Mes beaux cheveux sont ruinés
Title: Mes beaux cheveux sont ruinés
Author/Artist: hihippy
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France, England, mention of America
Rating: T. Swearing, in both languages
Warnings: A distressed France and tsundere England? And America being like a kicked puppy. Sweaing
Summary: Deanoning a fill. Prompt: So, somehow, our poor Francis-nii-chan has gotten his hair caught somewhere- a door hinge, a bush, Kumajiro's mouth, who knows.
Anyway, France starts freaking out and panicking to the point where he's crying so much that he can't see/free himself/breathe, and Nation B (or multiple nations, if that floats your boat) has to free him by cutting his hair.
Then proceeds to try and fix the unevenness and f***s it up completely.
But France, in a burst of affection at the attempt, says that it's fine and a very cute fluffy moment ensues. (Does smexing ensue? Your call...)
Original: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=48279389#t48279389
Today was not going well for France.
Now New York was a busy city. When World Conferences were held they were usually held in such busy cities which was completely understandable by all means, but there was something about New York that constantly irritated Francis. Maybe it was the busy streets, the way that people liked to rush. Cars clogged the streets, and comparing that streets were very much larger over in America than they were in the rest of Europe, it wasn’t the most cleansing thing for one’s soul. And skin and hair and anything else, for that matter.
Francis sighed to himself as he pulled his way through the revolving doors of the extravagant hotel the rest of the nations would be residing in while all the meetings would be held - luckily, the hotel tended to be reserved solely for them at this time with the biggest ones or people would become indubitably suspicious. This usually gave way to antics being pulled on everyone else. There was admittedly something light and amusing about that, as much as things like these could go terribly wrong what with international tensions not known to be the lightest of things to handle.
The lights caused him to blink as he led himself through into the reception area. It was pretty late into the evening and even for New York, it was calm in the area.
Spending a few moments collecting the room for his keys, Francis proceeded to head up towards his hotel room. The meeting wasn’t until tomorrow, so maybe he’d just pop his things down, freshen up, and head out to the nearest bar and see where he’d get lucky. It wasn’t a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’, to him, of course.
He passed through some lone doors along the corridor and came to a painful halt. His eyes widened, and he tried to move again, but his suitcase being dragged behind him didn’t even budge with the motion.
There was a horrible yanking coming from his head.
This wasn’t plausible. Why was he stuck, how was he stuck and what was holding him place?
Francis tried shifting his head to see what was accusable, to find that his head for the majority was being held in his place.
In a horrifying stutter of his heart, his eyes widened in mild panic.
His hair. His hair.
Grunting a little with the effort, his eyes shifted over and he tried to peer around back at the doors. The doors themselves were quite extravagant - big heavy swing doors, made as fire doors ultimately to break up the corridors into smaller sections. They were quite heavily decorated, with big heavy carvings and swirls of gold paint on the glass panes.
As he’d passed through it, he’d initially pushed his suitcase through first after throwing open the door, and followed through as the door would shut behind him. A couple had passed him at the exact same time on the other side, so he’d been pushed further to the side than he should have.
Oh, did he mention he’d kept his hair down since he’d gotten out of the airport?
His eyes peered over to look behind him, to find that a small hunk of his hair had been trapped in the side of the door as it had closed again.
France swallowed uneasily.
Merde.
Dropping his suitcase onto the floor, Francis turned around and grasped delicately at the hair that was caught up, and presumed to give it a light tug.
It didn’t move.
Well oh no, he thought. Maybe if I just tugged a little…
He twisted it in his attempt, to no avail. If anything, the knot that wasn’t actually there before he’d turned around tightened up.
Yes, this was definitely not France’s day.
Finding his breathing becoming slightly less uneven than it was previously, his eyes widened a little and he tried to twist his body in a different manner to get easily at his hair. Remain calm Francis; it was just a piece of hair. A little force will pull it up, you are probably just doing it from a bad position.
He tried twisting the opposite side, but gave out as he released an undignified hiss as his roots were wrenched at brashly. The male turned back to facing forward, his teeth nibbling at the bottom of his lip in contemplation. If he couldn’t free himself, would he be stuck here till someone came along and spotted him? He supposed that was all well if it was a staff member (he could put up with a little humiliation in front of someone who he’ll more than likely never see again) but what if….
Francis twisted in his position, his cursing growing louder and louder under his breath with each unsuccessful tug.
“...Merde…Zut…Zut…Merde…”
The hair wasn’t moving. By now, it had become a tangled mess against the side of the door, crawling out and gripping around the edges of the hinge and refusing to move or budge anymore from the position he was stood in. He frantically twisted about again, which he didn’t even manage by this point. He was rebounded back, a yelp pointing out the fact he was undoubtedly stuck.
“…S-Salaud!”
His eyes shook, his fingers trembled. He started tugging uselessly, frantically. He had to get himself free or he’d get himself caught by more likely one of the other nations and no. This was not a situation he would like to be found in.
His fingers grasped weakly and gave a furious tug again, Francis finding himself keeling over on his waist. He shook.
“…F-Fuck..” He spat, with as much distaste he could muster in his frustration. His expression creased up.
Francis Bonnefoy was a calm man, and not much threw him over the edge concerning his own emotions. But when it involved his hair, the opportunity for open humiliation in front of a whole world, and dreadful jetlag creeping up on him by the minute…
Francis Bonnefoy was in tears.
His breathing tightened up on itself, of which his hand desperately clamped on over his mouth. He knew it was useless to cry; immature, even. But he was frustrated and he was stuck and he’d have to wait till someone came along to help him out of this absolute désordre.
His sobs were muffled as quickly as they erupted out of his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to repress his outburst of bitter, childish mortification. This would pass. This would pass quickly enough for no one to see him in such a sorry state. He would receive help soon.
Then again, this was one of the more remote areas of the whole vast hotel…
His fresh outbursts of cries were quickly stifled as he heard voices. His eyes were too unfocused by his tears to be able to see anything, but it didn’t really matter.
You could hear them a mile off.
“No, why the ruddy hell would I let you stay in my hotel room?! Even if I did, which I won’t, you’d end up insisting you sleep on the bed with me and either I’d end up waking to you smothering me and no air to breath with you having clung to me overnight or I’d be frozen in the morning from you having stole the duvet… O-Or both!”
America’s pout could be felt through the door.
“Hey, no I wouldn’t! Geez, what is your problem Artie? All I’m asking is to provide you with a little company is all-“
The Frenchman realised that as the doors opened (one of them slamming and rebounding against him) that if he hadn’t been frantically trying to free himself the movement of the doors could have well as freed him and he could have pranced away fine and dandy.
The cry of frustration was only just muted into a choked whimper.
Arthur stopped in his tracks.
He stared up at Alfred as he stopped alongside him, before he just shoved him.
“Just get to your bloody hotel room. I’ll meet you downstairs or something later, okay?” He muttered. America seemed taken aback.
“Hey, but Art-“
“Go. Idiot.” He spat. Alfred spent a moment looking at him a bit hurt, before he looked down and scuffed his shoe. He had soon disappeared off down the hallway, his suitcase trundling behind him.
As he disappeared, Arthur sighed, and he turned around in the direction of the doorway.
They both stared.
Both their expressions seemed to dance around each other, neither really showing how to respond to each other. Arthur looked as though he was about to laugh, but the shock of seeing his rival-friend-person in such a shaken state seemed to take him aback a little. Francis was trying his thorough hardest not to show he was crying, but the way his shoulders were trembling seemed to give it away to the Englishman.
England put down his suitcase, and approached tenderly.
“..Bloody hell Francis, what are you doing there-“
He stopped in his tracks, and saw the messed bulk of hair trapped in the side of the door and hinge. England’s expression twisted.
“What the…”
The more bemused look, for some reason, seemed to make France burst into tears again, his head hooking down painfully as he hid his sobs into his hand. Mon dieu, he knew he should have just tied up his hair for practicality’s sake, but he just had to have a very attractive female having sat opposite him on the flight here and-
A hand suddenly touched at France’s shoulders. He tensed up.
“..O-Oi, frog, stop crying.. it’s not going to help anything, is it?”
The Frenchman paused, before he forced his gaze slip up and peek through his fingers. Arthur was knelt in front of him, his thick eyebrows twisted in a little of what was shock and... was that even concern for a flicker of a brief moment?
It slid away as soon as Arthur figured that Francis could see him. He looked away embarrassingly after a moment and shuffled his feet.
“..H-Hey, stop crying. I’ll…” He looked around. “.. I’ll get you out.”
There was a pause of somewhat apprehension, before the Briton turned away and stated rifling in his suitcase for something.
Francis could’ve reacted by now, have shook his head and refused such help from rosbif but he was indeed getting help and France was not about to deny a little bit of courtesy from the Englishman.
Not to mention, the look that those emerald orbs held in concern at him was a look that the blonde man had not seen directed towards him for a very long time. Maybe not even since the days where they weren’t even called France and England - or the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, whatever ridiculous name it was that Arthur liked to call himself nowadays.
Arthur turned back around and held up a pair of small scissors - embroidery scissors. There was colour on the man’s cheeks as Francis managed to click exactly where he’d got it from. If he wasn’t in such a state, he’d have rolled his eyes. Typical man.
As he approached, England’s lips frowned. France’s eyes widened, and he suddenly turned around and yanked on his hair.
“..N-Non, Angleterre, Je suis bien. Je peux fais ça ne avec vous aider--” He insisted, tugging desperately again at his hair. He winced and his eyes watered all the more, but the sudden concept of his hair being cut off to free him was terrifying him silly. His hair. His poor beaux cheveux…
Before he could actually rip his scalp off, fingers twisted against their own and wrenched the grasp out, a figure looming over him. Arthur glared.
“Fuck’s sake Francis, you’re not stupid. Even I can see you’re not going to get yourself out of that one without cutting it. Now stop whining and let me do it.” He grumbled, holding at France’s shoulder so he could align the scissors in place. He glanced down at France, and seemed to pull a bit of a reluctant look.
“.. I-I’m only doing this because you’re clearly stuck and it’d be quite good for blackmail later.” He remarked.
France tried to nod, but he was held in position.
“.. Je sais.”
He winced, closed his eyes and prayed for his beautiful hair to not be ruined too much as he felt the metal slice it’s way along the side of his hair.
A moment later, and Arthur was stood there with a fist of Francis’s hair in his hand. He seemed to look at it as though it was the equivalent of a serpent about to stick it’s fangs in his hands. He slowly looked back over to the Frenchman.
France slowly stood up, finally free. For a brief moment, he seemed intent on not looking at the result sitting there amongst the Briton’s palm.
Blue eyes peeked over, and a large gasp was made.
“…M-Mon D-Dieu---“His voice cracked, fingers desperately reaching up to feel against the side of his head. There was a noticeable draft against that part of his head.
He gazed at England with wide eyes, of which Arthur found himself staring down at the lock of the Frenchman’s hair. Well, what was he going to do? He couldn’t exactly just hand the hair back to him and be on his way - that’d seem quite stupid and a bit unprofessional. And he knew Francis.
By the look of his lips thinning, he looked like he was about to burst into tears all over again. England wasn’t adjusted to seeing people he was supposed to hate cry.
“… U-Uh I’ll fix it-j-just so you won’t bloody cry at me.” He blurted, grabbing his shoulder and his suitcase and steering him over to his hotel room. The other was left to gawp a little in his stuttered state - he would’ve been happy just going to his own room and crumpling in his lack of dignity and much worse, his looks - but no, Arthur always seemed intent on being his confusing self and actually helping him.
Without really realising, Francis had soon been pushed through into a relatively well sized room, put onto a chair that had been dragged out into the middle of the room and now had an Englishman staring at him as he kneeled and analysed his hair.
He half wondered if they were getting the same urges of nostalgia creeping and licking up on them. He had to admit, the scenario was amusing to look at from this point of view…
He sniffed, and a hand reached out to touch at Arthur’s cheek.
“Ah, rosbif, I did not realise perception mattered so much when it came to moi.”
It was slapped away.
“It’s not. If I’m going to get a job done I’ll bloody well do it properly. Just as well, I could slice your hair off completely.” He smirked, the first smirk that he had seen all day, but as he finally reached in to start snipping the care he held while he scythed France’s locks off seemed to betray all maleficent impressions he had given off.
“Then why do you not?”
There was a pause. England shifted uncomfortably.
“You managed to get that yank off my case. I might as well repay you.”
“I was led to believe that you were on good terms with the americaine.”
“I am.”
There was another uncomfortable pause.
Francis sighed, and just let the snipping resume, Arthur’s adverse expression not doing a lot to help calm him with the snipping he could hear. Surely he was cutting off too much…
Another few moments and the seated male couldn’t take much more silence. He shook his head and sighed, which caused Arthur to gasp under his breath as he avoided a disaster concerning the scissors and a Frenchman’s ear. His eyes flared;
“Oi, you bloody---“
“Angleterre, does this not feel familiar to you?”
He blinked.
“U-Uhm, I suppose. When you used to bully me with about my hair, if you mean.”
“I would not have called it ‘bullying’, mon ami. More… criticising.”
“My humiliation as a child would like to say different.”
“What humiliation. You were nothing but a rowdy child.”
Arthur snipped some more, huffing. France could congratulate him on his talent to be clearly annoyed and yet stay calm with whatever he was doing at the same time.
“I wonder whose fault that was.”
Snip. Snip. Snip.
“Are you insisting on blaming moi? Why, I was simply a visitor, non?”
Snip.
“Yeah, a bloody unwelcome one.”
Snip snip.
“.. Nonsense, Angleterre, you adored it really.”
Snip.
“Oh yes, and 900 years of intense war-making, rivalry, and hatred says that all, does it?”
Snip snip.
“Oui, and those 900 hundred years of ‘hatred', 'war making' and 'rivalry' are in play right now, are they?”
Snip.
“Shut up.”
He did.
In the silence that was now warranting, Francis presumed to gently reach up and brush away the dried tears that had gathered under his eyes, sniffling indignantly. He could feel himself becoming a little uncomfortable at how long this was taking.
“.. Have you nearly done--“
“Yes shut up if it wasn’t for your stupid long hair I would’ve done already!....Uh.”
He backed away, and took a moment to look at his final work.
By the expression on the stupid Englishman’s face, it didn’t look promising.
The impending man raised an eyebrow.
“What is it? I hope my hair is not an abomination like yours is.”
Coming to no conclusion from the Brit, Francis rolled his eyes and stood up, striding his way through into the small en-suite bathroom in the apartment.
He froze.
Francis Bonnefoy was not staring back at him.
Rather, some emulsified, hair-hacked-into-scarecrow Frenchman was staring back at him. His hair, long and shoulder length as it used to be, was rather cut an awful amount shorter. Where his hair had gotten caught eventually there was just… no hair.
France’s eyes were wide and glazened as his fingertips gently brushed over this.. this…
Disaster.
Francis knew he should never have let his hair down. Heck, he knew he should have never turned up.
England shyly turned his head around into the room, staring down at the floor. He was sort of waiting for an outburst, half expecting the other blonde to just turn around, grab the scissors and scalp him or something to that extent.
“… I-I bloody tried, alright?..”
He looked up, to see Francis with his head hung over. His shoulders were trembling.
“…F-France…?”
He was suddenly caught in a lavish hug, and kissed extravagantly on both cheeks. He was held to the Frenchman’s chest, Arthur catching the distinct sense of.. well… France.
“Merci. Merci beacoup.”
The taller man parted from the shorter male just as suddenly, and returned to looking at himself in the mirror with the grace of a man who hadn’t just have one of his fondest aspects of himself completely destroyed. He even reached up and tucked one of the spikier strands behind his ear, as though in a makeshift fringe. He soon turned back around to the Briton, who almost half held up the scissors in defence as he was suddenly hugged again. He spluttered.
“France w-what the---“
“Silence, mon petit pays. Thank you for trying.”
Leaving him utterly bamboozled, Arthur could only really respond with his cheeks blaring red and an uneasy pat of the elder male’s back.
“..I-It’s.. It’s alright?”
Heck, even Arthur thought he had crapped it up beyond belief. He dared not question his channel-neighbouring nation on this outburst.
France finally did part, and even managed a smile. His arm hooked around the Briton’s, and suddenly started to lead him away.
Being angry was not one of France’s things, and anyway. He knew the Englishman to know that he had indeed tried, as bad as he was. He was not about to condemn the man for being kind hearted compared to the usual isolated shell he usually retreated into, anyway.
As Arthur stumbled along aside him, France looked down at him.
“Maintenant, you shall find and buy me a hat.”
And through all the mess he’d been put through, he thought he might as well get some fun out of seeing the blessed man so confused at his reaction.
Francis Bonnefoy was a kind man.
With splendid hair or without.
Author/Artist: hihippy
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France, England, mention of America
Rating: T. Swearing, in both languages
Warnings: A distressed France and tsundere England? And America being like a kicked puppy. Sweaing
Summary: Deanoning a fill. Prompt: So, somehow, our poor Francis-nii-chan has gotten his hair caught somewhere- a door hinge, a bush, Kumajiro's mouth, who knows.
Anyway, France starts freaking out and panicking to the point where he's crying so much that he can't see/free himself/breathe, and Nation B (or multiple nations, if that floats your boat) has to free him by cutting his hair.
Then proceeds to try and fix the unevenness and f***s it up completely.
But France, in a burst of affection at the attempt, says that it's fine and a very cute fluffy moment ensues. (Does smexing ensue? Your call...)
Original: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=48279389#t48279389
Today was not going well for France.
Now New York was a busy city. When World Conferences were held they were usually held in such busy cities which was completely understandable by all means, but there was something about New York that constantly irritated Francis. Maybe it was the busy streets, the way that people liked to rush. Cars clogged the streets, and comparing that streets were very much larger over in America than they were in the rest of Europe, it wasn’t the most cleansing thing for one’s soul. And skin and hair and anything else, for that matter.
Francis sighed to himself as he pulled his way through the revolving doors of the extravagant hotel the rest of the nations would be residing in while all the meetings would be held - luckily, the hotel tended to be reserved solely for them at this time with the biggest ones or people would become indubitably suspicious. This usually gave way to antics being pulled on everyone else. There was admittedly something light and amusing about that, as much as things like these could go terribly wrong what with international tensions not known to be the lightest of things to handle.
The lights caused him to blink as he led himself through into the reception area. It was pretty late into the evening and even for New York, it was calm in the area.
Spending a few moments collecting the room for his keys, Francis proceeded to head up towards his hotel room. The meeting wasn’t until tomorrow, so maybe he’d just pop his things down, freshen up, and head out to the nearest bar and see where he’d get lucky. It wasn’t a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’, to him, of course.
He passed through some lone doors along the corridor and came to a painful halt. His eyes widened, and he tried to move again, but his suitcase being dragged behind him didn’t even budge with the motion.
There was a horrible yanking coming from his head.
This wasn’t plausible. Why was he stuck, how was he stuck and what was holding him place?
Francis tried shifting his head to see what was accusable, to find that his head for the majority was being held in his place.
In a horrifying stutter of his heart, his eyes widened in mild panic.
His hair. His hair.
Grunting a little with the effort, his eyes shifted over and he tried to peer around back at the doors. The doors themselves were quite extravagant - big heavy swing doors, made as fire doors ultimately to break up the corridors into smaller sections. They were quite heavily decorated, with big heavy carvings and swirls of gold paint on the glass panes.
As he’d passed through it, he’d initially pushed his suitcase through first after throwing open the door, and followed through as the door would shut behind him. A couple had passed him at the exact same time on the other side, so he’d been pushed further to the side than he should have.
Oh, did he mention he’d kept his hair down since he’d gotten out of the airport?
His eyes peered over to look behind him, to find that a small hunk of his hair had been trapped in the side of the door as it had closed again.
France swallowed uneasily.
Merde.
Dropping his suitcase onto the floor, Francis turned around and grasped delicately at the hair that was caught up, and presumed to give it a light tug.
It didn’t move.
Well oh no, he thought. Maybe if I just tugged a little…
He twisted it in his attempt, to no avail. If anything, the knot that wasn’t actually there before he’d turned around tightened up.
Yes, this was definitely not France’s day.
Finding his breathing becoming slightly less uneven than it was previously, his eyes widened a little and he tried to twist his body in a different manner to get easily at his hair. Remain calm Francis; it was just a piece of hair. A little force will pull it up, you are probably just doing it from a bad position.
He tried twisting the opposite side, but gave out as he released an undignified hiss as his roots were wrenched at brashly. The male turned back to facing forward, his teeth nibbling at the bottom of his lip in contemplation. If he couldn’t free himself, would he be stuck here till someone came along and spotted him? He supposed that was all well if it was a staff member (he could put up with a little humiliation in front of someone who he’ll more than likely never see again) but what if….
Francis twisted in his position, his cursing growing louder and louder under his breath with each unsuccessful tug.
“...Merde…Zut…Zut…Merde…”
The hair wasn’t moving. By now, it had become a tangled mess against the side of the door, crawling out and gripping around the edges of the hinge and refusing to move or budge anymore from the position he was stood in. He frantically twisted about again, which he didn’t even manage by this point. He was rebounded back, a yelp pointing out the fact he was undoubtedly stuck.
“…S-Salaud!”
His eyes shook, his fingers trembled. He started tugging uselessly, frantically. He had to get himself free or he’d get himself caught by more likely one of the other nations and no. This was not a situation he would like to be found in.
His fingers grasped weakly and gave a furious tug again, Francis finding himself keeling over on his waist. He shook.
“…F-Fuck..” He spat, with as much distaste he could muster in his frustration. His expression creased up.
Francis Bonnefoy was a calm man, and not much threw him over the edge concerning his own emotions. But when it involved his hair, the opportunity for open humiliation in front of a whole world, and dreadful jetlag creeping up on him by the minute…
Francis Bonnefoy was in tears.
His breathing tightened up on itself, of which his hand desperately clamped on over his mouth. He knew it was useless to cry; immature, even. But he was frustrated and he was stuck and he’d have to wait till someone came along to help him out of this absolute désordre.
His sobs were muffled as quickly as they erupted out of his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to repress his outburst of bitter, childish mortification. This would pass. This would pass quickly enough for no one to see him in such a sorry state. He would receive help soon.
Then again, this was one of the more remote areas of the whole vast hotel…
His fresh outbursts of cries were quickly stifled as he heard voices. His eyes were too unfocused by his tears to be able to see anything, but it didn’t really matter.
You could hear them a mile off.
“No, why the ruddy hell would I let you stay in my hotel room?! Even if I did, which I won’t, you’d end up insisting you sleep on the bed with me and either I’d end up waking to you smothering me and no air to breath with you having clung to me overnight or I’d be frozen in the morning from you having stole the duvet… O-Or both!”
America’s pout could be felt through the door.
“Hey, no I wouldn’t! Geez, what is your problem Artie? All I’m asking is to provide you with a little company is all-“
The Frenchman realised that as the doors opened (one of them slamming and rebounding against him) that if he hadn’t been frantically trying to free himself the movement of the doors could have well as freed him and he could have pranced away fine and dandy.
The cry of frustration was only just muted into a choked whimper.
Arthur stopped in his tracks.
He stared up at Alfred as he stopped alongside him, before he just shoved him.
“Just get to your bloody hotel room. I’ll meet you downstairs or something later, okay?” He muttered. America seemed taken aback.
“Hey, but Art-“
“Go. Idiot.” He spat. Alfred spent a moment looking at him a bit hurt, before he looked down and scuffed his shoe. He had soon disappeared off down the hallway, his suitcase trundling behind him.
As he disappeared, Arthur sighed, and he turned around in the direction of the doorway.
They both stared.
Both their expressions seemed to dance around each other, neither really showing how to respond to each other. Arthur looked as though he was about to laugh, but the shock of seeing his rival-friend-person in such a shaken state seemed to take him aback a little. Francis was trying his thorough hardest not to show he was crying, but the way his shoulders were trembling seemed to give it away to the Englishman.
England put down his suitcase, and approached tenderly.
“..Bloody hell Francis, what are you doing there-“
He stopped in his tracks, and saw the messed bulk of hair trapped in the side of the door and hinge. England’s expression twisted.
“What the…”
The more bemused look, for some reason, seemed to make France burst into tears again, his head hooking down painfully as he hid his sobs into his hand. Mon dieu, he knew he should have just tied up his hair for practicality’s sake, but he just had to have a very attractive female having sat opposite him on the flight here and-
A hand suddenly touched at France’s shoulders. He tensed up.
“..O-Oi, frog, stop crying.. it’s not going to help anything, is it?”
The Frenchman paused, before he forced his gaze slip up and peek through his fingers. Arthur was knelt in front of him, his thick eyebrows twisted in a little of what was shock and... was that even concern for a flicker of a brief moment?
It slid away as soon as Arthur figured that Francis could see him. He looked away embarrassingly after a moment and shuffled his feet.
“..H-Hey, stop crying. I’ll…” He looked around. “.. I’ll get you out.”
There was a pause of somewhat apprehension, before the Briton turned away and stated rifling in his suitcase for something.
Francis could’ve reacted by now, have shook his head and refused such help from rosbif but he was indeed getting help and France was not about to deny a little bit of courtesy from the Englishman.
Not to mention, the look that those emerald orbs held in concern at him was a look that the blonde man had not seen directed towards him for a very long time. Maybe not even since the days where they weren’t even called France and England - or the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, whatever ridiculous name it was that Arthur liked to call himself nowadays.
Arthur turned back around and held up a pair of small scissors - embroidery scissors. There was colour on the man’s cheeks as Francis managed to click exactly where he’d got it from. If he wasn’t in such a state, he’d have rolled his eyes. Typical man.
As he approached, England’s lips frowned. France’s eyes widened, and he suddenly turned around and yanked on his hair.
“..N-Non, Angleterre, Je suis bien. Je peux fais ça ne avec vous aider--” He insisted, tugging desperately again at his hair. He winced and his eyes watered all the more, but the sudden concept of his hair being cut off to free him was terrifying him silly. His hair. His poor beaux cheveux…
Before he could actually rip his scalp off, fingers twisted against their own and wrenched the grasp out, a figure looming over him. Arthur glared.
“Fuck’s sake Francis, you’re not stupid. Even I can see you’re not going to get yourself out of that one without cutting it. Now stop whining and let me do it.” He grumbled, holding at France’s shoulder so he could align the scissors in place. He glanced down at France, and seemed to pull a bit of a reluctant look.
“.. I-I’m only doing this because you’re clearly stuck and it’d be quite good for blackmail later.” He remarked.
France tried to nod, but he was held in position.
“.. Je sais.”
He winced, closed his eyes and prayed for his beautiful hair to not be ruined too much as he felt the metal slice it’s way along the side of his hair.
A moment later, and Arthur was stood there with a fist of Francis’s hair in his hand. He seemed to look at it as though it was the equivalent of a serpent about to stick it’s fangs in his hands. He slowly looked back over to the Frenchman.
France slowly stood up, finally free. For a brief moment, he seemed intent on not looking at the result sitting there amongst the Briton’s palm.
Blue eyes peeked over, and a large gasp was made.
“…M-Mon D-Dieu---“His voice cracked, fingers desperately reaching up to feel against the side of his head. There was a noticeable draft against that part of his head.
He gazed at England with wide eyes, of which Arthur found himself staring down at the lock of the Frenchman’s hair. Well, what was he going to do? He couldn’t exactly just hand the hair back to him and be on his way - that’d seem quite stupid and a bit unprofessional. And he knew Francis.
By the look of his lips thinning, he looked like he was about to burst into tears all over again. England wasn’t adjusted to seeing people he was supposed to hate cry.
“… U-Uh I’ll fix it-j-just so you won’t bloody cry at me.” He blurted, grabbing his shoulder and his suitcase and steering him over to his hotel room. The other was left to gawp a little in his stuttered state - he would’ve been happy just going to his own room and crumpling in his lack of dignity and much worse, his looks - but no, Arthur always seemed intent on being his confusing self and actually helping him.
Without really realising, Francis had soon been pushed through into a relatively well sized room, put onto a chair that had been dragged out into the middle of the room and now had an Englishman staring at him as he kneeled and analysed his hair.
He half wondered if they were getting the same urges of nostalgia creeping and licking up on them. He had to admit, the scenario was amusing to look at from this point of view…
He sniffed, and a hand reached out to touch at Arthur’s cheek.
“Ah, rosbif, I did not realise perception mattered so much when it came to moi.”
It was slapped away.
“It’s not. If I’m going to get a job done I’ll bloody well do it properly. Just as well, I could slice your hair off completely.” He smirked, the first smirk that he had seen all day, but as he finally reached in to start snipping the care he held while he scythed France’s locks off seemed to betray all maleficent impressions he had given off.
“Then why do you not?”
There was a pause. England shifted uncomfortably.
“You managed to get that yank off my case. I might as well repay you.”
“I was led to believe that you were on good terms with the americaine.”
“I am.”
There was another uncomfortable pause.
Francis sighed, and just let the snipping resume, Arthur’s adverse expression not doing a lot to help calm him with the snipping he could hear. Surely he was cutting off too much…
Another few moments and the seated male couldn’t take much more silence. He shook his head and sighed, which caused Arthur to gasp under his breath as he avoided a disaster concerning the scissors and a Frenchman’s ear. His eyes flared;
“Oi, you bloody---“
“Angleterre, does this not feel familiar to you?”
He blinked.
“U-Uhm, I suppose. When you used to bully me with about my hair, if you mean.”
“I would not have called it ‘bullying’, mon ami. More… criticising.”
“My humiliation as a child would like to say different.”
“What humiliation. You were nothing but a rowdy child.”
Arthur snipped some more, huffing. France could congratulate him on his talent to be clearly annoyed and yet stay calm with whatever he was doing at the same time.
“I wonder whose fault that was.”
Snip. Snip. Snip.
“Are you insisting on blaming moi? Why, I was simply a visitor, non?”
Snip.
“Yeah, a bloody unwelcome one.”
Snip snip.
“.. Nonsense, Angleterre, you adored it really.”
Snip.
“Oh yes, and 900 years of intense war-making, rivalry, and hatred says that all, does it?”
Snip snip.
“Oui, and those 900 hundred years of ‘hatred', 'war making' and 'rivalry' are in play right now, are they?”
Snip.
“Shut up.”
He did.
In the silence that was now warranting, Francis presumed to gently reach up and brush away the dried tears that had gathered under his eyes, sniffling indignantly. He could feel himself becoming a little uncomfortable at how long this was taking.
“.. Have you nearly done--“
“Yes shut up if it wasn’t for your stupid long hair I would’ve done already!....Uh.”
He backed away, and took a moment to look at his final work.
By the expression on the stupid Englishman’s face, it didn’t look promising.
The impending man raised an eyebrow.
“What is it? I hope my hair is not an abomination like yours is.”
Coming to no conclusion from the Brit, Francis rolled his eyes and stood up, striding his way through into the small en-suite bathroom in the apartment.
He froze.
Francis Bonnefoy was not staring back at him.
Rather, some emulsified, hair-hacked-into-scarecrow Frenchman was staring back at him. His hair, long and shoulder length as it used to be, was rather cut an awful amount shorter. Where his hair had gotten caught eventually there was just… no hair.
France’s eyes were wide and glazened as his fingertips gently brushed over this.. this…
Disaster.
Francis knew he should never have let his hair down. Heck, he knew he should have never turned up.
England shyly turned his head around into the room, staring down at the floor. He was sort of waiting for an outburst, half expecting the other blonde to just turn around, grab the scissors and scalp him or something to that extent.
“… I-I bloody tried, alright?..”
He looked up, to see Francis with his head hung over. His shoulders were trembling.
“…F-France…?”
He was suddenly caught in a lavish hug, and kissed extravagantly on both cheeks. He was held to the Frenchman’s chest, Arthur catching the distinct sense of.. well… France.
“Merci. Merci beacoup.”
The taller man parted from the shorter male just as suddenly, and returned to looking at himself in the mirror with the grace of a man who hadn’t just have one of his fondest aspects of himself completely destroyed. He even reached up and tucked one of the spikier strands behind his ear, as though in a makeshift fringe. He soon turned back around to the Briton, who almost half held up the scissors in defence as he was suddenly hugged again. He spluttered.
“France w-what the---“
“Silence, mon petit pays. Thank you for trying.”
Leaving him utterly bamboozled, Arthur could only really respond with his cheeks blaring red and an uneasy pat of the elder male’s back.
“..I-It’s.. It’s alright?”
Heck, even Arthur thought he had crapped it up beyond belief. He dared not question his channel-neighbouring nation on this outburst.
France finally did part, and even managed a smile. His arm hooked around the Briton’s, and suddenly started to lead him away.
Being angry was not one of France’s things, and anyway. He knew the Englishman to know that he had indeed tried, as bad as he was. He was not about to condemn the man for being kind hearted compared to the usual isolated shell he usually retreated into, anyway.
As Arthur stumbled along aside him, France looked down at him.
“Maintenant, you shall find and buy me a hat.”
And through all the mess he’d been put through, he thought he might as well get some fun out of seeing the blessed man so confused at his reaction.
Francis Bonnefoy was a kind man.
With splendid hair or without.