What Is This I Don't Even...
Title: All I Want For Christmas
Author: Moi
Rating: T
Warning: So. This one is just... I dunno. I was going through a bit of writer's block but felt the need to get this idea out of my head. Also, I changed the timeline halfway through, so it's technically New Years reflecting upon Christmas, if that makes any sense whatsoever.
Summary: also on ff.net
Well, I’ve been thinking of doing something France/UK for a while now.
And, tis the season and all that jazz.
Or - was the season, considering how late I am posting this [silly laptop not working for the holiday season…]
I wanted a more Christmas-y sort of thing, but this ended up being more New Years oriented.
It’s probably not very in character, as I’ve been slipping up into bad habits, but - well, it’s cute.
And who doesn’t like things that are cute?
I don’t own Hetalia, which is probably a good thing.
So, here you go~
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“Come on now, Angleterre. You’re a magician, are you not? So you know better than anyone that for a wish to come true you have to close your eyes.”
Arthur ‘hmphed’ in annoyance, glaring at the ancient grandfather clock standing tall and proud, perfectly British, beside the sparsely decorated tree. The white string of lights hanging upon the drooping branches cast a harsh glow on the polished golden pendulum, too blaringly bright to look at for long.
“It isn’t even midnight yet.” On cue, the wrought-iron arm clicked into place, drumming it’s first of twelve notes and rumbling to a sleepy half-awake lucidity.
“Make a wish,” the man beside him whispered urgently as another clear note rang out deep and loud. Frowning, the Brit begrudgingly complied and did as told, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking. Three counts, four counts, five.
All I want is…
Something warm and firm brushed against his cheek, something soft and gentle descending upon his lips. Six, seven, eight counts. Then withdrawal, a coldness settling upon him as the presence that had enveloped him dissipated into nothing.
England’s eyes snapped open, glowering at the blonde beside him. The man paid no heed, instead concentrating on the wet world outside, staring intently at the rivulets of water cascading down the clear glass window pane. His elbow rested casually on the arm of the chesterfield, chin propped in the palm of his hand.
It started to snow.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Arthur growled, shooting up off the lounge. His hands fell on his hips as he demanded an answer with a furious gaze that could tear a person to shreds.
Nine counts, ten counts. No reply. Eleven counts, and then…
The last note echoed in silence, a deep reverberation tangled in the tense air, lingering hesitantly.
“Dammit, France. I asked you a question - “ He was interrupted by the shuffling of expensive, stiff cloth on stiff, red velvet as the Frenchman shifted, pushing himself off the settee.
“Pardonne, England.” Arthur’s anger spiked as he was brushed aside. There were few times when Francis had ever reverted from pet names and French words when addressing anyone; always in moments when solitude was sought out instead of acknowledgement towards a particularly troubling issue. Only when he was trying to run away from something he’d rather ignore.
Well, dash the rules. There was no way he would stand to be tossed off like that, cast aside like yesterdays old and worn out newspaper!
“You stop right there or so help me…” Unable to come up with anything that didn’t involve provoking another world war, Arthur left his sentence hanging. The threat carried with it a weight of impending doom, looming mysteriously unsaid.
The taller blonde’s shoulders fell in defeat as he flung himself against the wall, leaning with his arms crossed in reluctance as he started to defend himself.
“Well, you were obviously quite upset - “
“Who said I was upset?” the Brit snapped in frustration.
“ - and you certainly didn’t enjoy it - “
“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words into my mouth!” There was silence as Francis stared in wide-eyed wonder. England scowled, a light pink blush blossoming in his cheeks under such scrutiny.
“So you… did like it?” the Frenchman questioned in disbelief, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
“What would you do if I said yes?” Arthur challenged, lifting his chin in an act of tenacity.
“I would kiss you again.”
“Well… then what are you waiting for?”
France seemed to glide across the floor, soon flush against the smaller blonde. His
thumb brushed over the Brit’s cheek, fingers trailing down his jaw as his head was tilted upward. England could feel his face redden from such an intimate proximity. But he held fast, determined - too stubborn to let himself be won over by such clichéd seductive charm.
“Shall I tell you what I wished for?” Francis teased gently.
“Idiot,” he growled, green eyes lowering to stare at his lips. “If you do that it won’t come true.”
“All I want for Christmas…”
Arthur reached up impatiently, using the collar of Francis’ shirt as leverage to pull himself to the blonde’s lips, kissing him softly. The Frenchman kissed him back passionately, not wanting the moment to end.
Arthur clenched his hand as they drew back, grabbing a fistful of the Frenchman’s collar in preparation to pitch him back against the wall. But it seemed as though all that kissing had stolen his energy away; instead, he opted for a light head butt, burying his face into the taller blonde’s shoulder in frustration at his mixed emotions.
“Bloody bastard.” He could feel the smug waves rolling off of Francis, frowning as the man chuckled lightly as ruffled his hair.
“Happy New Year, mon cher.”