[Fanfic] Written for the most FrUk-ish day of the year \0/
A/N: Oh man. Beware of the raging OTP.
Gaul is France, and Hispania is Spain.
It was a funny relationship, to say the least.
To anyone on the outside, it would look like a pointless banter of alternating hostility and friendship; a meaningless tradition kept up by two very old stubborn men who did not want to change.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
Well. Not always.
Arthur Kirkland didn’t really quite remember the day he met Francis Bonnefoy. It seemed as though he had always been there, sticking his long parisan nose into Arthur’s business, criticizing his cooking, or making snide comments about the ‘caterpillars’ on his forehead.
Francis Bonnefoy however, remembered the exact date, time and place of their first meeting.
It was on the beach at Normandy, AD 43.
Francis, who was then known as Gaul, was pacing up and down the stony beach, the angry wind whipping his hair across his face and sending spray stinging into his eyes.
He was waiting for Rome.
Proud, fierce Rome, who wanted more for his empire. Rome who had heard about a mysterious nation across the sea and saw it as a wonderful opportunity for expansion.
Gaul did not care for bleak island nations across the sea. Neither did Hispania, for that matter, but he was down south, enjoying the last of his sunshine before the harsh winter of Europe fully set in.
Gaul opened his mouth to sigh, and promptly received a large chunk of hair in the mouth. Angrily, he pulled his hair away from his face and turned to glare at the dark grey cloud that blocked out the sun. Quietly, he found himself wondering what exactly this new nation would be like. Would it be female or male? Would it learn to enjoy the beauty of culture that Rome had to offer?
The plop of oars alerted Gaul back into reality. He watched as a small boat made its way treacherously up the pebbles, and a tall man jumped out.
Rome was older than Gaul remembered. A fine web of lines had spun its way across his face, and there were touches of grey highlighting his dark brown hair.
As soon as he saw his adoptive son, Rome’s face broke out into a toothy smile. He grabbed his son in a tight bear hug, and asked him if he had been alright. Gaul replied in his faltering Latin, saying that he had simply been lonely, with Hispania gone and Rome’s other children at their separate houses.
A soldier came up to them, carrying a large heavy sack. The sack was moving, and from inside came a strange mewling noise. What was this nation, a cat? Were the barbarians of the far north not even human?
The bag was opened, and from inside the soldier pulled out a squirming child. Its hair was long and impossibly filthy, and it muttered angry words in a guttural language.
Gaul couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the offending creature. He didn’t like being reminded of how he had been, back before Rome had adopted him. He had grown fond of the sophistication of the Romans.
The child kept struggling, and as its head turned around Gaul could see emerald eyes beneath impossibly bushy eyebrows. It looked at him for a moment, before wrinkling up its face and spitting towards Francis.
He jumped back, with an expression of disgust. How dare that little savage?
Rome nearly doubled over from laughing. “I remember when you were younger, Gaul. Younger and a great deal more foolish. You very nearly did the same to poor Hispania. I remember how he wanted to send a sword through your head.”
Francis couldn’t help smiling at that. Something told him that he and this little wildcat were in for a long, tumultuous relationship.