Alright, alright. So I wrote another depressing fic. And I'm getting on a bit of a FrUk trip lately. Put the two together and what do you get? Angsty FrUk. OLD FRITZ PRESERVE US.
This was inspired by a great video: http: //www. / watch?v=C6v9zy Z2XtM called Would You Forgive Your Enemies. It's Fruk, doi, but it's pretty soft so you don't need to be afraid of watching it. ^^ (Take out all the spaces: there are 4.)
This is sort of a sequel to Paris 1940, but all you need to know about that is that Ludwig was beating up France so he could head on over to Jolly Old England for an encore. Actually, you probably don't want to read Paris 1940 because frankly, I'm not too fond of it and the way I wrote Germany for it scares me. :P
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, or however you spell his name. I think that's right.
He was standing on the deck of a ship, staring out at the expanse of blue-grey ocean before him. Salt stung his eyes and sparkled at the ends of his hair. A stiff wind filled the vast canvas sails above him, and the prow of his ship cut the rough the waves.
He was alive.
"ENGLAND! ARTHUR! I KNOW YOU'RE AT HOME!" An angry, hoarse voice cracked sharply through the haze of dream. An insistent banging on the door. "A-ARTHUR!" the voice broke all of a sudden, became desperate, pleading. "Please- open the damn…door…"
England's green eyes flickered open. He frowned. Was that- France? He heaved himself out of the armchair where he had fallen asleep and walked unsteadily to the door, running a hand distractedly through his spiky blonde hair. He went and wrenched the door open.
France was slumped against the doorframe, his blue uniform stained with something dark and stricky.
England knew what it was; he had seen enough battles.
"F-France! What the hell happened to you!?"
"That…damn Kraut- really fast, too…outta nowhere…he said he was coming for you next, Arthur, Arthur," he groaned and slipped a little farther down the doorframe.
"Dammit F-Francis, you're bleeding!" England growled, slightly hesitant in using the Frenchman's real name but spitting it out none the less. "Get up and in here!"
France just looked up at him, blankly and piteously.
"Tch- you useless frog!" England snapped, dragging France into the hall and slamming the door. France smiled weakly. "Yeah…completely useless…sorry…" his eyes flickered closed and England experienced momentary panic as the man's ragged breathing hitched and faltered. France rubbed at his throat, where, England noticed with shock, a large dark bruise had formed. "He got me…really bad…Arthur, you'd better get ready; I think we…underestimated him…"
"Hey! France!" England yelled, alarmed, as France crumpled to the floor, eyes staring blankly at the ground. The dead, lifeless voice; this dead, defeated man broken into shards wasn't the France he knew. He didn't like it. "Don't you fucking dare die on me, in my house!"
The ghost of a smile passed over the Frenchman's face. "I don't think I'm going to…die," he murmured. "I'm just- tired. I'll go home, now…just thought I outta warn you, so you were hit like…I got hit…" he got unsteadily to his feet, swaying as he spoke. England instinctively shot out a hand to help hm. "Francis…" actually concern coloured his voice. "We're not enemies here…if you needed-"
France cut him off. "Arthur…If I really was going to die today…I'd never consider you my enemy." He smiled lightly, a glimpse of the carefree man he'd been a few days ago.
England looked helplessly at him.
"Don't fret, mon Angleterre," France whispered, hoarsely. "You'll do fine." He placed a hand on England's shoulder. England frowned. "Don't you Angleterre me," he said, a trace of irritation in his voice. France winked, which was slightly offset by the black ring around his eye. "That's already better."
The blonde turned and began to walk out the door. England reached out, suddenly, and grasped his shoulder. "Thank you. For coming to warn me." He said, reddening slightly.
France turned and placed his own pale hand over England's. "I'll always forgive you, my enemy, just in time." He said, quietly.
Both men stood a moment, and then France turned abruptly and, limping, was gone.
England watched his retreating back a moment, and then closed the door. He went inside, and pulled all the shades down. He sat, wide awake now, waiting.
He sat, and he waited.
Yeah, well....still a bit dark, but I like writing worriedbuthidingit!England and injured France. France pulls off the whole 'Now I've saved your sorry ass I'll go home, bleeding as I go' thing so well. :D