What's In a Name [4a/?]
anonymous
June 2 2009, 17:38:26 UTC
Alfred was running spectacularly, Arthur had to admit. But he wasn’t fast enough to escape that easily him just yet. He may be a lot older than Alfred, but that didn’t mean was any slower. (Arthur was quite a runner, if he may say so himself. Years of football and various sports ensured that.)
Then America conveniently came crashing into France.
“Fuck!”
The two blondes were groaning on the floor when England finally caught up. Normally, he would’ve been looking at them smugly at the first sign of pain, but…
Green eyes stared at Francis, and Arthur’s lips formed a firm, thin line. His body was tense, fists alternately clenching and unclenching every few seconds. A heavy flush was visible on his cheeks.
“Fr-Francis.”
The said nation looked up from his position on the floor. Seeing a flustered England, a smirk carefully formed into his lips disguised as a pleasant smile. “Arthur.”
Alfred looked back and forth at the two. Slowly, he started to crawl away while Arthur was distracted. This, at least, would give him a head start. And if Francis manages to totally divert Arthur’s attention, then more power to France.
England was doing his best to look at anywhere else besides France. That made him happen to see America getting to dash for it.
“Alfred, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” His voice was cold and stern, eyes piercing Alfred’s very soul (or something similar).
“Err…”
Without further ado, Alfred sprinted away from his former guardian.
“Alfred!” Arthur practically growled and was about to break into a run himself, with all intention to maim the other blonde as soon as he got his hands on him. However, he was halted by a hand firmly gripping his arm. “What - ? Francis, you wine-bastard, let me go!”
He really did not want to be alone with Francis right now. Really.
But the older nation kept his hold on Arthur’s bicep, a teasing smile on his face. “Are you sure, mon cher? I thought you like me.”
Later, Arthur will deny that he squeaked pathetically. “I-I, what?!” Despite being of equal height, England was definitely feeling small right now. And wanting to crawl up and die somewhere. The flush on his cheeks can probably put Romano’s tomatoes to shame, too.
Francis stepped forward, and Arthur reacted by stepping back. The French paused for a moment, then that lecherous grin of his went even wider.
“So, Arthur.” He said calmly, still not letting go of the Brit and still stepping forward, one foot at a time. “Alfred Francis Jones? Been naming colonies after me, Angleterre?”
Then America conveniently came crashing into France.
“Fuck!”
The two blondes were groaning on the floor when England finally caught up. Normally, he would’ve been looking at them smugly at the first sign of pain, but…
Green eyes stared at Francis, and Arthur’s lips formed a firm, thin line. His body was tense, fists alternately clenching and unclenching every few seconds. A heavy flush was visible on his cheeks.
“Fr-Francis.”
The said nation looked up from his position on the floor. Seeing a flustered England, a smirk carefully formed into his lips disguised as a pleasant smile. “Arthur.”
Alfred looked back and forth at the two. Slowly, he started to crawl away while Arthur was distracted. This, at least, would give him a head start. And if Francis manages to totally divert Arthur’s attention, then more power to France.
England was doing his best to look at anywhere else besides France. That made him happen to see America getting to dash for it.
“Alfred, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” His voice was cold and stern, eyes piercing Alfred’s very soul (or something similar).
“Err…”
Without further ado, Alfred sprinted away from his former guardian.
“Alfred!” Arthur practically growled and was about to break into a run himself, with all intention to maim the other blonde as soon as he got his hands on him. However, he was halted by a hand firmly gripping his arm. “What - ? Francis, you wine-bastard, let me go!”
He really did not want to be alone with Francis right now. Really.
But the older nation kept his hold on Arthur’s bicep, a teasing smile on his face. “Are you sure, mon cher? I thought you like me.”
Later, Arthur will deny that he squeaked pathetically. “I-I, what?!” Despite being of equal height, England was definitely feeling small right now. And wanting to crawl up and die somewhere. The flush on his cheeks can probably put Romano’s tomatoes to shame, too.
Francis stepped forward, and Arthur reacted by stepping back. The French paused for a moment, then that lecherous grin of his went even wider.
“So, Arthur.” He said calmly, still not letting go of the Brit and still stepping forward, one foot at a time. “Alfred Francis Jones? Been naming colonies after me, Angleterre?”
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