Chapter 8

Arthur breathed out through his nose for several minutes, trying to steady his breathing and not throw an absolute fit. Luckily, Francis had the clothes he had been wearing the night he had fallen victim to Arthur's spell, so at least he wasn't naked. But at this point, Arthur wasn't sure if he really would care that much if he was bare.

He shifted under Francis, trying to get out from under him as the Frenchman snuffled. Arthur found himself looking at a pair of bright blue eyes, a grin spreading across thinner, less rosy lips, angled jaw digging into his sternum.

"Look, Francis," Arthur stuttered, trying to talk quickly, "I know you might be confused as to why you're on top of me, but I can explain-"

"Oh, I know very well why I am on top of you mon cher." Francis practically purred, stretching out on England, hovering over him and grinning. Arthur's chest started to heave slightly, "I have something I 'ave been waiting all week to do this." He started to lean down, stubble very clear.

Unable to help himself, the Brit slowly closed his eyes, sitting up slightly to meet the Frenchman's lips and- a hand pressed down on his crotch. Arthur blinked down, then back up at Francis, completely nonplussed.

The Frenchman grinned, fingers teasing playfully. "An entire week spent so close…" he murmured, winking, "and now I can finally do it without feeling like a gerontophile."

A scowl crossed his face and England sat up sharply, head smashing into the Frenchman's forehead, causing the navy eyes to roll back as he collapsed, unconscious on the English nation. Rubbing his forehead, wishing the flush on his cheeks hadn't spread to the very tips of his ears, Arthur leaned back into the couch, punching the passed-out Frenchman's shoulder.


When Francis woke up a few hours later (this time on a guest bed, not anywhere near Arthur) he recalled nothing. No matter the prodding and questioning England put him through, the days he had spent with Arthur were blanks. This rather disheartened Arthur, but at the same time seemed right.

Why should Francis remember that? It was a fatherly relationship and if he was going to actively pursue the Frenchman (which he wasn't as he had forgotten what a pervert the man was) it was good that the memories of Arthur scolding him about hot chocolate or getting him dressed for the World Conference were gone. They would be rather awkward in the throes of hard and passionate sex.

"I am sorry Angleterre," France called, now seated England's table, holding a bag of ice to his head while Arthur busied himself upstairs, finding all of the small clothes (the beret, tiny Wellingtons and petite peacoat) and placing them in a bag, "I really do not remember anything."

England came down the stairs, the suitcase packed and boots in hand and placed them on the table in front of Francis expectantly.

Running fingers through his hair, gingerly avoiding the lump forming, Francis sighed, putting the bag of ice down. "None of these ring any bells, but they are quite fashionable," he said, picking out the jacket, running his hands over it, "I am still having trouble believing that I was a child, and an even harder time believing that you took me into your home…"

Arthur glared at him, leaning against a wall. "You were a lost child… The least I could do was take you in… We are friends."

"Oui, friends" Francis nodded slowly, then rubbed his temple, "I really wish I could remember, the idea of you being a father to me of all people is mad."

Slumping in the chair across from him, Arthur sighed, propping his chin on his hand, fingers drumming against the table. "Maybe I can jog your memory. Do you remember the stuffed bunny; the one you gave me all those years ago? You slept with it every night."

"Non. But you still have that? How cute."

"Not the point," Arthur said, "what about the garden? With Aberforth? Or even the faeries, you almost killed one."

Francis shook his head. "Another imaginary friend of yours? And I do not think I can kill things that do not exist."

"A very real unicorn you were frightened of."

Francis snorted; Arthur continued his intterogation, "Feeding the ducks in Hyde park?"

"Angleterre, really-"

"Fine, Germany carrying you on his shoulders?"

The French nation chuckled, tucking some hair behind his ear. "I think I would've remembered that." He said, "A big German man running around with a tiny Frenchman on his shoulders? I wish you had taken a picture."

Sighing, England shook his head tiredly. "I wish I had as well, I would have a much easier time convincing you. But I suppose it's for the better, maybe I'll get Matthew and Alfred to tell you the story sometime…" Hearing a set of tires pull up to the front of his house, he stood up, "I already called Sarkozy while you were out, he says the jet is waiting and there's… a taxi just outside."

Francis nodded, picking up the suitcase and boots and following the Brit to the front doors. Francis rested his hand on the doorknob, looking back at his English counterpart. "Well I suppose I still owe you thanks," the hand was offered, "Merci."

Taking it, Arthur shook his head, smiling only slightly. "You took care of me when I was a child," he said, shrugging, "I suppose it was time to return the favour." Their hands fell back to their sides and France opened the front door, stepping outside before looking back.

"Ah, Angleterre," he said, eyes sparkling slightly "one more thing."

England raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

"Merci for the story… I hope Peter enjoyed his tea." The door shut and Arthur stared at it, cheeks turning pink.


Again, Francis found himself sitting in his living room, only a few weeks after the incident with Arthur, drinking wine, this time only a bottle. The window had opened and Arthur, body bound in a white toga and grinning was sitting on the ledge, tiny wings flapping, teeth nibbling the top of his wand in a much-too suggestive manner.

"Ah…" Francis put the bottle down, sitting up and arching an eyebrow at the Englishman, "'ave you come to change me into a child again? Or are you simply-" Arthur fluttered over, plopping on Francis' lap and kissing him forcefully, fingers curling into the shirt.

Eyes only sliding partway shut, Francis' hands automatically touched Arthur's sides, pulling him tighter. Managing to drag his mind away from the hot body pressed against his own, France pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard and watching the Brit with suspicious eyes.

"Just how drunk are you Angleterre?"

Arthur grinned. "Not at all."