Fic: FrUk
Title: In a Hopeless Place
Fandom: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: FrUk
Warning: slash
Summary: they do their own dance with each other at those parties, coming close but never talking, skirting the edges of their minds
They saw each other in the hallways, always with polite smiles and shining eyes that no one could read, except each other.
Bright green eyes watched the French as he danced, ever the perfect man, saying the right words to win whoever he wanted. Arthur knowing the game, but not as well as the other. They do their own dance with each other at those parties, coming close but never talking, skirting the edges of their minds.
Sometimes Francis leans in and whispers, gossips about the court. Nothing that Arthur shouldn’t know of course, and Arthur listens and always offers a new flower to the other, because he never likes talking about his own court. Francis laughs but takes the flower, because he cannot deny it without it leading to trouble.
But they both know, that they dance the court’s dance, and they dance the nation’s dance, and finally, they dance as Francis and Arthur.
Gifts are presented, always upping each other. England giving France the better gift, but not that better, because then it would be rude.
But Francis’ eyes darken and the smile twists into something dark and Arthur smiles politely but it is just a little too light and his eyes have a certain sparkle and they feel it.
At night, they meet, knowing the secret passages. Knowing where to meet, when to meet, how to meet. They know the signals, and they know the ways of the courts, until they lock themselves away and it is just Arthur and Francis and their lips meets. Hands touch skin and everything but Arthur and Francis is forgotten.
Only for it all come back in the morning. And they know. They feel it.
They both feeling the incoming wave of death because there is only so much the court can take, that the people can take.
Francis’ people do not want the British there, they are French, and they begin to rile up, they begin to understand that they must unite and be one. So they do.
War comes to them.
They still dance around each other. This time they dance in the battlefield, with their armor, hair sticking to their faces, chest heaving.
They think that the other has never looked more beautiful, Arthur and Francis.
And they fight, like they always do, dirty, angrily, with hate oozing out of their pores.
That is all they know. That is all they can know.
So they push through battles, through death, through pain, and as the savior of France is burned, Arthur thinks of Francis, with tears down his face.
But their dance doesn’t stop, because even with all the death, all the pain, and all the mistakes, and the hopelessness of it all, part of them was still just Arthur and Francis, dancing their own dace.