Ever The Same (fanfiction-Hetalia)
Title: Ever The Same
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category:France/England, with Spain/Romano, slight mention of America/Russia and OC!India
Rating: PG-13
Warning: swearing, England being mopey and angsty, lots of kissing, cuddling and possibly deadly levels of fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: Arthur is beginning to think that Francis was right when he said Arthur would end up bitter and alone.
Author Note: Not beta'd, and my French is non-existent, sorry guys. One day I will write a FrUK story where they hate each other and have red hot sex. Today is not that day though. I just needed some feel good fluff.
Francis isn’t worried, and even if he had been he doesn’t let himself show it. It simply isn’t worry that motivates him to deal with all the paperwork he has due for the next three days, stuff a few things in an overnight bag, put on a pale blue silk shirt he’s never worn before and get on the train for England. It is his own life after all, he didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to do these things. He puts on his iPod and used the trip to catch up on a little sleep.
He is jolted awake as the train stops, blinking and trying to remember what he’s been dreaming about. Something unpleasant if he’s residual sense of foreboding was anything to go by. He blinks several times and then puts away his iPod and goes to collects his things. He hails a cab and waits out the short ride to his destination.
Arthur opens the door to his flat after the third time Francis bangs on it. He’d already tried the buzzer several times but Arthur had just totally ignored that.
“Go away Francis.” Arthur tries to close the door again as soon as he sees who is standing on the other side, but Francis had been ready for that. He braces one arm against the doorframe and grabs the edge of the door with the other hand and pulls hard.
“Francis, damn it!” Arthur shoves hard and Francis manages to get one foot and part of his leg through the gap just in case Arthur does manage to over-power him. He likes his hands after all and they’ve already been through so much over the years.
“Arthur, open the door.” He tries to keep the request reasonable, after all it’s not too much to ask, or at least it shouldn’t be.
There is another few moments of struggle, finally though Arthur gives up and stands back. Francis lets go of the door just in time to keep from pitching through into Arthur’s flat and straightens his shirt before picking up his bag “Merci”
Arthur just glares at him, and Francis steps through into the flat. He drops his bags in Arthur’s hall by the door and looks the other nation up and down. Arthur is wearing a truly hideous knit jumper, over a shirt that Francis highly doubted had been bought for him. After all no one who wasn’t dead or blind would possibly thing it would fit someone Arthur’s size, Alfred maybe, but not Arthur. The whole thing was ridiculously baggy and the sleeves hung over the smaller nation’s hands. His trousers where ugly brown and did not flatter him even slightly. His hair was sticking up on one side of his head and there were dark circles under his eyes. All and all even for Arthur he was a mess. It was, as Francis had feared, he was definitely moping.
“Angleterre-” Arthur only glares at him harder, small arms crossed over his chest. He turns and stomps down the hall into the kitchen and Francis sighs and follows after him. “You have not been into work today.” It’s not a question, as far as Francis is concerned Arthur has no sense of style what-so-ever, but not even Arthur wouldn’t go into to his office looking like this.
“No.” Arthur puts the kettle onto the stove with a little more force then necessary, “I haven’t been feeling well for the last couple of days.”
“Sulking you mean.” Arthur’s eyes snap up to look at Francis where he leans against the kitchen door, arms crossed. Arthur’s impressively large brows knit together and his jaw clenches. Francis waves one hand in the air, “this is about Kalyan.”
Again not a question at the last UN General Sessions India and England had gotten into a huge fight over some trading agreement or other, a fight that had escalated into the realm of the intensely personal later on in the men’s bathroom of all places. Personal and humiliating for Arthur, made even worse because the enter thing had been witnessed by France, America, Poland, and Prussia. Of course having been witnessed by Alfred and Gilbert by the end of the day everyone knew every gory detail with a few embellishments Gilbert had blatantly made up.
Arthur doesn’t reply to Francis’ statement but his shoulders hunch forward almost all the way to his ears and he crosses his arms over his chest protectively. The kettle whistles and Arthur turns away from Francis pouring hot water into the teapot. “You said once that I was going to alienate everyone and end up bitter and alone.” Arthur’s voice is soft and wavers a little although he tries to hide it. Francis closes his eyes and sighs.
“That was a very long time ago mon cher.”
On the counter next to the teapot Arthur’s hand clenches into a fist, “that doesn’t mean you were wrong.”
Francis crosses the room quickly grabbing the other nation by the shoulders and spinning him around to face Francis. “Arthur.” He shakes him not at all gently, “you have to stop thinking like this.”
“But look at me!” both of Arthur’s fists are clenched now and he raises them as if to hit Francis, but doesn’t just leaves them hanging in midair. “All my colonies are gone and they hate me, my power is gone, my military is bloody useless! All I ever do anymore is complain and support Alfred! I’m completely pitiful!”
Francis doesn’t know what scares him more that fact that Arthur’s voice cracks in the last word or that there are actually tears in his eyes.
“Stop!” He shakes Arthur again sharply. “Stop it Angleterre!” He pushes Arthur way so that he can look at him and the smaller nation isn’t actually crying but his face is splotchy and miserable looking, and to Francis he looks appallingly young. “The only thing that is pitiful is that you allow yourself to get this way.” He tells Arthur more gently this time and raises on hand to pet down the hair that stands up from one side of Arthur’s head.
Arthur snuffles into his too-long sleeve, and doesn’t look at Francis. “But I’m alone, Francis.” He says almost forlornly, “I always thought . . . I never expected to end up on my own like this, and it’s not just because I’m a nation you can’t say it’s because of that I mean look at . . . at look at Spain . . . “ Arthur trails of staring at the floor arms wrapped around his body.
Francis looks at him, remembers the way Spain and Romano had been nearly inseparable the entire General Sessions. How almost sickeningly besotted with each other they had been. Well at least Spain had seemed besotted, Romano had spent the entire time throwing the older nation evil looks and cursing at him under his breath. Although Romano’s bad temper hadn’t stopped them from holding hands under the table during meals. Come to think of it Alfred and Ivan had been eyeing each other again. America was young though and Russia, was well Russia and in a league of his own. Francis knows it’s Spain’s sudden run of good fortune that’s hit England the hardest because Spain is one of them the old European powers. Someone who’d made the same kinds of mistakes England had, done the same kinds of things, suffered pretty much the same. Except now Spain is in love with someone who loves him back.
Arthur sniffles again, and Francis grabs the teapot in one hand and Arthur’s elbow in the other and guides them both into Arthur’s library. He lets Arthur settle into his window-seat surrounded by cushions and books. Francis sets the teapot on the table before heading back to the kitchen, coming back with to teacups and a tin of biscuits. He pours the tea and brings Arthur his, where the smaller man is curled up under a blanket in one corner of the window-seat. Francis settles next to him and doesn’t think how small and fragile Arthur looks. He reminds himself sternly that this is England and he is not fragile even if he is a self-pitying, emotional mess at the moment. Francis sips his tea and tries to figure out a way of saying what he wants to say next without getting hit or worse making Arthur cry.
“Arthur” He says finally, “You know you are not as alone as all that.” He reaches out and pats the other nation’s knee, “I am here after all.”
Arthur stares at him a for a long moment and then he sighs and shakes his head, “I don’t mean friends Francis, or enemies, I have plenty of both. I just- I always imagined I’d have a life with someone special.” Francis doesn’t look away and he doesn’t take his hand off of Arthur’s knee, even as his heart starts beating so hard he’s sure Arthur can hear it.
“I knew what it was you meant, mon ami.”
Arthur stares at him carefully for a long, long moment “Francis-”
Francis shakes his head, becomes aware that the hand which still rest of Arthur’s knee is shaking ever so slightly. “If you don’t want to, I will understand.”
“No-” Arthur sets his cup aside and reaches out as if for Francis, his hand stopping just short of the other man. “No I didn’t mean- It’s just- We’ve, well, we’ve been fucking each other for just about forever” Francis winces slightly at that. “Look” Arthur says finally, “I’m used to us every once in a while remembering about the other and having sex and sometimes we even don’t want to kill each other afterward-”
“Arthur.” Francis cuts him off, as the other nation seems about to break into full-fledged rambling. “Do you want to be in a relationship with me?” He reach out almost blindly and finds one of Arthur’s hand clutches it between both of his, “at least to try?”
“Yes.” Arthur says and then lowers his head a little bit, but Francis can still see that he’s blushing “At least to try.”
There is a long silence between the two of them where Arthur stares at there linked hands and Francis watches Arthur, watches the way the light turns his hair the color of dark gold.
“Good.” He says finally, and reaches forward with one hand, tracing his fingertips along Arthur’s jaw and cheek. Arthur turns his face into Francis’ touch, closes his eyes. Francis leans forward slightly and kisses him. Just a gentle press of lips against lips, not to prove a point or to claim, but just to feel. Arthur breathes out a little bit, his breath hot against Francis lips and Francis kisses him again, runs his tongue against Arthur’s bottom lip before pulling away. They breathe, foreheads touching, for a long few minutes.
Then Arthur leans forward and kisses him, kisses the corners of Francis mouth, leaves small little kisses against his lips before kissing his jaw and throat. Francis sighs and closes his eyes, feeling Arthur’s hands brush against his head, run through his hair. He hears the faint rasp of silk as Arthur pulls the black ribbon Francis had tied his hair back with. Arthur strokes Francis’ hair away his face, kisses his forehead. Francis reaches forward and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist hauls him up despite Arthur’s indignant squeak of protest and settles the smaller nation in his lap. He nuzzles Arthur’s ear and Arthur’s shoulders come up in an adorably futile attempt to get Francis to stop and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Get off.”
Francis grins and bites down on Arthur’s earlobe causing the other nation to let out an undignified sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal.
Francis can’t help but laugh as he draws back, “oh mon cher, you are just too adorable, make that noise for me again!”
Arthur punches him none too gently in the shoulder, “I said get off me, you stupid frog.”
“Aww, Angleterre.” Francis nearly purrs, “Do not ruin my fun.”
Arthur glowers and his shoulders come up protectively around his ears, “leave my ears alone, you pervert.”
Francis burst out laughing again, “I promise you, my intentions towards your ears are strictly platonic.” He grins down at the Arthur and Arthur glares back up at him.
“You are just plain weird sometimes Francis.”
“And you are too adorable for words.” Francis kisses him on the nose and Arthur turns red and splutters.
“If you expect to get into my bed talking like that-”
Francis cuts him off by kissing him hard, pressing his tongue against Arthur’s lips until Arthur opens to him.
“non, mon ami.” Francis says completely serious now, when they break apart to breathe, “I do not expect to get into your bed at all tonight, unless it is simply to sleep.”
Arthur stares at him silently for a long moment and then suddenly something about him softens and relaxes. Arthur reaches out and braids his fingers with Francis and looks down at their hands. “I umm- I should really go into work tomorrow, but afterwards, tomorrow night I can take you out to dinner.”
Francis’s expression softens too, becoming a small smile and he props his chin against Arthur’s shoulder, “You
do not have to mon cher. I believe we are long past the point of dating, relationship or no.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “Fine then, we can stay in and I’ll cook.”
Francis doesn’t even hesitate, “Going out tomorrow sounds lovely.” Francis isn’t afraid of many things but Arthur’s cooking is definitely one of them.
Arthur only snorts, “thought so.”
He snuggle a little closer against the taller nation, eyes flicking to the window to see that it is raining again. “Are you going to be staying the night?” It comes out sounding a lot more hesitant then he would like and Francis hums a little and kisses him on the cheek.
“Yes if you would like.” Francis thinks a moment, “I will make dinner.”
Arthur makes a small, disgruntled noise at that but doesn’t protest. Instead he leans his head against Francis’ chest and closes his eyes. Francis pets his hair, a little amazed that Arthur allows it, and after a few minutes it seems as if the smaller nation as dozed off, curled against his chest. Francis props his chin on the crown of Arthur’s head and watches the rain fall against the window.
“You really want to do this? Not just to make me feel better, but really?”
Francis laughs a little arms tightening around Arthur, “amazingly yes, Angleterre I do.”
Arthur humphs and turns to snuggle more comfortably against Francis and Francis braids the fingers of one hand with Arthur’s, keeping the other around the other nation’s shoulders. Arthur is still and quiet again and Francis’ eyes drift back to the window and he thinks of the things he’s not saying; I love you, and even when you’re being insufferable you still make me happy.
He doesn’t say any of it though, only lifts their linked hands to kiss across Arthur’s knuckles, and listens to Arthur’s heartbeat. There will be plenty of time for the rest later.
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category:France/England, with Spain/Romano, slight mention of America/Russia and OC!India
Rating: PG-13
Warning: swearing, England being mopey and angsty, lots of kissing, cuddling and possibly deadly levels of fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: Arthur is beginning to think that Francis was right when he said Arthur would end up bitter and alone.
Author Note: Not beta'd, and my French is non-existent, sorry guys. One day I will write a FrUK story where they hate each other and have red hot sex. Today is not that day though. I just needed some feel good fluff.
Francis isn’t worried, and even if he had been he doesn’t let himself show it. It simply isn’t worry that motivates him to deal with all the paperwork he has due for the next three days, stuff a few things in an overnight bag, put on a pale blue silk shirt he’s never worn before and get on the train for England. It is his own life after all, he didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to do these things. He puts on his iPod and used the trip to catch up on a little sleep.
He is jolted awake as the train stops, blinking and trying to remember what he’s been dreaming about. Something unpleasant if he’s residual sense of foreboding was anything to go by. He blinks several times and then puts away his iPod and goes to collects his things. He hails a cab and waits out the short ride to his destination.
Arthur opens the door to his flat after the third time Francis bangs on it. He’d already tried the buzzer several times but Arthur had just totally ignored that.
“Go away Francis.” Arthur tries to close the door again as soon as he sees who is standing on the other side, but Francis had been ready for that. He braces one arm against the doorframe and grabs the edge of the door with the other hand and pulls hard.
“Francis, damn it!” Arthur shoves hard and Francis manages to get one foot and part of his leg through the gap just in case Arthur does manage to over-power him. He likes his hands after all and they’ve already been through so much over the years.
“Arthur, open the door.” He tries to keep the request reasonable, after all it’s not too much to ask, or at least it shouldn’t be.
There is another few moments of struggle, finally though Arthur gives up and stands back. Francis lets go of the door just in time to keep from pitching through into Arthur’s flat and straightens his shirt before picking up his bag “Merci”
Arthur just glares at him, and Francis steps through into the flat. He drops his bags in Arthur’s hall by the door and looks the other nation up and down. Arthur is wearing a truly hideous knit jumper, over a shirt that Francis highly doubted had been bought for him. After all no one who wasn’t dead or blind would possibly thing it would fit someone Arthur’s size, Alfred maybe, but not Arthur. The whole thing was ridiculously baggy and the sleeves hung over the smaller nation’s hands. His trousers where ugly brown and did not flatter him even slightly. His hair was sticking up on one side of his head and there were dark circles under his eyes. All and all even for Arthur he was a mess. It was, as Francis had feared, he was definitely moping.
“Angleterre-” Arthur only glares at him harder, small arms crossed over his chest. He turns and stomps down the hall into the kitchen and Francis sighs and follows after him. “You have not been into work today.” It’s not a question, as far as Francis is concerned Arthur has no sense of style what-so-ever, but not even Arthur wouldn’t go into to his office looking like this.
“No.” Arthur puts the kettle onto the stove with a little more force then necessary, “I haven’t been feeling well for the last couple of days.”
“Sulking you mean.” Arthur’s eyes snap up to look at Francis where he leans against the kitchen door, arms crossed. Arthur’s impressively large brows knit together and his jaw clenches. Francis waves one hand in the air, “this is about Kalyan.”
Again not a question at the last UN General Sessions India and England had gotten into a huge fight over some trading agreement or other, a fight that had escalated into the realm of the intensely personal later on in the men’s bathroom of all places. Personal and humiliating for Arthur, made even worse because the enter thing had been witnessed by France, America, Poland, and Prussia. Of course having been witnessed by Alfred and Gilbert by the end of the day everyone knew every gory detail with a few embellishments Gilbert had blatantly made up.
Arthur doesn’t reply to Francis’ statement but his shoulders hunch forward almost all the way to his ears and he crosses his arms over his chest protectively. The kettle whistles and Arthur turns away from Francis pouring hot water into the teapot. “You said once that I was going to alienate everyone and end up bitter and alone.” Arthur’s voice is soft and wavers a little although he tries to hide it. Francis closes his eyes and sighs.
“That was a very long time ago mon cher.”
On the counter next to the teapot Arthur’s hand clenches into a fist, “that doesn’t mean you were wrong.”
Francis crosses the room quickly grabbing the other nation by the shoulders and spinning him around to face Francis. “Arthur.” He shakes him not at all gently, “you have to stop thinking like this.”
“But look at me!” both of Arthur’s fists are clenched now and he raises them as if to hit Francis, but doesn’t just leaves them hanging in midair. “All my colonies are gone and they hate me, my power is gone, my military is bloody useless! All I ever do anymore is complain and support Alfred! I’m completely pitiful!”
Francis doesn’t know what scares him more that fact that Arthur’s voice cracks in the last word or that there are actually tears in his eyes.
“Stop!” He shakes Arthur again sharply. “Stop it Angleterre!” He pushes Arthur way so that he can look at him and the smaller nation isn’t actually crying but his face is splotchy and miserable looking, and to Francis he looks appallingly young. “The only thing that is pitiful is that you allow yourself to get this way.” He tells Arthur more gently this time and raises on hand to pet down the hair that stands up from one side of Arthur’s head.
Arthur snuffles into his too-long sleeve, and doesn’t look at Francis. “But I’m alone, Francis.” He says almost forlornly, “I always thought . . . I never expected to end up on my own like this, and it’s not just because I’m a nation you can’t say it’s because of that I mean look at . . . at look at Spain . . . “ Arthur trails of staring at the floor arms wrapped around his body.
Francis looks at him, remembers the way Spain and Romano had been nearly inseparable the entire General Sessions. How almost sickeningly besotted with each other they had been. Well at least Spain had seemed besotted, Romano had spent the entire time throwing the older nation evil looks and cursing at him under his breath. Although Romano’s bad temper hadn’t stopped them from holding hands under the table during meals. Come to think of it Alfred and Ivan had been eyeing each other again. America was young though and Russia, was well Russia and in a league of his own. Francis knows it’s Spain’s sudden run of good fortune that’s hit England the hardest because Spain is one of them the old European powers. Someone who’d made the same kinds of mistakes England had, done the same kinds of things, suffered pretty much the same. Except now Spain is in love with someone who loves him back.
Arthur sniffles again, and Francis grabs the teapot in one hand and Arthur’s elbow in the other and guides them both into Arthur’s library. He lets Arthur settle into his window-seat surrounded by cushions and books. Francis sets the teapot on the table before heading back to the kitchen, coming back with to teacups and a tin of biscuits. He pours the tea and brings Arthur his, where the smaller man is curled up under a blanket in one corner of the window-seat. Francis settles next to him and doesn’t think how small and fragile Arthur looks. He reminds himself sternly that this is England and he is not fragile even if he is a self-pitying, emotional mess at the moment. Francis sips his tea and tries to figure out a way of saying what he wants to say next without getting hit or worse making Arthur cry.
“Arthur” He says finally, “You know you are not as alone as all that.” He reaches out and pats the other nation’s knee, “I am here after all.”
Arthur stares at him a for a long moment and then he sighs and shakes his head, “I don’t mean friends Francis, or enemies, I have plenty of both. I just- I always imagined I’d have a life with someone special.” Francis doesn’t look away and he doesn’t take his hand off of Arthur’s knee, even as his heart starts beating so hard he’s sure Arthur can hear it.
“I knew what it was you meant, mon ami.”
Arthur stares at him carefully for a long, long moment “Francis-”
Francis shakes his head, becomes aware that the hand which still rest of Arthur’s knee is shaking ever so slightly. “If you don’t want to, I will understand.”
“No-” Arthur sets his cup aside and reaches out as if for Francis, his hand stopping just short of the other man. “No I didn’t mean- It’s just- We’ve, well, we’ve been fucking each other for just about forever” Francis winces slightly at that. “Look” Arthur says finally, “I’m used to us every once in a while remembering about the other and having sex and sometimes we even don’t want to kill each other afterward-”
“Arthur.” Francis cuts him off, as the other nation seems about to break into full-fledged rambling. “Do you want to be in a relationship with me?” He reach out almost blindly and finds one of Arthur’s hand clutches it between both of his, “at least to try?”
“Yes.” Arthur says and then lowers his head a little bit, but Francis can still see that he’s blushing “At least to try.”
There is a long silence between the two of them where Arthur stares at there linked hands and Francis watches Arthur, watches the way the light turns his hair the color of dark gold.
“Good.” He says finally, and reaches forward with one hand, tracing his fingertips along Arthur’s jaw and cheek. Arthur turns his face into Francis’ touch, closes his eyes. Francis leans forward slightly and kisses him. Just a gentle press of lips against lips, not to prove a point or to claim, but just to feel. Arthur breathes out a little bit, his breath hot against Francis lips and Francis kisses him again, runs his tongue against Arthur’s bottom lip before pulling away. They breathe, foreheads touching, for a long few minutes.
Then Arthur leans forward and kisses him, kisses the corners of Francis mouth, leaves small little kisses against his lips before kissing his jaw and throat. Francis sighs and closes his eyes, feeling Arthur’s hands brush against his head, run through his hair. He hears the faint rasp of silk as Arthur pulls the black ribbon Francis had tied his hair back with. Arthur strokes Francis’ hair away his face, kisses his forehead. Francis reaches forward and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist hauls him up despite Arthur’s indignant squeak of protest and settles the smaller nation in his lap. He nuzzles Arthur’s ear and Arthur’s shoulders come up in an adorably futile attempt to get Francis to stop and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Get off.”
Francis grins and bites down on Arthur’s earlobe causing the other nation to let out an undignified sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal.
Francis can’t help but laugh as he draws back, “oh mon cher, you are just too adorable, make that noise for me again!”
Arthur punches him none too gently in the shoulder, “I said get off me, you stupid frog.”
“Aww, Angleterre.” Francis nearly purrs, “Do not ruin my fun.”
Arthur glowers and his shoulders come up protectively around his ears, “leave my ears alone, you pervert.”
Francis burst out laughing again, “I promise you, my intentions towards your ears are strictly platonic.” He grins down at the Arthur and Arthur glares back up at him.
“You are just plain weird sometimes Francis.”
“And you are too adorable for words.” Francis kisses him on the nose and Arthur turns red and splutters.
“If you expect to get into my bed talking like that-”
Francis cuts him off by kissing him hard, pressing his tongue against Arthur’s lips until Arthur opens to him.
“non, mon ami.” Francis says completely serious now, when they break apart to breathe, “I do not expect to get into your bed at all tonight, unless it is simply to sleep.”
Arthur stares at him silently for a long moment and then suddenly something about him softens and relaxes. Arthur reaches out and braids his fingers with Francis and looks down at their hands. “I umm- I should really go into work tomorrow, but afterwards, tomorrow night I can take you out to dinner.”
Francis’s expression softens too, becoming a small smile and he props his chin against Arthur’s shoulder, “You
do not have to mon cher. I believe we are long past the point of dating, relationship or no.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, “Fine then, we can stay in and I’ll cook.”
Francis doesn’t even hesitate, “Going out tomorrow sounds lovely.” Francis isn’t afraid of many things but Arthur’s cooking is definitely one of them.
Arthur only snorts, “thought so.”
He snuggle a little closer against the taller nation, eyes flicking to the window to see that it is raining again. “Are you going to be staying the night?” It comes out sounding a lot more hesitant then he would like and Francis hums a little and kisses him on the cheek.
“Yes if you would like.” Francis thinks a moment, “I will make dinner.”
Arthur makes a small, disgruntled noise at that but doesn’t protest. Instead he leans his head against Francis’ chest and closes his eyes. Francis pets his hair, a little amazed that Arthur allows it, and after a few minutes it seems as if the smaller nation as dozed off, curled against his chest. Francis props his chin on the crown of Arthur’s head and watches the rain fall against the window.
“You really want to do this? Not just to make me feel better, but really?”
Francis laughs a little arms tightening around Arthur, “amazingly yes, Angleterre I do.”
Arthur humphs and turns to snuggle more comfortably against Francis and Francis braids the fingers of one hand with Arthur’s, keeping the other around the other nation’s shoulders. Arthur is still and quiet again and Francis’ eyes drift back to the window and he thinks of the things he’s not saying; I love you, and even when you’re being insufferable you still make me happy.
He doesn’t say any of it though, only lifts their linked hands to kiss across Arthur’s knuckles, and listens to Arthur’s heartbeat. There will be plenty of time for the rest later.