker of his grin - and then to Ludwig, sitting prim and proper at Francis’ left, still clapping enthusiastically despite everyone else stopping - Francis quickly covers the small boy’s hands with his own, shushing him quietly - and then they find nothing else and Francis realizes with a start that the most important person is missing.
The small Prussian steps up to the microphone. “This is for my father.”
Francis does not even see the violin sit under his chin, or the small sigh that escapes Gilbert’s lips or the bow before it is already pulling across the strings. It all happens to fast and music is too sweet for him to try and even think. The melody does not hesitate or slow but jumps right in, powerful and sure of itself. Blue eyes can only watch, enraptured, as the fingers move across the strings in precise and delicate moves making the violin sing with pleasure. Even as it fades into a slower beat, Francis still watches, more on the violinist than the music.
Gilbert is focused, collected and utterly unlike his usual wild and boisterous nature but Francs can’t help but see the similarity between these two selves. Both are determined, and as Francis watched the song begin to fade away and sees the red open and focus on him, he can’t help but feel his stomach his a half-hearted lurch. He chalks it up to his mother’s horrendous cooking. For now at least.
All his attention is so fixed on Gilbert, that Francis almost forgets to clap until he notices Antonio standing beside him, whooping and cheering, getting offended looks from the surrounding upper class. Francis copies his friend, giving a standing ovation and, on stubbly little legs, Ludwig stands on his seat, clapping proudly. Francis catches him before he falls off his chair and sits down again. There are muttering in the crowd, but Gilbert doesn't care as he beams at his two friends.
As he bows and leave the stage and there is a moment wherein he passes Roderich and a silence stretches between them only Francis and Antonio can see. The brunette sniffs, moving past the Prussian and sits down at his piano and begins to play. Roderich is brilliant, flawless, a genius, a prodigy and a whole host of things Francis can’t even fathom and he is left in a stunned silence as the music fades. The crowd is silent and a single set of hands clapping rings out among the silent people.
Arnold’s long blond hair glints in the light as his large hands clap calmly and steadily. Everyone but Francis and Antonio stands and applauds, following the German’s lead. Roderich smirks and nods his head, glancing at Gilbert with a victorious sneer. After the show, Francis and Antonio spot Gilbert backstage and they hurry towards him, only to stop when they see that Arnold is standing above him, stern and foreboding as ever. Ludwig clings to his brother’s hand, keeping his eyes down while Gilbert looks at his father, a pleading expression on his face.
“Roderich played well, did he not?” Arnold says, not really looking at his sons.
Antonio gasps but Francis puts a hand around his mouth, quieting the noise. They watch as Gilbert’s fist clenches around his violin and his brother’s wrist as he bows his head. “Yes.” He says quietly. “He played very well.”
Francis never wears the suit again for fear of seeing the defeated look on Gilbert’s face.
-
“Of course I have a suit.” Francis answered, putting his coffee down and pushing by Arthur, heading up his stairs and sitting on his bed. A moment later, he looked up to see Arthur standing in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “What do you want?” He asked, avoiding meeting Arthur’s eye.
“Just be ready to leave at six.” He said. The angel hesitated, as if he had something else to say but Francis doesn’t care, closing his eyes and not paying attention, only opening his eyes when he heard the stairs creak and he was sure Arthur wasn’t standing in his doorway still. For the next few hours, the house was absolutely silent save for the odd sound from downstairs where Arthur was picking through Francis’ music and video collections, snorting at the poor taste. Francis just stared into his closet, not trusting himself to step inside without losing it completely.
Only at 5:55 did Francis decide he should probably get ready. Rather grab the suit than deal with an angry angel. Closing his eyes, he blindly felt around in his closet, touching the soft fabric and pulling it off the rack and throwing it on. Merely draping the tie around his neck, he was never good with ties, he headed to the bathroom; running a brush through his hair and then tying it back with a dark bow.
“Francis!” He jumped as the voice rang through the house, “Hurry up!” Scowling at his reflection, Francis ran down the stairs, pausing when he saw Arthur standing at the bottom. His teeth were closed around a glove, pulling it onto his hand and Francis eyes roamed over the fitted jacket and tailored jeans ending in black Doc Martens. The only source of colour was the blue sweater vest and the dusty rose pinstriped shirt. It was an odd combination, but Francis found he couldn’t say anything as the gloves closed around the ends of the tie, beginning to do it up with well-practiced quickness.
Francis flushed slightly. “What are you doing?” He asked, touching Arthur’s hands, preventing him from making the knot too tight.
“Doing up your tie.” He said, tucking it into Francis jacket, smoothing it out - did Arthur leave his hands on Francis' chest for an extra moment or was that just the Frenchman's imagination? “I’m not going to be seen with you looking like so raggedy-assed.” Keys appeared in his hands and Arthur started to walk towards the door. The Frenchman followed after him, touching the tie. Clambering into the car, Arthur drove them downtown, finding that the streets were packed with people, a general flow towards the Rose Hall. Grumbling, Arthur parked a fair distance from the hall and climbed out of the car, muttering something about being granted ultimate powers except good parking spaces.
“Hope you’re up for a walk.” The Briton said, quirking an eyebrow at Francis.
“Always.” Francis responded just as coolly. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Arthur pushing by people and seemingly not even affecting them while Francis had a much harder time, offering apologetic smiles, “Ave Maria wasn’t even on the advertisements and now all of a sudden it’s here.”
Arthur shrugged, running a hand through hair. “I had to pull a few strings." He smirked, "Let's just say some people at the Disney Hall are going to be very disappointed.”
Before Francis could speak, someone did for him.
“Arthur?”
The angel froze, face visibly paling. Two young men were standing stock-still, both staring at Arthur. Francis looked between them, guessing they were brothers. The taller one had short, sunshine blond hair and there was an air of arrogance around him while the other had much longer and paler hair and seemed much more subdued than his sibling.
“Arthur?” The taller one asked again, exchanging a disbelieving look with his brother, “I-is… is that you?” his younger brother was clinging to the sleeve of his bomber jacket, trembling slightly.
A hand closed around Francis’ wrist and yanked him away from the two blonds. Arthur was running full-tilt, dragging a severely confused Frenchman with him. “Hey!” Francis yelled as they fought through the crowds of people, Arthur barely paying attention to where he was going, “Arthur! Who were they?”
The angel only stopped when they were at least three blocks away. Francis was panting for breath while Arthur seemed completely fine though he was shaking his head, pacing back and forth in the small alley. “No, no, no…” He growled, “Shit… this shouldn’t have happened! This is all wrong… Goddammit it…”
“Who were they?” Francis reiterated, leaning on his knees, trying to find his breath, “Arthur?”
Arthur punched a side of the building, swearing again. “No!” He shouted, making Francis jump horribly. “They weren’t supposed to see me! What…”
The Frenchman seized the angel’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Arthur!” He said, looking into the green eyes, “Please tell me.”
“Matthew and Alfred…” He said quietly, eyes wild and unfocused “M-my…”
“We’re his brothers.” Francis slowly turned. The two blonds were at the mouth of the alley, both panting for breath, paper bags gone, obviously forgotten in the chase, “Isn’t that right, Arthur?” The smaller one said, stalking towards Arthur, shoving the Frenchman aside.
Arthur held up his hands. “Matthew, wai-" the words were cut off as the young blond brought his hand across Arthur’s cheek, leaving a stinging blow. Automatically, the angel reached up, brushing the reddening skin, staring blankly. “I c-can explain.” he said weakly, half-heartedly.
Indigo eyes were brimming with tears and his fists were clenched at his sides as he shook. “We thought you were dead,” he said, bringing his sleeve up and wiping his face. “You lying bastard. A year. A year we spent mourning you, but here you are. We buried you Arthur. What the hell are you doing here?” Francis could only watch from the side in a stunned silence as the brother confronted the seraph.
Alfred stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother’s trembling shoulder. “Matt, this can’t be him,” he whispered, voice gentle, “I know it looks like him, but it can’t be.”
“Don’t be an idiot Al.” Matthew snapped, “You know as well as I do that Arthur is standing right there!”
“I’m sorry for any trouble we’ve caused,” Alfred said, beginning to push his brother away, “He’s just a little upset.” A plastic smile that made even Francis’ seem real.
Shoving his older brother away, Matthew cast a contemptuous glare at the angel. “I know it’s you Arthur,” he said, eyes still bright as he rounded on Alfred, “And I wouldn’t call me upset. I wasn’t the one who sat in his room for weeks after the funeral. Even now there are times where I don’t see you for days Al. You reappear thin, sick and barely alive. I’m upset? I’M UPSET!? You’re killing yourself over this sick bastard! Get over yourself Al and get a grip.”
Alfred’s carefully put together composure broke as Matthew stalked away. With one last look at Arthur, he shook his head, reaching up with a hand and rubbing his face. “Couldn’t be…” He muttered before chasing after Matthew.
As soon as they were out of sight, Arthur fell to his knees. Tears fell from his eyes, but he made no move to brush them away. Shuddering, he cradled his head in his hands, starting to sob, “I’m sorry,” he faltered, “s-so sorry.”
Francis finally moved from his position - pressed against the wall, trying to get as far from the clash as possible. His hands splayed across the shivering back and he crouched beside the sobbing Brit. “Oh Arthur…” He said quietly, unconsciously reminded of Gilbert’s bowed head. “I am sorry.”
Standing, Arthur shrugged Francis’ hand away. “Let’s just go.” He said, wiping his eyes on his gloves. Reaching out a hand, Francis let it hang in the air as Arthur walked away, only to have it form into a fist, clenched at his side as he followed the angel out of the alley.
It was almost impossible to enjoy the concert. Francis kept shooting looks at Arthur who spent the entire night with his head in his hands, staring at the ground as if no one else in the world existed. This side of the angel confused and frightened Francis slightly. He has only known him for three days - one shouldn’t even count as he thought he was a hallucination - but now there was another side revealed. A tender and lost side.
The lead violin was terrible which didn’t help with Francis want to watch the symphony. There was no life in the way he sang with the rest of the orchestra, no chemistry between himself and the notes issuing from the bows, nothing that was remarkable like the way Gilbert played and when he was finished, Francis quickly ushered Arthur out while the rest of the audience was giving a standing ovation.
They arrived back home and Francis immediately headed upstairs, pulling off his suit and pulling on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He sat down, the house eerily quiet and sniffed slightly, remembering how Gilbert would often play at these odd hours, waking the entire house. His room suddenly felt very cold and Francis went downstairs, intending to ask the Englishman if he wanted to sleep with him.
Arthur was sitting in the living room, his suit in pieces, cast about the assembled furniture. He was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the side, the other bent while his arm draped over his face, obscuring it. “What do you want?” Arthur asked, voice dry and raspy and it doesn’t take Francis much guesswork to figure out why it’s so broken.
“I was wondering if you wanted to sleep in a bed tonight.” Francis said, moving into the room and sitting down at the angel’s feet, watching him carefully. A green eye glared at him and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, surprised to still find it tied back. “It was just a suggestion.” He said, getting back to his feet, pulling the ribbon out, shaking his hair loose. “Bonne nuit Arthur.”
“Did you know that when they throw an angel out of heaven, they take our wings?” Francis paused, looking down at Arthur. The angel sat up, tugging off his shirt, reaching back and touching the top of his spine. “That’s… where my scars come from. That, and the crash destroyed my back.”
Francis wasn’t sure if Arthur was talking to him or the ground but sat back down anyway, figuring he could always offer an ear. The small fingers traced down the mismatched and ugly scars and Francis found himself intruding on the silence. “The crash? You were hit by a car?” He closed his eyes, forcing rancid memories away.
Arthur actually laughed, but it was a pitiful and humourless sound. “You think a car could’ve beaten me?” He glanced at Francis, trying to give him the comforting smirk but only managing to grimace. “Twenty Third squadron. Flew a Tornado… Beautiful plane, an old German soldier was my mechanic. Stoic and intimidating, but knew planes like he’d been studying them forever. Brilliant man.” Arthur hugged himself.
“I was out scouting enemy territory and… I was shot down. Freak accident, one-in-a-million kind of thing.” The statement hung in the air. Francis stared at the Englishman, blue eyes wide. The confession was surprising, even slightly alarming.
Francis shuffled closer to the angel, resting a hand on his back, feeling the scars but not daring to move his hand anymore for fear that he was going to scare the man away. “Oh Arthur…” He whispered when his voice decided to start working again.
“Have you ever flown Francis?” Arthur asked, quirking his head, looking at Francis with an curious expression and half a smile, “Not those passenger planes, but really flown.”
“Non, I can’t say I ‘ave.”
“It’s fucking brilliant. Just the horizon and one of the most powerful machines man has made under your control. There’s nothing else. You feel… not invincible, but alone. It’s exhilarating, absolute perfection.” The green eyes began to water, Francis moved closer, now wrapping an arm around the trembling shoulders.
“The wings they ripped from me were nothing compared to the ones I lost in the beginning.” Arthur covered his face with his hands, tears streaming down his face while the voice remained amazingly even, “I didn’t want to die Francis. I wanted to fly forever.”
A realization hit Francis, making him want to retch, cry and laugh all at once. He had been selfish. Selfish, cruel and and utterly insensitive. Here, in his arms, was someone who had fought for his life, had revelled in it, had lived it only to have it swiped from under him. Francis, on the other hand, was someone who had considered throwing away his life, had hated it, had ended it only to have the opportunity stopped. He swallowed, the feeling of guilt making his throat thick.
“Oh mon ange…” Francis muttered, hugging the angel close as Arthur dissolved into sobs.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 6>>
Author's Note
I have 77 Hetalia fanfictions in my writing folder… can everyone pick a number from 1-77 and so I start working through them… please?
Best morning ever.
Chapter 5
Francis awoke to the sound of a smash and loud curse. Pulling the sheets off himself, he wandered downstairs, pushing the blond strands away from his face. “Arthur? I really hope you aren’t-” He leaned his head in the doorway, treated to the leave-nothing-to-the-imagination sight of Arthur bent over, picking up shards of china “-What happened?”
“What does it look like?” Arthur snapped, loading the broken pieces onto the saucer, “I dropped a goddamn teacup and now I’m cleaning it up.” Straightening, he looked at Francis, his abnormally thick brows contracted, forming an angry and fuzzy ‘v.’ As he deposited them in the sink, Francis looked the odd clothes the Brit was wearing; a white dress shirt, suspenders drawn tight over his shoulders. At least he was still wearing skinny jeans, which meant some sense remained the world. As much sense as living with his own personal seraph could have.
“Just thought I’d ask.” Francis said, picking out his favourite mug and putting on the coffee, ignoring the sneer Arthur gave the bitter drink. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He said sweetly, pouring himself a cup and smiling.
He offered another mug to Arthur who turned it down, reaching into the sink, pulling out a fully repaired teacup filled to the brim with Earl Grey. “And I’m not a beggar.” The Brit took a long sip, smirking at the Frenchman the entire time.
Taking a small drink of his coffee, Francis leaned against the counter. “Why are you so dressed up?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“We’re going to the symphony tonight.” Arthur answered smoothly, finishing his tea and putting the cup into the sink, “Do you have a suit?”
Francis thinks to his closet. Of the tailored suit he wore to funeral and another, buried deep within his closet, only worn once, now covered in dust and bad memories.
-
“Francis!” Antonio whines, pulling at the collar of his white shirt while desperately tugging at the too-tight knot of his dark tie, “I don’t wanna wear this anymore!” His green eyes close and he fidgets restlessly in the front row seat.
Touching the Spaniard’s shoulder, Francis gives him a comforting smile. “You’ll be fine Tony.” He says quietly as the light dim and he takes his hand off the tailored shoulder to clap politely along with the rest of the crowd. He does not want to be here, neither does Antonio but when Gilbert asked them - blushing furiously - if they would come to his concert, they couldn't say no. However, when they arrived at the concert hall, they almost immediately regretted agreeing.
They are out-of-place here. No matter how fancy they dress, they stand out among the high society Gilbert has worked so hard to escape and break free from. Antonio and Francis do their best to blend in as the Prussian walks out on the stage, his white hair blazing in the spotlight. The crimson eyes gaze at the crowd, first catching sight of Francis and Antonio - his concentration breaks for only a moment with a flicker of his grin - and then to Ludwig, sitting prim and proper at Francis’ left, still clapping enthusiastically despite everyone else stopping - Francis quickly covers the small boy’s hands with his own, shushing him quietly - and then they find nothing else and Francis realizes with a start that the most important person is missing.
The small Prussian steps up to the microphone. “This is for my father.”
Francis does not even see the violin sit under his chin, or the small sigh that escapes Gilbert’s lips or the bow before it is already pulling across the strings. It all happens to fast and music is too sweet for him to try and even think. The melody does not hesitate or slow but jumps right in, powerful and sure of itself. Blue eyes can only watch, enraptured, as the fingers move across the strings in precise and delicate moves making the violin sing with pleasure. Even as it fades into a slower beat, Francis still watches, more on the violinist than the music.
Gilbert is focused, collected and utterly unlike his usual wild and boisterous nature but Francs can’t help but see the similarity between these two selves. Both are determined, and as Francis watched the song begin to fade away and sees the red open and focus on him, he can’t help but feel his stomach his a half-hearted lurch. He chalks it up to his mother’s horrendous cooking. For now at least.
All his attention is so fixed on Gilbert, that Francis almost forgets to clap until he notices Antonio standing beside him, whooping and cheering, getting offended looks from the surrounding upper class. Francis copies his friend, giving a standing ovation and, on stubbly little legs, Ludwig stands on his seat, clapping proudly. Francis catches him before he falls off his chair and sits down again. There are muttering in the crowd, but Gilbert doesn't care as he beams at his two friends.
As he bows and leave the stage and there is a moment wherein he passes Roderich and a silence stretches between them only Francis and Antonio can see. The brunette sniffs, moving past the Prussian and sits down at his piano and begins to play. Roderich is brilliant, flawless, a genius, a prodigy and a whole host of things Francis can’t even fathom and he is left in a stunned silence as the music fades. The crowd is silent and a single set of hands clapping rings out among the silent people.
Arnold’s long blond hair glints in the light as his large hands clap calmly and steadily. Everyone but Francis and Antonio stands and applauds, following the German’s lead. Roderich smirks and nods his head, glancing at Gilbert with a victorious sneer. After the show, Francis and Antonio spot Gilbert backstage and they hurry towards him, only to stop when they see that Arnold is standing above him, stern and foreboding as ever. Ludwig clings to his brother’s hand, keeping his eyes down while Gilbert looks at his father, a pleading expression on his face.
“Roderich played well, did he not?” Arnold says, not really looking at his sons.
Antonio gasps but Francis puts a hand around his mouth, quieting the noise. They watch as Gilbert’s fist clenches around his violin and his brother’s wrist as he bows his head. “Yes.” He says quietly. “He played very well.”
Francis never wears the suit again for fear of seeing the defeated look on Gilbert’s face.
-
“Of course I have a suit.” Francis answered, putting his coffee down and pushing by Arthur, heading up his stairs and sitting on his bed. A moment later, he looked up to see Arthur standing in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “What do you want?” He asked, avoiding meeting Arthur’s eye.
“Just be ready to leave at six.” He said. The angel hesitated, as if he had something else to say but Francis doesn’t care, closing his eyes and not paying attention, only opening his eyes when he heard the stairs creak and he was sure Arthur wasn’t standing in his doorway still. For the next few hours, the house was absolutely silent save for the odd sound from downstairs where Arthur was picking through Francis’ music and video collections, snorting at the poor taste. Francis just stared into his closet, not trusting himself to step inside without losing it completely.
Only at 5:55 did Francis decide he should probably get ready. Rather grab the suit than deal with an angry angel. Closing his eyes, he blindly felt around in his closet, touching the soft fabric and pulling it off the rack and throwing it on. Merely draping the tie around his neck, he was never good with ties, he headed to the bathroom; running a brush through his hair and then tying it back with a dark bow.
“Francis!” He jumped as the voice rang through the house, “Hurry up!” Scowling at his reflection, Francis ran down the stairs, pausing when he saw Arthur standing at the bottom. His teeth were closed around a glove, pulling it onto his hand and Francis eyes roamed over the fitted jacket and tailored jeans ending in black Doc Martens. The only source of colour was the blue sweater vest and the dusty rose pinstriped shirt. It was an odd combination, but Francis found he couldn’t say anything as the gloves closed around the ends of the tie, beginning to do it up with well-practiced quickness.
Francis flushed slightly. “What are you doing?” He asked, touching Arthur’s hands, preventing him from making the knot too tight.
“Doing up your tie.” He said, tucking it into Francis jacket, smoothing it out - did Arthur leave his hands on Francis' chest for an extra moment or was that just the Frenchman's imagination? “I’m not going to be seen with you looking like so raggedy-assed.” Keys appeared in his hands and Arthur started to walk towards the door. The Frenchman followed after him, touching the tie. Clambering into the car, Arthur drove them downtown, finding that the streets were packed with people, a general flow towards the Rose Hall. Grumbling, Arthur parked a fair distance from the hall and climbed out of the car, muttering something about being granted ultimate powers except good parking spaces.
“Hope you’re up for a walk.” The Briton said, quirking an eyebrow at Francis.
“Always.” Francis responded just as coolly. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Arthur pushing by people and seemingly not even affecting them while Francis had a much harder time, offering apologetic smiles, “Ave Maria wasn’t even on the advertisements and now all of a sudden it’s here.”
Arthur shrugged, running a hand through hair. “I had to pull a few strings." He smirked, "Let's just say some people at the Disney Hall are going to be very disappointed.”
Before Francis could speak, someone did for him.
“Arthur?”
The angel froze, face visibly paling. Two young men were standing stock-still, both staring at Arthur. Francis looked between them, guessing they were brothers. The taller one had short, sunshine blond hair and there was an air of arrogance around him while the other had much longer and paler hair and seemed much more subdued than his sibling.
“Arthur?” The taller one asked again, exchanging a disbelieving look with his brother, “I-is… is that you?” his younger brother was clinging to the sleeve of his bomber jacket, trembling slightly.
A hand closed around Francis’ wrist and yanked him away from the two blonds. Arthur was running full-tilt, dragging a severely confused Frenchman with him. “Hey!” Francis yelled as they fought through the crowds of people, Arthur barely paying attention to where he was going, “Arthur! Who were they?”
The angel only stopped when they were at least three blocks away. Francis was panting for breath while Arthur seemed completely fine though he was shaking his head, pacing back and forth in the small alley. “No, no, no…” He growled, “Shit… this shouldn’t have happened! This is all wrong… Goddammit it…”
“Who were they?” Francis reiterated, leaning on his knees, trying to find his breath, “Arthur?”
Arthur punched a side of the building, swearing again. “No!” He shouted, making Francis jump horribly. “They weren’t supposed to see me! What…”
The Frenchman seized the angel’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Arthur!” He said, looking into the green eyes, “Please tell me.”
“Matthew and Alfred…” He said quietly, eyes wild and unfocused “M-my…”
“We’re his brothers.” Francis slowly turned. The two blonds were at the mouth of the alley, both panting for breath, paper bags gone, obviously forgotten in the chase, “Isn’t that right, Arthur?” The smaller one said, stalking towards Arthur, shoving the Frenchman aside.
Arthur held up his hands. “Matthew, wai-" the words were cut off as the young blond brought his hand across Arthur’s cheek, leaving a stinging blow. Automatically, the angel reached up, brushing the reddening skin, staring blankly. “I c-can explain.” he said weakly, half-heartedly.
Indigo eyes were brimming with tears and his fists were clenched at his sides as he shook. “We thought you were dead,” he said, bringing his sleeve up and wiping his face. “You lying bastard. A year. A year we spent mourning you, but here you are. We buried you Arthur. What the hell are you doing here?” Francis could only watch from the side in a stunned silence as the brother confronted the seraph.
Alfred stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother’s trembling shoulder. “Matt, this can’t be him,” he whispered, voice gentle, “I know it looks like him, but it can’t be.”
“Don’t be an idiot Al.” Matthew snapped, “You know as well as I do that Arthur is standing right there!”
“I’m sorry for any trouble we’ve caused,” Alfred said, beginning to push his brother away, “He’s just a little upset.” A plastic smile that made even Francis’ seem real.
Shoving his older brother away, Matthew cast a contemptuous glare at the angel. “I know it’s you Arthur,” he said, eyes still bright as he rounded on Alfred, “And I wouldn’t call me upset. I wasn’t the one who sat in his room for weeks after the funeral. Even now there are times where I don’t see you for days Al. You reappear thin, sick and barely alive. I’m upset? I’M UPSET!? You’re killing yourself over this sick bastard! Get over yourself Al and get a grip.”
Alfred’s carefully put together composure broke as Matthew stalked away. With one last look at Arthur, he shook his head, reaching up with a hand and rubbing his face. “Couldn’t be…” He muttered before chasing after Matthew.
As soon as they were out of sight, Arthur fell to his knees. Tears fell from his eyes, but he made no move to brush them away. Shuddering, he cradled his head in his hands, starting to sob, “I’m sorry,” he faltered, “s-so sorry.”
Francis finally moved from his position - pressed against the wall, trying to get as far from the clash as possible. His hands splayed across the shivering back and he crouched beside the sobbing Brit. “Oh Arthur…” He said quietly, unconsciously reminded of Gilbert’s bowed head. “I am sorry.”
Standing, Arthur shrugged Francis’ hand away. “Let’s just go.” He said, wiping his eyes on his gloves. Reaching out a hand, Francis let it hang in the air as Arthur walked away, only to have it form into a fist, clenched at his side as he followed the angel out of the alley.
It was almost impossible to enjoy the concert. Francis kept shooting looks at Arthur who spent the entire night with his head in his hands, staring at the ground as if no one else in the world existed. This side of the angel confused and frightened Francis slightly. He has only known him for three days - one shouldn’t even count as he thought he was a hallucination - but now there was another side revealed. A tender and lost side.
The lead violin was terrible which didn’t help with Francis want to watch the symphony. There was no life in the way he sang with the rest of the orchestra, no chemistry between himself and the notes issuing from the bows, nothing that was remarkable like the way Gilbert played and when he was finished, Francis quickly ushered Arthur out while the rest of the audience was giving a standing ovation.
They arrived back home and Francis immediately headed upstairs, pulling off his suit and pulling on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He sat down, the house eerily quiet and sniffed slightly, remembering how Gilbert would often play at these odd hours, waking the entire house. His room suddenly felt very cold and Francis went downstairs, intending to ask the Englishman if he wanted to sleep with him.
Arthur was sitting in the living room, his suit in pieces, cast about the assembled furniture. He was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the side, the other bent while his arm draped over his face, obscuring it. “What do you want?” Arthur asked, voice dry and raspy and it doesn’t take Francis much guesswork to figure out why it’s so broken.
“I was wondering if you wanted to sleep in a bed tonight.” Francis said, moving into the room and sitting down at the angel’s feet, watching him carefully. A green eye glared at him and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, surprised to still find it tied back. “It was just a suggestion.” He said, getting back to his feet, pulling the ribbon out, shaking his hair loose. “Bonne nuit Arthur.”
“Did you know that when they throw an angel out of heaven, they take our wings?” Francis paused, looking down at Arthur. The angel sat up, tugging off his shirt, reaching back and touching the top of his spine. “That’s… where my scars come from. That, and the crash destroyed my back.”
Francis wasn’t sure if Arthur was talking to him or the ground but sat back down anyway, figuring he could always offer an ear. The small fingers traced down the mismatched and ugly scars and Francis found himself intruding on the silence. “The crash? You were hit by a car?” He closed his eyes, forcing rancid memories away.
Arthur actually laughed, but it was a pitiful and humourless sound. “You think a car could’ve beaten me?” He glanced at Francis, trying to give him the comforting smirk but only managing to grimace. “Twenty Third squadron. Flew a Tornado… Beautiful plane, an old German soldier was my mechanic. Stoic and intimidating, but knew planes like he’d been studying them forever. Brilliant man.” Arthur hugged himself.
“I was out scouting enemy territory and… I was shot down. Freak accident, one-in-a-million kind of thing.” The statement hung in the air. Francis stared at the Englishman, blue eyes wide. The confession was surprising, even slightly alarming.
Francis shuffled closer to the angel, resting a hand on his back, feeling the scars but not daring to move his hand anymore for fear that he was going to scare the man away. “Oh Arthur…” He whispered when his voice decided to start working again.
“Have you ever flown Francis?” Arthur asked, quirking his head, looking at Francis with an curious expression and half a smile, “Not those passenger planes, but really flown.”
“Non, I can’t say I ‘ave.”
“It’s fucking brilliant. Just the horizon and one of the most powerful machines man has made under your control. There’s nothing else. You feel… not invincible, but alone. It’s exhilarating, absolute perfection.” The green eyes began to water, Francis moved closer, now wrapping an arm around the trembling shoulders.
“The wings they ripped from me were nothing compared to the ones I lost in the beginning.” Arthur covered his face with his hands, tears streaming down his face while the voice remained amazingly even, “I didn’t want to die Francis. I wanted to fly forever.”
A realization hit Francis, making him want to retch, cry and laugh all at once. He had been selfish. Selfish, cruel and and utterly insensitive. Here, in his arms, was someone who had fought for his life, had revelled in it, had lived it only to have it swiped from under him. Francis, on the other hand, was someone who had considered throwing away his life, had hated it, had ended it only to have the opportunity stopped. He swallowed, the feeling of guilt making his throat thick.
“Oh mon ange…” Francis muttered, hugging the angel close as Arthur dissolved into sobs.
1. Paint picture of countryside.
2. Ave Maria live.
3. Horseback riding.
4. Ask waitress out.
5. Love.
Chapter 6>>
Author's Note
I have 77 Hetalia fanfictions in my writing folder… can everyone pick a number from 1-77 and so I start working through them… please?