It was silent. France could feel his heart beating away like a mad thing in his chest and could hear his shallow sketchy breathing as he tried desperately not to hyperventilate, or worse, pass out. Alfred's look of masked horror at Francis' supposed forced kiss had slowly faded away and now the American looked almost sickeningly eager to see his partner's response to the sordid happening that had taken place. France noted that America was clenching his shaking fists up in anticipation and he swallowed back the bile that had risen to his throat.
The first sign of life from the Englishman: he laughed. Of all the reactions Francis had been counting on hilarity was not one of them. Arthur continued to chortle out a strangled merriment before he managed to get out "This is a joke. Oh, I wonder how on earth you can say you love me when you go around kissing people behind my back – is it jealousy? Hmm? Is it a way to get my attention? Well I would very much like to say that perhaps if I had any sense left in my head after being pushed to and fro and treated like shit I could begin to give a damn!!" the Briton's voice rose to an almighty roar.
"What is this achieving?! You have me so why are you being so possessive? I'm not your bloody property!!-" France frowned and looked unintelligently at England before opening his mouth to speak only to find he was cut short "-you sicken me. You have taken my confidence and God have mercy on you for what you've done to me physically!! Do you think this makes me love you any more?!" Arthur pointed an accusatory finger at the black bruises on his face with a half frenzied look. It wasn't until this point that Francis realised that these tortured words weren't directed at him but at the dumbfounded American standing across from him gaping at his partner in utter bewilderment. His plan had backfired.
"You do love me though, you said you did only this morning!"
"And God knows why!!"
"Iggy, don't do this, I know you're angry but-"
"But WHAT exactly?! You claim you love me only to beat me up, make my life a living hell and go after one of my friends because you're so paranoid he's going to steal me away! And then you beat him up to!"
The Frenchman couldn't help a little bit of a smile spreading onto his face at the Briton admitting they were indeed friends yet his joy was short lived as the American caught sight of his glee and yelled "Look at him!! He obviously wants you!! This is what he wants!! He's been playing games with me, mind games. I always have to be a step ahead incase he does something to you!" Alfred pounded his fists against his own skull, as though fighting inner demons. "I have to be the hero, your hero, but I can't because he's always there ready to fuck things up between us!"
"For GOD'S sake!!" England shrieked, burying his face in his hands before yelling "It may come as a surprise to you Alfred but did it ever occur to you that he may have been joking?!"
"Oh – right. So when I saw him kiss you that was him 'joking' was it?? Cus' it looked pretty damn real to me!"
Both France and England blanched and shouted in unison "What?!"
"The day Iggy and I hooked up and you drove him here. I saw you kiss Arthur after yelling the frickin' place down!"
"Amérique, that wasn't-"
"That wasn't anything." Arthur snapped, looking nervous now.
Alfred's eyes bore into France's. "Fine. If you're so not into England then say it. Right here, right now. Admit you don't have any feelings for him and I'll never bother you again." It was as though someone has shone a spotlight down on him and he felt both the countries' eyes on him, scrutinising his every movement. It made him feel incredibly uneasy: his palms were moist and clammy and his ribs ached with abandon. Just say it – get it over with. Then everything goes back to normal, Arthur will be happy once more. Just say it – it'll make you happy too. Back to your beautiful self with hundreds of girls falling at your feet. But... France faltered as his heart ached painfully at these thoughts of moving on and something inside his head clicked into place. He couldn't let Arthur go. He wouldn't.
"Don't be ridiculous – he may be a shameless flirt but none of that meant anything; he likes all those girls he hooks up with. Tell him Francis, you and I both know that you weren't ser-"
"I can't lie to vous" France whispered, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he hung is head in shame.
America barked out a triumphant laugh at the look of confusion and surprise on his partner's face before jeering "What did I tell you? I knew it all along. I had a right to be paranoid!" the thought that the American deemed his abuse justified because of the Frenchman's feelings sickened France to the core yet he was too busy jumping hurdles in his thoughts to think of a reason as to why this knowledge should shock England.
All their childhood experiments, their adventures, the kiss full of Francis' jealousy, the talk in his apartment about Alfred...Francis did a double take. Hadn't Arthur admitted then that he was aware of France's feelings for him? What had he said...yes, that was right, France had asked what England had meant when he had said earlier that day that he needed him and Arthur had responded with "Exactly what I said...I need you, even if it's not in the way you would like" so the Briton had known! Then why was he acting so amazed at this information now? After all, Arthur had also kissed him of his own accord...
"Tell me vous don't feel the same, Angleterre"
"I beg your pardon??"
"Tell me vous love Alfred and not me"
"Well I do-"
"You're doing it again! You're lying. Vous knew how I felt. Why are vous pretending?"
Alfred stepped behind Arthur and placed a possessive hand on the Briton's shoulder which he promptly shrugged off. Francis watched as England's face expressed a hundred conflicted emotions.
"Don't be absurd. I don't know what you're on about frog!"
"Do do this Arthur"
"Do what?!" The Englishman laughed forcefully, looking at America behind him jerkily.
"You're lying!! You're prioritising his happiness over your own! I know-"
"ENOUGH!!" America bellowed suddenly, his face a mask of anguish. "he loves me, not you, get that into your fuckin' head!!"
"I want to hear him say it!!"
"He doesn't need to explain anything to you!!"
"Angleterre – please"
The Frenchman stepped forwards, his hands outstretched towards the Briton as though pleading with him. Arthur looked the most vulnerable France had ever seen him and that was unnerving. England was always proud, boasting, a stiff upper lipped gentleman. He never willingly showed fear. In his hasty movements France's beret fell from his head as he stopped before England, revealing the jagged network of stitches across his scalp from America's beatings. Arthur started at these injuries with an unreadable expression as Alfred's renewed grip on him tightened.
"Don't make me do this-" the new weaker side of England whispered, his green emerald eyes wide and panic stricken "- don't make me choose." As much as he wanted an answer Francis couldn't bear the pained look in Arthur's eyes – he knew what it must be asking of the man to choose who he wanted to love or lose. Francis imagined he'd feel a similar conflict if he were asked to choose between fine cuisine or sex.
Alfred however felt differently than Francis as he let out a primal sounding growl and spat "Choose. Me or him. Do you love him?"
"Amérique, don't – he loves vous, it's over. Vous won" France said numbly, barely feeling himself say the words as he watched Arthur's eyes fill up with silent tears that his pride couldn't allow him to shed.
As England parted his lips to speak the sound of the meeting room door opening was heard and all three countries turned around to see Germany scowling down at the stained carpet and the discarded coffee cup. Francis quickly replaced his beret, America let his hand fall away from England and Arthur dried up his eyes. "Who's is this?" Ludwig asked snappishly.
"Mine. Sorry, I...I tripped. Bloody business shoes, you know?" England laughed awkwardly before walking over and retrieving the polystyrene holder as Germany looked suspiciously down at the Briton's quite obviously non business brown suede comfort shoes. The German sighed exasperatedly, deciding not to push the matter any further.
"Right...anyway – the meeting now resumes. You are required to sit and take notes. I presume you can all do that?" Ludwig looked at Arthur, Alfred and Francis with a warning look as though they were naughty school children.
"Good. Now take your seats whilst we wait for the others to arrive. It's a miracle anyone is early, least of all you three."
In the Frenchman's mind's eye the events that had passed earlier had ended with a narrative very much like this one: "Angleterre's perfect pink lips had opened fractionally, his green eyes glimmering with tears that sparkled like jewels as he thought of a way to express his undying love for the Frenchman before he was rudely cut short by the arrival of angry Allemagne."
For the duration of the rest of the meeting Francis held on to that scene in his mind, editing it sometimes on it's numerous replays so that instead of Germany being there England actually admitted his love and the two countries then proceeded to hungrily make out on the office table with America, held captive and chained to a chair, forced to watch. In some versions France had fed Alfred to sharks before the making out and Arthur had marvelled at his intense muscle to hold the American down whilst he was devoured piece by piece, all the while screaming out for mercy...
Francis mentally shook himself. The odds were seriously stacked against right now and he should accept that. Even with there being a slight chance that Arthur had been harbouring feelings for him over the last few months it would be seriously unlikely that Arthur would admit to them as for one it involved admitting to having feelings which Arthur had never been very good at anyway and two, admitting he was in love with Francis would make the Frenchman very happy, an emotion the Briton had been trying to avoid France feeling for centuries. Oh, and also not to mention the slight problem of the paranoid psycho American boyfriend who on realising the Briton's feelings might steadily turn to a life of crime, abuse and drugs and live out the rest of his days as a recluse who could trust no-one. Things were not looking up.
Sighing slightly in defeat at the ridiculous situation he had got himself involved in Francis once again let his thoughts drift back to Arthur and his trouble with expressing his emotions. To France the inability to love freely and be self confident as as foreign to him as another language – well, that wasn't so true now since he had found himself stuttering and acting like a pubescent teenage boy over his forbidden feelings for England – but even so, his usual demeanour usually had no trouble at all with being a suave flirt bursting with confident bravado.
Arthur had always had an odd way of dealing with affection: moreover he didn't deal with it. When someone showed an interest in him, whether it be friendship or a physical attraction he would always do one of two things: either he would act distant and stutter, blush and swear away his feelings or he would remain silent and sit there smug in the knowledge that someone liked him and not a fellow country. Either way he would always end up alone, usually by the person taking his snappish comments and brusque responses to signs of affection as the Briton not having any mutual responsive feelings. This however was not the case yet Arthur had never been comfortable or knowledgeable in how to act around people who are sweet on him – leading him to panic and withdraw even further into his shell.
What England needed was, France concluded, him. The stubborn Brit needed to be with someone who was not afraid to flaunt his love and be publicly intimate. Even though Arthur could be very loud and hurl insults left right and centre when he chose (a trait that had undeniably been passed down to America) he turned into a person even more secluded than Japan in the face of dealing with actual emotions. What England needed was a gorgeous self confident Frenchman to boost his confidence up and realise that to be in love and let yourself be vulnerable, allowing the other person to break down your barriers, wasn't a sin or a death wish.
Yet first of all, he had to get rid of Alfred. France's previous resolve of not interfering with Arthur's love life had been abandoned as soon as he realised that England may be re-evaluating his options. Glancing over to the Briton Francis couldn't help but feel a little bit smug at how Arthur was quite obviously giving America the cold shoulder and was hitting the man's hand away when he tried to place it on his thigh, suggesting what France didn't want to consider. When Francis had placed his hand however on Arthur's thigh that winter night in 2006 hitting France away had been the last thing on his mind, or so Francis liked to think so...
December 24th 2006 – The Unicorn Pub, East Sussex, England. 10:58 PM
Francis couldn't tell what it was making him feel this way, the crackling log fire beating out the frost of the chill winter's night, the merrily singing carol singers sat together in the corner (only half in tune though he hated to admit it), the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed or perhaps, just maybe, it was due to the Englishman kissing him square on the mouth – although he supposed he had the alcohol as well as his own charms to thank for that one.
Giggling slightly and hiccuping the Frenchman pulled back to look at Arthur who was looking incredibly glassy eyed and severely put out that their kiss had been cut short. Smiling sloppily France pecked the Briton's lips once more before exclaiming in a dramatic sigh "I'd love to Angleterre but seeing as both vous-" he pointed a finger off centre at England's chest "-and moi-" he gestured to his own chest "-are not in our, how do vous say it? Right minds – I would be taking advantage of your ill nature, non?"
Blinking moronically at the use of such long words when his brain was so fuzzy from drink Arthur scowled, grabbing his beer and sloshing some clumsily into his lap as he a took a hearty swig.
"America took advantage of me, that bloody git. I was the only one who cared for him in the whole fuckin' world yet he couldn't care less and he went like...like...POOF!" the Englishman mimicked several dramatic explosions with his hands, slurring out sound effects as he went. Finding this hilarious for some reason unbeknown to him Francis laughed until his sides ached and dropped a hand to the Briton's shoulder.
"Here's to the ones who screw up our lives, non?" he chortled, grabbing his own glass and clinking it against England's as the other man nodded feverishly with a pronounced yell of "cheers to that!" before they both drained their cups of the remaining liquor. The evening passed very much in this fashion until the countdown for Christmas was upon them. France had a long fingered hand resting on the Briton's thigh, trying out his own experiment to see how far he could slink up the man's trouser leg without him realising – apparently pretty far it seemed as France's hand was a mere centimetre away from Arthur's crotch when the Englishman turned his attention away from the TV that held a countdown of the minutes and seconds until the clock struck and it was officially Christmas day, causing Francis to cease his game of gay chicken.
"Frog-" France jerked his hand away from Arthur's vital regions and tried to look innocent.
"Above our heads."
"Oh, Oui...I see."
"I said kiss me."
"Are vous sure-"
"Just do it before I change my mind!"
"0! Merry Christmas!!"
It wasn't the most romantic of requests yet Francis sure as hell wasn't about to pass it up – leaning forwards he hastily pressed his lips to Arthur's, rather roughly at first he had to admit, but realising how desperate he must've seemed he softened his approach to the kiss, his previously groping hands now fluttering up to frame England's face.
How long the intimacy was originally supposed to go on for France didn't know but he made no complaint and that seemed to spur the Englishman on; the Briton's kisses got deeper, more needy even, and his tongue pushed against Francis' lips determinedly until with a throaty chuckle the Frenchman opened his mouth a millimetre and the eager Briton hastily took the bait, his muscle fighting for dominance over France's.
"Angleterre, Angleterre, stop-" Francis managed to croak out despite the Englishman shoving his tongue down his throat. Arthur seemed to focus on and realise the situation at hand and his cheeks began to slowly turn a wonderful shade of pink. This beautiful sight of complete and utter innocence and sheepishness took France off guard and he sort of goggled at the Englishman for a few seconds before he remembered why he had interrupted their kissing session.
Flicking his eyes over to the countdown clock on the television several times pointedly to get the Briton to follow his gaze Francis couldn't help a bubble of laughter escape his throat as Arthur's cheeks flushed a further crimson at the sight of Big Ben's dial showing a quarter past midnight. They had obviously been in their lip lock for longer than necessary.
"I suppose I should say 'Joyeux Noël', non? Or is it a bit late for that now?" France giggled, moving a lock of Arthur's sandy blonde hair away from his eyes with a pearly toothed grin. Stammering a couple of times before answering England managed a half smile before he stuck his tongue out childishly (he had been fond of doing this in his punk rock anarchy days, along with showing the middle finger every five seconds) and he grunted out "Bah humbug! What does it matter that it's Christmas frog? No miracles ever happen."
Rolling his eyes at the quoted Dickens Francis said "It is a time of joy, non? Why are vous so grumpy?"
"HAH! Why don't you ask that pillock America? Always has to outdo me by throwing the most extravagant party and having the biggest tree"
"Oh, Arthur! So bitter over trivial things! Don't be such a child."
"That's rich coming from you" England snorted
Arthur imitated a high pitched girlish warble that sounded unfortunately a tad too much like France and flapped his hand out camply "Look at me, I'm Francis 'Frog face' Bonnefoy, I sleep with everything that moves on Christmas day so I'm not alone and then I cry about not getting called back the next day – boo hoo!"
"Hey!-" Francis puffed up angrily "-they always call me back merci!"
Another snort. "Yeah right. The ones you'd rather forget always call back you mean, like the married ones or the prostitutes wanting their money or-"
"Where is this going??" Francis asked scathingly as Arthur just grinned and replied
"No-where. It's fun to wind you up."he picked up his refilled pint from the bar "Merry Christmas, Wino" laughing at his own joke he took a sip of the golden liquid and smiled over the rim of the glass at the Frenchman smugly. France promptly spilt his drink over England's lap, by accident of course.
Finally at two AM on Christmas Day the duo were kicked out the pub by the landlord who, at first, had seen no problem with the two men staying there spending a hefty amount on alcohol yet had soon changed his mind when their conversations grew into loud heated arguments and liquor and furniture were getting thrown about precariously.
Scowling and drawing his coat closer around himself Arthur glared at the Frenchman, his breath coming out in small white puffs in the chill morning air.
"So what now?"
"I am going home, vous can do whatever vous wish"
"You're leaving me drunk and alone on the streets." Arthur stated.
"Don't be a git – walk me home" Francis looked less than willing to move and Arthur added "-if I go missing you're the last person I was seen with and they'll come after you first."
"I'd be a suspect?"
"You'd be written down as my kidnapper. Especially if you were interviewed by my police department, because, you know how much we loveee the French."
One scowling and the other looking insanely smug the two countries proceeded to walk along the several winding pavements, down the numerous hills and up a particularly steep one (that almost killed them in the process) to finally reach England's home. It was no longer the city building that Arthur had previously inhabited in the recession years back but was now more along the lines of a airy, clean looking cottage with a neat looking garden and white painted picket fence around the perimeter.
Fumbling with his eyes in his pocket England extracted a large golden key from the hundreds of pieces of clanking metal and forced it into the lock ungraciously, rattling it around impatiently until the door's locking mechanism gave way and the oak door swung open. France stood in the doorway leaning against the door frame with his feet crossed one over the other. England noticed this and slowly turned to face the Frenchman, his thick eyebrows raised.
"Can I help you?"
"Vous need to say goodnight to me"
"OK, fine, goodnight, now-"
"Non, non! - vous need to express your sorrow at our parting!"
Sighing in deep exasperation Francis stepped boldly across the threshold, grabbed Arthur by the collar and kissed him square on the lips.
"That-" he said in conclusion as he pulled away "-is how vous say goodnight"
Yet the Briton wasn't at all interested or in fact listening to Francis' words, his large emerald eyes were focused on one thing and one only.
"Don't say a bloody word" he grumbled, reaching across and grabbing the Frenchman's woollen winter scarf and tugging on it so to draw the man close as he kissed him deeply for the third time that night.
Francis concluded that this was his favourite way to say goodnight by a long stretch.
It was eight AM when Francis woke up bleary eyed, naked, and with a severe hangover in a bed he did not recognise. He wasn't really all that phased as this was a regular occurrence for him but what made his heart skip a beat in his chest was the sight of the equally nude Englishman curled up by his side deep in sleep – now that was not a regular occurrence.
Gradually the memories of last night seeped back into France's mind and realised what they're just done. Groaning inwardly at the hell he was going to get for this from Arthur when he finally came to Francis stretched his limbs out before gently sliding out of the covers and setting about collecting up his scattered clothes.
This was the first time they had slept together (that France could remember anyway.) That same thought kept spinning round his head along with grainy half formed memories from the night before. Leaning over and peeking a look at the sleeping Briton Francis couldn't help but feel fond of the large eyebrowed man, and that thought confused him slightly. Judging from the Englishman's slow steady breathing France presumed he was safe for at least another couple of hours and tottered off to the bathroom to have a shower.
The warm water soothed his aching joints as he stood there and promptly started to scrub his flesh clean of alcohol and other substances before moving on to massaging his scalp with the only decent shampoo that he could find in the Briton's bathroom cabinet. Unfortunately now he smelt suspiciously like melon.
As he stood there on the tiled floor letting the water fall rhythmically down around him Francis wondered what his plan of action must now be. Being well associated with the drunken one night stand routine France knew that it was customary for the person who had slept with the person whom the house belonged to to be the one to do the age old tradition of the walk of shame back home yet – this was England he would be leaving, which narrowed his options down to two possible outcomes.
Francis would get dressed and leave the premises as soon as possible before the Englishman awoke and could start cussing at him or France would stick around, tidy the house a fraction (he had noted unruly stains on the carpets that had to be dealt with) and make a complimentary breakfast for the Briton who in his hungover state would begrudgingly wake, eat his fill and then give the Frenchman hell for last night.
Even though it takes two to have sex and England had played a rather significant role in the leading up to their falling into bed together Francis knew how stubborn the Briton was and how he would never, even on his death bed, admit to actually wanting to sleep with the man he commonly referred to as a 'garlic shovelling wanker.'
Caught with indecision Francis turned the shower off and stepped out into the misty bathroom and onto the fuzzy bathmat that was placed below. Grabbing a green mossy coloured towel from the heated rack situated next to the porcelain sink France wrapped it around his torso before going back for a second smaller yellow towel to dry off his hair.
Two hours later and the Frenchman's jobs were finally done. The carpets were no longer stained (thanks to a stain remover Francis had found lurking in the cupboard under the sink) and Arthur's breakfast consisting of toast, a full 'English' fry up and a pot of steaming earl grey tea was placed on the oak table, set out ready with plate, knife, fork and tea cup. France noted only one chair was situated at the table and the sight saddened him slightly. To think that the Briton was so hard up for company that he needn't bother with the furniture to accommodate anyone any more was surprisingly upsetting.
The creaking of the floorboards from upstairs jolted France out of his melancholy thoughts and he hastily made his way to the hall, pulling on his shoes and coat as fast as he could. He had made a kind after morning gesture and would leave it at that: he didn't want an argument right now, especially with the memories of last night still etched into his mind. Closing the door he proceeded up the street to the bus stop – the image of the nude Arthur he'd mentally saved in his mind's eye spreading a large smug grin across his face. Of course he'd had to have one more peek that morning before he left.
January 5th 2007 – World Summit Meeting 11:02 AM
France hadn't seen or heard from the Englishman since their little get together on Christmas for which he had passed off as the Briton being in denial or just too arrogant to call – both of which would be so typical of Arthur. He had not expected the moment he entered the meeting room to be grabbed by the ear as if he were a naughty school child and be dragged over ruthlessly to the corner.
"Merde!! My beautiful ear!! What are vo- Oh. Angleterre." Francis trailed off, confused by the look of utter outrage on the Briton's face "Quoi-"
"You bloody well know what Frog!! You broke into my house on Christmas morning, to what? Use my shower, clean and make breakfast?! What the hell were you thinking!?"
"I...broke in?" Francis asked, his confusion growing.
"Don't act so bloody innocent. I could have you arrested for this!!"
England didn't remember. It was clear as day as Francis surveyed the Briton's features that he hadn't the faintest clue that they had been together on Christmas eve, let alone slept together. Oh the powers of alcohol on a weak willed mind...France sighed.
"How do vous know it was me?"
"Roses. Everywhere. And no-one else uses as much product as you in the bathroom, let alone folds the towels into origami swans!!"
Rather hurt his skill hadn't been appreciated Francis snapped "Fine. It was me-"
"AHAH! I knew it!!" England interrupted, looking triumphant.
"-next time maybe I'll let vous spend Christmas alone like vous always do."
Arthur's smug smile faded before he stepped forward, grabbing a bunch of France's shirt in his fist and sneering into his face. Was it the Frenchman's imagination or did he see a flicker of recognition in Arthur's gaze? After all, last time they'd been in this position England had kissed him.
"Stay the fuck away from me." Arthur finally managed, pushing himself away from the Frenchman and stalking off bitterly. And with that sweet parting sentiment they didn't speak for a total of five months.
The meeting was finally over. France could feel his insides squirm as he watched Arthur and Alfred pack up their notes into their briefcases (or backpack in America's case) and get up to leave the room, not once looking at each other. Was this guilt he felt or success? Either way he felt uneasy and needing straight answers to his many questions the Frenchman proceeded to follow the Briton.
England's face was flushed when Francis finally caught up with him in the car park. He looked livid yet resigned at the same time and France wasn't sure what to say. Luckily Arthur didn't require his condolences. "That man is a cruel vindictive soul sucking piece of shit!! I'll be damned – I can't believe I ever fell for him!!" the slamming of the boot as Arthur finished loading up his car. Francis stood awkwardly to the side.
"I told myself I had to work hard at this relationship after having so many failed ones before – told myself this was it, I'd finally got what I'd set out to achieve."
"And what is that?"
"Someone that loved me." the tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Francis fought back the desire to scream in rage at the Briton or moreover break down in tears.
"I loved vous" France said in a voice barely a whisper. He wasn't even sure the Englishman heard him as he didn't show any signs of understanding on his face, save for the pursing of his lips.
"I heard your car buggered up" England said after a while, his lips tilting up into a small smile, almost mockingly.
"Oui -and I'm guessing vous are not going to offer me a lift?"
"You know me too well" with a smug grin that seemed only half hearted the Briton yanked open the driver's side door of his Mini and plonked himself down ungraciously in the seat before snapping in his seatbelt. A turn of the key in the ignition and the engine sprang to life, fighting to be heard over the drawl of voices coming out of the Englishman's radio that was secured to BBC Radio 4. Turning the volume down on 'The Now Show' Arthur shut the door behind him, raising a hand in farewell to Francis, before he began to reverse out of his parking space.
France felt like an idiot, which was unusual to say the least. Obviously he hadn't expected Arthur to leap straight into his arms professing his undying love (not straight away anyway) yet he had sort of expected a gesture of thanks or a apology on having dealt with Alfred. Also, not to mention the fact he'd admitted his feelings for the Briton earlier only to have them brushed aside and ignored. What happened now? Were England and America still together? Still in love? And where did Francis stand in all of this? His head hurt.
Disheartened and car-less the Frenchman began walking melancholy' down to bus stop, his feet dragging ever so slightly. Just as he had sat down, perched on the edge of a particularly grimy bus shelter bench, there was a screech of wheels and when he looked up he was faced with the sight of Arthur's Mini doing an illegal U turn and heading up the wrong side of the road towards the bus stop he was at.
"Are vous insane??!!" Francis screeched as the car pulled up. England was sticking his head out of the window so to see where he was going and to show the 'finger' to anyone that honked furiously at his bad driving.
"Just get in the bloody car before some wanker crashes into it and we both end up dead!!" Arthur yelled over the sound of another car's horn blaring at them.
Fearing for his life as he darted round the side of the small car and launched himself into the passenger seat Francis didn't even have time to secure his seatbelt before England was spinning the car round, narrowly missing hitting other vehicles, before shooting across to the right hand side lane.
"What are vous doing?!" Francis spat out, finally doing up his seat belt and breathing hard out of genuine fear.
"What does it look like I'm doing Frog? I'm giving you a lift" Arthur stated cooly, reaching over and turning up the radio so the car was filled with the comic sounding laughter from a BBC programme, drowning out the ability to have a conversation.
France stared in mute disbelief at the Briton for a minute or so before burying his face in his hands with a low exasperated moan and sliding weakly down in his seat; he truly must be insane to be in love with this maniac.
TO BE CONTINUED...