1000 Themes - #483 - Hetalia - France & England
Title: Lost Everything
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, set in [title to be decided]-verse, language, closed-mindedness, sexual references
Words: 1272
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: Francis & Arthur, reference to Alfred x Toris
Comments: I really enjoy writing the parenting differences between these two, but mostly on the way England/Arthur goes about it. I suppose it's because it's a contrast to what I grew up with versus what I wanted in a single parent. So it goes.
“Arthur, you didn’t need to be so hard on him.”
Arthur fumed, turned on Francis with a manic, angry growl. He was pissed. “You git! He was giving it to that boy up the arse! In my home!! The bloody idiot got what he deserved!” he shouted, banging his fist on the table as he jumped up from his seat. Francis sighed and slouched in his chair. This was ridiculous…
He sipped his wine carefully, delicately as he always did. “You didn’t need to slap the boy, he was just-”
“Just ‘making love’? I don’t care!! My boy cannot be homosexual! All his life he’s been google-eyed over girls, snuck Playboy magazines in his room, for God’s sake I’ve caught him masturbating to them! Alfred is straight!”
Francis groaned and set his glass down on the table. Good lord his neighbor was stupid. “Of all people I suspected you would know that things don’t turn out just as planned.” Normally, he’d laugh, tease Arthur about how closed-minded he was, but this entire thing just rubbed him the wrong way; and on top of this new development of drama, Matthew was having problems of his own.
Arthur glared at him. “Bigot.” he cursed and stomped off to his kitchen. He needed a drink, the strongest stuff he had. Francis, knowing his intentions, followed. Upon seeing the shorter father with a bottle in his hand, he snatched it from his grasp, much to the irritation of Arthur. “Give that back you bloody arsehole!”
“No, Arthur. We’re talking and I’m not going to deal with you crying tonight.” Francis ground out, aggravated. Arthur raised his fist, clocked Francis in the face, right along the jaw, and marched back into the dining room. Francis, used to being slapped, punched and hit by both women and men, stood unfazed.
This was going to be a long night.
He put up the bottle of alcohol, cheap whiskey, and again followed Arthur into the other room. Arthur was sitting back down, slumped forward over the table, elbows planted on the surface while his hands dug into the hair of his dropped head. Francis felt a little sorry for the Englishman, but only a little. After all the crap he put Alfred through, it was only just rewards.
“Mon Dieu…you’re a mess.”
Arthur didn’t move, but his static position didn’t mean he was through with talking just yet. “Bloody wine-bastard…”
Francis took his seat back, rubbed his brow, and sighed. “If you’re not careful, he’ll start a revolution.” And I won’t say ‘no’ to helping him. “You’ll lose him, and he won’t have a second thought about leaving you.”
“You think I don’t bloody know that?!” Arthur roared, bringing down his fists hard onto the table as he turned his irate gaze to Francis. “Ever since that git was a blasted child he’s been sorely independent! Doing what he wanted, hardly listening to me…he’s an immature brat with no respect for the one who had to bloody raise him alone!” He was overreacting, in the back of his enraged mind he knew this; Alfred had been a good child, obedient and loving with only a few instances of bad behavior by Arthur’s definition. But something had happened; something had gone wrong, something-
“He’s about to do to you what you what you did to him, moron,” Francis stated, settling a cold, exasperated stare on Arthur, “leaving you to fend for yourself with little to no notice.” He scratched his head, then his chin. “Ahh, if only you weren’t such a bad parent...non?”
Arthur got up, raised his fist to punch him again, but this time Francis saw the move before it came and grabbed his wrists. “Bloody wine-bastard!! Take that back!”
Francis grinned lazily as Arthur struggled. He loved watching the smaller man flail; it was wickedly satisfying. “But it’s only the truth, mon ami~” he purred, tightening his grip on the thin wrists in his grip. Arthur winced, but continued to put up a fight nonetheless. He wasn’t a bad parent! He wasn’t! He had done everything for this son, the ungrateful brat!
He tried to twist himself out of the trap, turning and wiggling, pulling his arms away only to have them be yanked back, even going as far as to try to kick the smirking blond. What made it worse was that Francis was still goddamned sitting and he had Arthur at his mercy! This wasn’t…it wasn’t fair! Arthur was a strong man, full of will and determination, of kingly reason and contained recklessness. How could he, the great Arthur Kirkland, suddenly be a subject for questioning, a force quickly hindered by a mere chef, a father in whom his own son had lost faith, a scrawny, tea-drinking CEO with nothing left but memories and the burn of alcohol to make him happy?
When had his personal empire fell?
Arthur gradually began to give in, his energy running low, his mind reeling with self-distaste and taunts of his fall. No longer was he the young punk with everything good and profitable to his name, a glowing father with his whole world enclosed in a tiny blond baby; he was emptying into a pitiful, pathetic shell of what he once was, declining into a lonely divorced-widow whose world had turned against him. And with the hand he once used to feed his child, he had struck him, not once, but twice.
He slumped, hung his head and dropped his arms. That was it. It all made sense…sort of. He had abandoned his real world for the one that revolved around material success and conquering what stood in his way. Now he was paying the price in broken homes and blue-eyed glares.
Francis, confused by Arthur’s sudden lack of fight, simply watched the small man fall back into his seat, body shuddering. It was obvious he was trying not to cry as he usually did when he had lost. Francis could only stare; he didn’t feel pity for his “friend,” if anything he was ashamed to refer to him as such. Arthur had been a thorn in his side since before Arthur had been married, going all the way back to elementary school, and visa-versa. They knew each other well but neither cared to.
“Arthur…” Francis sighed. What a mess. “Alfred’s staying with me for a while, I suggest you apologize before he finds a way to take off somewhere.” he instructed. Arthur perked up, but the dead look in his eyes didn’t change.
He broke his hands free of Francis’ hold with ease, the Frenchman’s grip having loosened considerably. “…I need a drink,” he stated, getting up from his seat and stalking to the kitchen. Francis didn’t follow him this time, choosing instead to sit back and rub his temples.
“We’re done talking, I presume?”
Arthur’s voice, suddenly strong and definite, echoed from the kitchen. “Yes. We’re done talking. Get out.”
Francis rolled his eyes, but stood to leave anyway. This wasn’t the time to smirk and ask for the rest of the cheap red wine. He retrieved his coat from the otherwise never used coat hanger and opened the door. Just as he was striding out, Arthur’s voice, again, broke over the silence.
“What about Toris?” he asked, peeking his head out from the entranceway of the kitchen, sounding genuinely concerned. Francis, a bit surprised, looked back at him. He’d forgotten that the boy had been staying with them.
He waited, watched Arthur, and turned to leave. “He and Alfred can share the pull-out.”
And then he was gone, leaving Arthur to drink the night away.
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, set in [title to be decided]-verse, language, closed-mindedness, sexual references
Words: 1272
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: Francis & Arthur, reference to Alfred x Toris
Comments: I really enjoy writing the parenting differences between these two, but mostly on the way England/Arthur goes about it. I suppose it's because it's a contrast to what I grew up with versus what I wanted in a single parent. So it goes.
“Arthur, you didn’t need to be so hard on him.”
Arthur fumed, turned on Francis with a manic, angry growl. He was pissed. “You git! He was giving it to that boy up the arse! In my home!! The bloody idiot got what he deserved!” he shouted, banging his fist on the table as he jumped up from his seat. Francis sighed and slouched in his chair. This was ridiculous…
He sipped his wine carefully, delicately as he always did. “You didn’t need to slap the boy, he was just-”
“Just ‘making love’? I don’t care!! My boy cannot be homosexual! All his life he’s been google-eyed over girls, snuck Playboy magazines in his room, for God’s sake I’ve caught him masturbating to them! Alfred is straight!”
Francis groaned and set his glass down on the table. Good lord his neighbor was stupid. “Of all people I suspected you would know that things don’t turn out just as planned.” Normally, he’d laugh, tease Arthur about how closed-minded he was, but this entire thing just rubbed him the wrong way; and on top of this new development of drama, Matthew was having problems of his own.
Arthur glared at him. “Bigot.” he cursed and stomped off to his kitchen. He needed a drink, the strongest stuff he had. Francis, knowing his intentions, followed. Upon seeing the shorter father with a bottle in his hand, he snatched it from his grasp, much to the irritation of Arthur. “Give that back you bloody arsehole!”
“No, Arthur. We’re talking and I’m not going to deal with you crying tonight.” Francis ground out, aggravated. Arthur raised his fist, clocked Francis in the face, right along the jaw, and marched back into the dining room. Francis, used to being slapped, punched and hit by both women and men, stood unfazed.
This was going to be a long night.
He put up the bottle of alcohol, cheap whiskey, and again followed Arthur into the other room. Arthur was sitting back down, slumped forward over the table, elbows planted on the surface while his hands dug into the hair of his dropped head. Francis felt a little sorry for the Englishman, but only a little. After all the crap he put Alfred through, it was only just rewards.
“Mon Dieu…you’re a mess.”
Arthur didn’t move, but his static position didn’t mean he was through with talking just yet. “Bloody wine-bastard…”
Francis took his seat back, rubbed his brow, and sighed. “If you’re not careful, he’ll start a revolution.” And I won’t say ‘no’ to helping him. “You’ll lose him, and he won’t have a second thought about leaving you.”
“You think I don’t bloody know that?!” Arthur roared, bringing down his fists hard onto the table as he turned his irate gaze to Francis. “Ever since that git was a blasted child he’s been sorely independent! Doing what he wanted, hardly listening to me…he’s an immature brat with no respect for the one who had to bloody raise him alone!” He was overreacting, in the back of his enraged mind he knew this; Alfred had been a good child, obedient and loving with only a few instances of bad behavior by Arthur’s definition. But something had happened; something had gone wrong, something-
“He’s about to do to you what you what you did to him, moron,” Francis stated, settling a cold, exasperated stare on Arthur, “leaving you to fend for yourself with little to no notice.” He scratched his head, then his chin. “Ahh, if only you weren’t such a bad parent...non?”
Arthur got up, raised his fist to punch him again, but this time Francis saw the move before it came and grabbed his wrists. “Bloody wine-bastard!! Take that back!”
Francis grinned lazily as Arthur struggled. He loved watching the smaller man flail; it was wickedly satisfying. “But it’s only the truth, mon ami~” he purred, tightening his grip on the thin wrists in his grip. Arthur winced, but continued to put up a fight nonetheless. He wasn’t a bad parent! He wasn’t! He had done everything for this son, the ungrateful brat!
He tried to twist himself out of the trap, turning and wiggling, pulling his arms away only to have them be yanked back, even going as far as to try to kick the smirking blond. What made it worse was that Francis was still goddamned sitting and he had Arthur at his mercy! This wasn’t…it wasn’t fair! Arthur was a strong man, full of will and determination, of kingly reason and contained recklessness. How could he, the great Arthur Kirkland, suddenly be a subject for questioning, a force quickly hindered by a mere chef, a father in whom his own son had lost faith, a scrawny, tea-drinking CEO with nothing left but memories and the burn of alcohol to make him happy?
When had his personal empire fell?
Arthur gradually began to give in, his energy running low, his mind reeling with self-distaste and taunts of his fall. No longer was he the young punk with everything good and profitable to his name, a glowing father with his whole world enclosed in a tiny blond baby; he was emptying into a pitiful, pathetic shell of what he once was, declining into a lonely divorced-widow whose world had turned against him. And with the hand he once used to feed his child, he had struck him, not once, but twice.
He slumped, hung his head and dropped his arms. That was it. It all made sense…sort of. He had abandoned his real world for the one that revolved around material success and conquering what stood in his way. Now he was paying the price in broken homes and blue-eyed glares.
Francis, confused by Arthur’s sudden lack of fight, simply watched the small man fall back into his seat, body shuddering. It was obvious he was trying not to cry as he usually did when he had lost. Francis could only stare; he didn’t feel pity for his “friend,” if anything he was ashamed to refer to him as such. Arthur had been a thorn in his side since before Arthur had been married, going all the way back to elementary school, and visa-versa. They knew each other well but neither cared to.
“Arthur…” Francis sighed. What a mess. “Alfred’s staying with me for a while, I suggest you apologize before he finds a way to take off somewhere.” he instructed. Arthur perked up, but the dead look in his eyes didn’t change.
He broke his hands free of Francis’ hold with ease, the Frenchman’s grip having loosened considerably. “…I need a drink,” he stated, getting up from his seat and stalking to the kitchen. Francis didn’t follow him this time, choosing instead to sit back and rub his temples.
“We’re done talking, I presume?”
Arthur’s voice, suddenly strong and definite, echoed from the kitchen. “Yes. We’re done talking. Get out.”
Francis rolled his eyes, but stood to leave anyway. This wasn’t the time to smirk and ask for the rest of the cheap red wine. He retrieved his coat from the otherwise never used coat hanger and opened the door. Just as he was striding out, Arthur’s voice, again, broke over the silence.
“What about Toris?” he asked, peeking his head out from the entranceway of the kitchen, sounding genuinely concerned. Francis, a bit surprised, looked back at him. He’d forgotten that the boy had been staying with them.
He waited, watched Arthur, and turned to leave. “He and Alfred can share the pull-out.”
And then he was gone, leaving Arthur to drink the night away.