Author's note: Who can resist jealous!France? I know I can't. I've had this little fic in my head for awhile and finally wrote it all out the other day. There is a random male OC here who is a human friend of England's. In some ways, I kinda wish that I could write more about their friendship now since the OC himself is kind of endearing...in a creepy way. BUT I DIGRESS. I mean I could write drabbles about them some other time, but meh. ENJOY THE FRUK.
France had never considered himself a jealous person. Protective maybe, but never jealous. But when he saw England conversing with a human, an attractive older man, the blood in his veins began to boil.
The man was smiling at England in a way that was not friendship. England seemed oblivious to the obvious stares this man was giving him. France caught him staring at England's ass once or twice and felt his hands clench at his sides. That ass does not belong to you, he growled. Then he paused and blinked a few times. Was he…jealous?
England was having a pleasant time conversing with this man, about books or something, and had no idea the man's hand was inching down towards his rump. France saw this and wanted to intervene. He was England's guest after all. England should have been paying attention to him, not some human pervert.
And then it happened. The man's hand rested on England's hip and it just looked so wrong there. France immediately started walking over. He slid an arm around England's shoulders which instantly made the other nation blush and yell at him angrily. The older man had removed his hand though, which made France relax a little bit.
"What are we talking about?" he said with a charming smile.
England nudged him with his elbow. "Fine literature. Something you know nothing about."
France put a hand over his heart in mock hurt. "Why, mon ami, I am offended."
"And who is this?" France nodded towards the older man.
"He is a friend," England mumbled.
"Charles Harborough," the man said, extending his hand to France. "And you are?"
"Francis Bonnefoy." They shook hands, though France felt mildly disgusted. "I, too, am a friend of Arthur's."
England looked fairly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Charles. He's French and doesn't know how to keep out of private matters."
"It's quite all right," he replied with a smile.
France watched his body language and noticed the rather awkward way the man was standing. Was he…turned on by England? Did England invoke such feelings in a human? Oddly impressed and disgusted, France loosened his hold on England's shoulders to wrap his arm around his waist instead. Charles noticed immediately.
England noticed as well and wrestled out of France's grip. "Why must you always touch me like that?" he snarled, visibly embarrassed.
But France was ignoring him as he watched Charles stare at England as though he were the most divine creature on the planet. I wonder if he lies down at night thinking of England, he mused.
He turned back to England then. "Your pain is my pleasure," France teased. "It always has been, my love."
"I—I am not your love!" he sputtered back.
"You did not complain last night among the sheets~"
England's mouth hung open like a fish out of the water for a few moments. He was as red as a tomato now and fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt. "Charles, I apologize for him," he said. "I was hoping he would behave himself around other people but I was mistaken, as always."
"Nonsense," Charles replied, though he looked very pale suddenly. "He is a charming man."
France winked and leaned in to plant a kiss on England's warm cheek. A couple things happened then. First, England squeaked (though he would deny that and call it a manly yelp of surprise) and started furiously wiping at his cheek as though that would make it as though the kiss never happened. Next, Charles' expression changed to one of obvious rage. France delighted in seeing it and gave a little smirk just to make him even angrier.
"I am sorry, sir," he said suddenly, "but I have held my tongue long enough." He stepped forward and although he was taller than both France and England, France was not intimidated in the slightest. "I have watched you put your hands all over Arthur and—and I am disgusted. Your lack of listening appalls me. He obviously does not like what you do and yet you continue to do it."
England seemed to suddenly realize just how angry Charles had become. "I-It's not something to worry over, Charles," he said, hoping to avoid a confrontation. "He's done this our entire lives."
"Well he shouldn't!"
Look who is talking. "I seem to recall you touching him inappropriately as well," France stated. "Or perhaps my eyes deceived me earlier?"
"What?" England turned to look at him while Charles had gone a lovely shade of puce.
"His hand," France continued, "was desperate for a feel."
"You're accusing me of doing something so degrading?" Charles snapped, though he was looking guiltier and guiltier as he avoided England's confused gaze.
"I just find it funny that you of all people should talk to me about inappropriate touching when you have done the same."
There was an uncomfortable silence. England looked at his friend with narrowed eyes. "Charles?"
France watched the older man's face resemble that of a child after he's been yelled at for stealing a cookie from the jar. "I couldn't help myself," he finally mumbled. "I-I see you everyday, and you always make sure to stop and ask me about the latest book I am writing, and you love discussing history with me and it's just so hard to find young people like yourself that are so passionate about the subject and, goodness, Arthur…"
For a moment, France thought Charles would collapse at England's knees and start sobbing about how much he loved him. The thought of this man caring so much for England was both sad and infuriating to France.
"I just cannot fathom why you let this Frenchman into your life if he annoys you so much," Charles continued. "Please tell me why."
England was silent, his large brows furrowed in concentration over what to say. "I've known him my entire life," he said finally. "He has always been close by, even when I didn't want him to be. Yes, he annoys me, Charles. So much sometimes that I want to wring his bloody neck. But I don't despise him like you seem to think I should."
France felt his heart swell with pride and happiness. Charles blinked brown eyes at them and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. "I see," he said softly. "Well. Good day to you both." He turned on his heel and walked away down the street.
"He was a good friend," England mumbled. "Such a bright mind."
France brought a hand up to caress his face and turned it towards him. "He wanted something you couldn't give him."
"If I had been human—"
"Would you really have given your heart to him, Arthur?"
England glared at him. "Why do you care?"
"Because I am your friend."
France waited patiently for a response.
"You're not my friend."
"What?" France's eyes were wide.
"I said," and England moved closer this time, pulling on the front of his shirt so that their faces were inches apart, "that you're not my friend." They kissed almost instantly. France's arms wrapped themselves around England's waist while England pulled him backwards towards his house, suddenly breaking the kiss.
"What was that for?" France asked, a little dazed but pleased.
"I'm not as oblivious as you think I am, frog," he smirked. "I could see your jealous mug a mile away."
"I was not jealous."
"So if I went to fulfill Charles' dirty fantasies right now, you wouldn't try and stop me?"
France grabbed his wrist. "You don't have to go that far."
"Then hurry on up before I change my mind…" He winked at him, causing France to nearly trip up the steps as he ran into the house to prove to England that he had not been jealous at all.
For anyone who cares, Charles is in his late 40s and was hitting on someone who he believed was only in his early 20s. Little did he know that he was making a move on his own country =3=