Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
This was done for the kink meme but I thought there's no harm putting it up here as well.
France finds no shame in admitting what a lecherous bastard he really is, and really, there's little to admit when the whole world already agrees with this, but that's all irrelevant to this charming character that carries the name Francis Bonnefoy.
But although they imagine his mind to be a one track thing (rapports sexuels, oui?), it is not. He has his work and frustrations and worries, and although it is not often that he puts these annoying little things ahead of pleasure, he does so now. Because France is a pervert, a beautiful being made by his culture, but most of all, France is a big brother.
It's his duty, he supposes, because nations aren't born, they are made and so the closest things they ever have to a parent are their founders or occupiers, but they tend to perish in a blink of an eye for someone who lives by these odd rules of immortality, so they are a no, merci beaucoup.
So they have each other, same faces century after century, but it's all right, he finds, because the twisted thing that fate is has decided to give him Spain as a neighbor. Oh, his dear Spain, France thinks fondly with a blush forming on his face as his mind wanders, momentarily forgetting to be worried.
France has always liked Spain, thinks of him as family even if he deems his neighbor less of a little brother than he considers Italy to be. But Spain is Spain, cheerful and funny, full of unwieldy tease and oblivion so thick that it frustrates France to no end. And even if France and Spain have had their share of bloodshed between them, Francis has always loved Antonio, being countries aside. And he's convinced this feeling he carries is conserved for Antonio alone; this thing between them that is something crooked and not quite right, but most definitely has it's roots deep in the hearts of both of them. A love for a brother.
And so France takes this rare opportunity presented to him and worries, because Antonio, quite slow and not as right in the head as Francis would fancy him to be, has fallen in love as far as France's experted eyes in this area can tell. And it's not him alone that thinks it is so, because the world once again agrees with him, the only one not in on this new state of affairs being, not unexpectedly, Spain himself.
France finds it surprising at first, when he sees the relationship fold, finding it odd that Spain would show that kind of interest in someone so old. He means no insult with this, of course, but Spain has always come off as someone who would prefer them younger. A lot younger. Something between Romano-young and Sealand-young (but never human-young. Spain might be depraved, but he's not downright sick). What scares him is that he's not even exaggerating when he thinks this.
But this is Russia, as old as, dare he say it, France himself, and it makes him scared for entirely different reasons. It's strange and odd that Spain has picked the weirdest candy from the bowl, the treat looking quite harmless while being held in hand but once you swallow it...
Age aside, France can kind of see what Spain sees, though. It's the innocence, he thinks. There's something pure as snow in Russia, and he knows this because as much enemies as the northern nation has, France is not one of them. And France observes, now more than ever since it's his little brother that this man has entranced.
"Ivan?" Antonio asks him, a smile on his face like there always is, oblivious as ever and France can figure even from his wine affected stupor that not even Russia's long row of intimidating Kols are enough to penetrate that thick layer of denseness. It's no wonder they get along. No wonder at all. Well, if only a little.
"I find he's sweet," Antonio says, smiling against the glass of his drink, making Francis miss the times his advantages to claim those lips were met with willing curiosity rather than clueless friendliness. He wonders if those lips have already touched Russia's, painting the scene in his head, finding it both arousing and impossible to occur and thus stops to think about it altogether.
Antonio looks like he's thinking, and France finds this odd because he associates Spain and thinking with battle strategies, a way to calm his mind when he knows he's gone too far with his axe and when he goes over the things that caused him to lose. But this time his face is calm and fond, eyes inspecting his hand but seeing something entirely different than the reality of the bar that they are sitting in. Spain is thinking, and he's thinking of Russia. In a sweet way that is in conflict with what his passionate body is feeling, yearning to make it's desires know but the head is just too thick to comprehend these cravings.
"He has large hands," Spain lets his thoughts drift into words, eyes still staring at his hand and right through it. "They were cold so I held them to warm him up."
And so he had, France still remembers this, as does the whole world. It occurred as Spain walked past the northern nation, hands brushing by pure accident, got awfully upset about how cold they had felt and decided to hold them for the rest of the conference, never shy with his actions. That was what gave life to those god-awful whispers telling whats happening between them behind closed doors. Those are ugly, lewd rumors, part of the reason why France finds himself so worried.
"I asked him if I could come over to play," Spain tells him, and France can't help but chuckle at the word 'play'. It's not meant in the way France uses to charm partners to spread their legs for him, he knows, but added with the rumors, he can't help but think dirty. Then again, 'play' coming from Spain sounds so innocent and jocular that he almost feels ashamed. Almost.
There's a tone of wistfulness in Spain's voice as well, and France supposes it's from wanting to get to know Russia better. Spain and Russia have little to do with each other, he's led to believe, and so an invitation to come over and play would be the rare occasion where Antonio could go and see how Ivan lives up in the north.
"But he says it's so cold during this time of the year that I'd just freeze right over." So it was a rejection, then. Not that France would feel comfortable with the idea of Antonio traveling there in the first place. Playing, meant in an innocent way or not, does not sound healthy, because Russia, quite kittenish and child-like as he might be, has that chilling cruelty attached to him.
"I think it was very thoughtful of him," Spain laughs, not offended at all for not being accepted. Rejection or not, Russia's point hits it's mark though, because while the sun makes Spain hot, the lack of it makes Russia freeze. It might be this contrast that makes fascination grow between these two, France muses.
"I'm thinking of asking again, come summer." And Spain is not giving up, is he? Of course not, this idea is stuck with him, it's obsession and passion, all the same, and Russia is not slowing down his advances with cursing words and violence, is he now?
Violence is one of the things France fears. Not in a war escalating level, of course not, they can't afford that with this depression and wars raging in the Middle East. But they both have it in them. While humans change their ways to look at things generation after generation, it's harder for countries as living beings to keep up with this. France knows, they all know. Antonio, while holding his aeons old axe in a spur of nostalgia, still twitches in a way that makes France step away in fear of getting cut in half were he to get too close.
Russia is no better, of course, always dark and intimidating, as if he's so lost that there's nothing to lose anymore. To be fair, it's not just Spain and Russia, but all of them seem to be delightfully insane, but these two, so hungry to take over land more than this planet of theirs even has to offer, could either bond over this fact or tear each other apart because of it.
"Francis?" Antonio is looking at him now, right in the eye, deeper than France has ever been looked at before and it makes him feel bare and uncomfortable, an entirely new feeling to him, but he savors this because it's unlikely that this is going to happen ever again.
And then Antonio, his dearest baby brother, smiles in a way that makes Francis's heart choke. "I love his smile," and 'love' is almost the only word that France hears, and for a moment he really does believe that it's said to him alone. "I want to make him smile a lot."
And he does, doesn't he? Russia doesn't smile like that unless it's in a world conference where Spain is present, eager to talk to him while other's make sure to keep away in fear of the iron pipe and promises of a free ticket to Siberia, no return ticket included. It was icy and awkward at first, but spring is coming, and for all his psycho entity that begs you to run for your life, Russia is starting to melt.
"I think I..." Spain halts, searching for words that can explain whatever he thinks he's...
France, dutiful as ever, waits patiently, ready to understand, but also most willing to shoot down.
"I like him a lot," Antonio's eyes are sparkling now, as he's getting more and more excited. "I love him." And that's just it, isn't it? "I love him."
France is sure there's so much more that Spain would like to say, he sees it from the frustration in his eyes as he's still struggling to release the turmoil inside him with understandable sentences, but France doesn't need any of that. Spain is not one to notice, but he does notice this here right now, and he's so in love that he's willing to say 'love' in a way that is not followed by a goofy face and an exhale of perverted air.
So he does understand, and he leans over and presses a kiss on Spain's frustration flushed cheek and smiles, because France trusts that is enough to make Spain understand that there's no need to say anything.
Spain smiles back, brilliant and shining, not saying a word, because sometimes silence is golden, and he's always had a fondness for gold.
They don't sit like this for long, content and still, because a chair is pulled next to Antonio, and a large body takes a seat. Antonio almost chokes on his drink, surprised and happy, trying to spring into motion too fast and failing hard while he's at it.
Russia is silent, and there's a hint of a telltale blush that he's heard bits and parts of their conversation, if not all. The bartender is quick to bring him raw vodka, Ivan taking a long sip of it before he offers a shy glance at Antonio, as if Francis is not even there.
"It's cold over at my house but..." and Antonio leans closer, all anticipation. "But it's warm over at yours, right?"
Spain nods, smiling, he too acting as if France has just disappeared into thin air. "It's winter so it's not that warm, but I'm sure we can keep warm if we cuddle under a thick comforter!"
It makes France smile, thinking what a sly dog Spain can be with all his dense innocence. He stands up when Russia's response is a smile that says a lot of the same things Spain was struggling and failing to say just moments before, and he pats the back of his brother to get his attention one last time this evening.
"Bonne chance, chéri," Francis whispers, getting one last good grope when he slips the necessities into the back pocket of Antonio's pants. Better be prepared, is what France has been telling Spain since the day they met. So, Russia is big, but so are the condoms.
Antonio smiles at him, cheeks flushed from embarrassment, but as France walks away, stealing one last glance of the two of them still sitting over at the bar counter, Spain talking and Russia listening, and he feels an odd sense of innocence flowing from them, and doubts Spain is going to get lucky anytime soon.
But it's all fine and well, France thinks, because good things build slow, and they have a forever to construct this thing they started as persons, not as nations.
Though were Ivan to hurt his Antonio, Francis will make sure to replace those condoms with ones that fit him with a skin tickling firmness. You can mark his words.
I wish France was my big brother. xD