[fanfiction] Stormy Weather
Title: Stormy Weather
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/UK
Rating: T
Genre: Humour/Romance
Warnings: the weather not working in-tune with Arthur's pants
Summary: Arthur loved storms. He loved them because a certain Frenchman hated them.
Author’s Notes: ff.net reupload
Stormy Weather
Arthur loved storms.
He loved the way the thunder would tear across the sky, echoing for miles and miles, never demure or soft, only as loud and reckless as it desired. He loved the way lightning sang among the clouds and crash of thunder, illuminating the dark clouds in a brilliant burst of pure energy before bolting to the ground and disappearing into the earth. He loved the way the rain would batter the world, relentless and nurturing all at once.
But he especially loved the fact that Francis hated storms.
The nation was currently curled up on his living room couch, surrounded by pillows and blankets as a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. A particularly powerful strike had shot the power so he sat in semi-darkness as Arthur moved around the room, lighting candles and humming to himself.
“Can you stop that incessant singing!?” Francis moaned, pulling a blanket over his head and shivering as a loud peal of thunder echoed through the sky. It was rare to see him so agitated and only made England even more content. Serves the bastard right for showing up at his house unannounced.
Waving out a match, he strode over to the couch, plopping down and poured himself a drink. After a sip of scotch, he leaned forward and poked the fire, enjoying the way that Francis jumped as lightning flashed in the room. “I’ve seen you scared you frog, but nothing ever like this.” He commented happily, swirling his drink around his glass.
“I do not like storms.” He ground out, “Usually I 'ave something to distract me. La musique, une femme… un homme,” at this, he wiggled his eyebrows, a tiny bit of his old self showing, “But instead I am stuck with you, Angleterre. You and your ungodly love of these storms.” He carefully reached back and pulled his hair into a loose ponytail.
“It’s your own bloody fault,” England countered, setting his glass down and pouring himself another. He paused, and then poured one for the other nation, “You didn’t have to come here today. So there.” He shoved the glass into Francis’ hand, “Drink and shut up. I can barely hear the thunder over your incessant whining.”
France sipped the drink and pulled a face. “Mon Dieu… 'ow do you drink this?” Arthur downed his second glass, smacking his lips and grinning, “I see…” He took note of the blush that was growing on the Englishman’s cheeks.
Arthur was halfway through his fourth drink before Francis spoke again. Lightning had slashed across the sky, making France jump and England laugh heartily. Setting his drink down on the table -having already spilt it over his shirt- Francis shuffled closer to his companion. “Arthur, I do not suppose I could go to bed… could I?”
“I’m not letting you sleep in one of my beds you French bastard.” Arthur said moodily, giving Francis the evil eye over the rim of his drink, “If you’re going to sleep anywhere, it’s going to be right on this couch.”
Francis looked down at the decrepit sofa. Then he thought of his soft, big four-poster bed back at his house. How nice it would to just run a bubblebath and then curl up in silk pyjamas and hide from the storm. He looked outside to see if the rain had lessened at all. Thunder rumbled low in the sky, taunting him.
Well, if he was going to sleep on this old, falling-apart, smelly couch…
He reached out with long fingers and grabbed Arthur’s shoulders. Thick eyebrows contracted and green eyes searched the blue ones. “What are you-” His glass of scotch dropped to the ground and rolled away. Francis hovered over him, pinning him to the couch. “Francis! What the hell! You made me drop my drink!”
Long hair flopped over Francis’ shoulder, tickling Arthur's nose and making his face cringe. “You said I could sleep on the couch…” He breathed, smiling softly. “That is exactly what I am doing Angleterre.”
He let their hips touch, leaning closer to the smaller nation. England gasped quietly, trying to squirm away from France. “I didn’t mean right now you bloody git!” He seized Francis’ shirt, trying to shove him away, “Get the hell off me!” But France didn’t move, rather letting even more of their bodies touch.
“But I am le tired…” He sighed, taking one hand and gently tugging at Arthur’s tie. England’s arms fell from his shirt as the cool fingers brushed the crook of his neck, “But you know, you could keep me...occupied.”
Arthur’s breath was tinted with the smoky stench of drink. “O-occupied?” He stammered, “I’m not your plaything Francis.”
Francis chuckled, letting his hand play with a strand of short blond hair. “You are not?” He moved even closer, their noses almost touching. His hands started to work at the buttons on Arthur’s shirt. The fire flickered over the trembling body but Arthur was either too drunk or thunderstruck to do anything. England closed his eyes as Francis placed light kisses along his collarbone. He hummed quietly, fingers tracing Arthur’s chest.
A loud roll of thunder suddenly tore through the sky. Francis squeaked, smacking his forehead with England’s. He retreated back under his pile of blankets and pillows, closing his eyes and moaning.
As he attempted to regain some composure, Arthur realized something.
He hated storms.