#francisandtheworldweek

[childofthemoon86]

@francisandtheworldweek Day 4: Demon/Angel au

A Demon’s Pet

Pairing: (pre)FrUk Characters: France, Austria (mentioned), Prussia (mentioned), England, Germany, Russia, North Italy, Sealand (mentioned), Japan, America, Canada. Rating: T for mild suggestive themes Word count: 3209 Cross posted on FF.net Summary: Historically, Demons and Angels have never gotten along, and neither are allowed to cross into the others domain. But for Francis, there’s just something terribly alluring about breaking rules, and no one has to know about his special new pet… But perhaps there’s a reason why some rules mustn’t be broken.

Ah Hell. Francis sighs contently as he walks through the fiery halls. He really does miss this place sometimes. Sure he likes the Top World Just as much as the next Demon, and it’s always a pleasure to carry out an assignment from the Hell King himself, but nothing quite measures up to the sweet scent of Hellfire Ash in the morning. Though, Hell may have it’s certain appeals to other Demons, for Francis, there’s something in particular that he misses. Where other Demons come back for the fires, or the songs of anguish souls, or to bathe in the Blood of the Fallen pools, currently none of that holds his interest. Sure he’s seen how Roderich commands the screams, treating the entire Hall of the Damned like one big orchestra, every soul a string to be plucked at just the right time, every cry of pain or despair tuned to perfection. Frankly, it’s mesmerising, and for Demons who such sound is like sweet music, it’s an utter pleasure to experience. He’s even heard tale of the King personally requesting him to… play, as it were. And he knows Gilbert enjoys his free time in the Ever Soldiers Fields, running gruelling sieges full of suffering. Starvation, disease, gun shot wounds, stab wounds, infections, the works. Fran’s even joined him a few times. As far as Demons go, Gil’s one who really knows how to party. But right now, Fran couldn’t care less about all that. Right now, he only has one thing on his mind. After all, if Roddy can have the Damned to play with, and Gil’s got his toy soldiers, then it’s only fair he has a special play thing too. And he does. But, unlike the others, no one else can find out about Fran’s special little pet project. He’d surely be sent to the Coal Pits for the next millennia if his new toy was discovered, and he can’t have that. Despite what humans may think, Demons do have rules, though not many and most can be bent with the right persuasion, but there is one rule that is absolute among Demons. And Fran might be breaking it just a tiny bit. He grins happily as he skips down to the first level of The Works as they’re know. The Works is the low levels of Hell built to contain all the souls sent to them for ‘eternal damnation’, but for most it’s really more like a stint in a crappy hotel for a few decades before they get recycled back into the living world, — out of the thousands upon thousands of souls that end up in Hell, very few ever receive a sentence past the second or third levels — and here at the first level, it’s pretty much just that. Rooms upon rooms stretched out seemingly endlessly before Fran, but he knows there is a limit, just one too far to be seen. He travels on down the hall, growing more excited as he goes. It’s only been a few days, but he can’t wait to see his pet again. Finally he comes to a stop at a door, much the same as all the others, only the number 3049652287 defines it to be the room he’s after. Cautiously checking that no other Demons are around to see him go in, he stealthily slips inside. There, just were he left him, the Angel sits. It is the one Absolute Law of Hell, no Angels allowed, but come on, Demons are notorious for being mischievous rule breakers, they can’t really fault Fran on this, it was bound to happen. Fran’s red eyes shine as he smirks at his pet, ankle still chained to the bedpost, sat moodily upon the wrinkled and stained red satin sheets of the sleazy motel styled bed, dressed in a simple cloud white toga. The Angel glares back, green eyes full of defiance. But Fran’s smirk soon turns to a sour frown as he looks over the Angels wings, tucked tightly behind his back. Stomping over, Francis unceremoniously grabs a wing by the end, and pulls, sharply tugging it out to full view. The Angel winces, but, like always, refuses to show any other sign of weakness. Fran’s dark eyes scan the wing as his mouth twist with a look of distaste. “What did you do?” He demands, “These weren’t like this before.” The wings, previously pristine white before he left only three days ago, now have a distinct grey colour to them, like they’ve lost their sheen. “What’s the matter Frog?” The Angel smirks, pleased to see Fran annoyed for once, “Not good enough for you now? Guess you’ll just have to get rid of me then.” Huffily, Francis gives another sharp tug on the wing, this time electing a small yelp of pain from the force of it. “Your not met to be like this, your supposed to be perfect! Why aren’t you perfect now?” Francis’s eyes flash in anger, his tails swishing at his feet, but the Angel only looks more smug as he sits up more, though he makes no move to pull his wing back. When no other answer is given, Fran growls in frustration, before letting the wing go, where it limply returns to its owners back. He huffs, before something else grabs his attention. Sitting on the bedside cabinet, is the tray of Soul Dews he left for the Angel, completely untouched. Again. He still won’t eat? Is that why his wings have dulled, hunger? Or… or has someone else done this to him… Fran’s tail twists in worried nots around his feet at the thought. If anyone has so much as laid a claw on a single feather, so help him, not even the King will be able to shield them from Francis’s wrath! He huffs a calming breath out his nose. No, no. If someone had been here, he’d surely have been caught by now. It must be something else… Maybe it’s the ash? Though, there isn’t much in the rooms, but perhaps it’s enough to sully the pretty wings? But something tells him a Bloodbath won’t fix this. Shaking his head, Fran returns his glare to the grey wings. Oh how that annoys him, but, if he wants to get the pretty white back, then he needs to figure out why they’ve dulled, which means… He smirks, eyes shining with mischief again as he slinks over to the bed, sitting down beside the Angel. “Well, no matter, we can still have fun, even if you’ve lost some of your shine.” The Angel recoils away, sliding back across the bed until the chain clangs tight, preventing him from escaping any further. Unbothered by the move, Fran simply crawls after him, pushing the Angel to lay back as he straddles over him. “Come on, don’t you want to have some fun? Hell’s all about fun.” He purrs. “Piss off, beast!” The Angel spits, using his unchained foot to kick Francis between the legs, but Fran expects the move, and with a single hand, easily stops him, holding the thin, pale limb in place. “Now now,” Fran grins, sitting back on the Angels bare knees and pinning his legs to the bed, “No need to be like that. Come,” his smile widens as he claps his hands together in glee, “tell me your name.” The Angel struggles to get him off his legs, but soon tires — much faster than last time, Fran notes curiously — choosing to lie slumped beneath him. “No.” He huffs. “Come on, pleeeease?” Francis begs, batting his eyes. The Angel remains silent, only glaring tiredly up at Fran, much to the Demons annoyance. He knows humans see Angels as the ‘favoured race’, all kindness and benevolence, great guardians who steer them from harm and send them on the path of good. But Demons have a much different view of them. To Demons, Angels are arrogant, self entitled, ‘none holier than thou’ type pricks. They lord the humans favour of them over Demons, acting all high and mighty all the damn time, it’s so irritating! And Francis just had to catch the one Angel would couldn’t embody the Demons views better if he tried. No matter what Francis has tried for the past three weeks, the only conversation he’s been able to get out of the Angel is insults. He’s tried being nice, he’s tried alluring, he’s tried trickery, he’s offered souls and blood, himself, but nothing. Not even so much as a name. He leans forward, his dark suit contrasting nicely with the Angel’s white, but, before he can brush a clawed hand over the blond’s cheek, he receives a mental summons. Sighing at the bad timing, he hops back off the bed. “Don’t go anywhere.” He winks, before leaving. What does the King want now? X Francis hurries back to his pet, a grand grin playing across his features. He’s so giddy, he skips most of the way there. A request from the King himself, in person no less. There’s going to be a hunt — they haven’t had one of those in ages — and he’s to pick the prize. The King must know of his knack for acquiring rare items by now, ohh what an honour this is! And he know’s Just what he’s going to choose, but first… “I’m back~” He sings as he walks in, but frowns when he finds the Angel asleep, the sheets bundled up around him. “Hey, wake up.” Fran huffs, setting the fresh tray of Soul Dews down beside the still untouched one. It’s not that late, and he was only gone for a few Hell hours, surely the Angel can’t be tired yet, they still have work to do! He shakes the Angels arm roughly until dazed green eyes slowly blink open. “Urghh…” He groans, curling in on himself. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Fran demands, ripping the sheets back. But as soon as he does his eyes widen in shock. The wings… those pretty wings are even duller than before, but what’s worse is dozens of feathers litter the sheets, and more fall free from the wings as Francis stares. “What in Hell?” Panic starts to seep into Fran’s mind. He’d planned on figuring out how to get the Angels wings pristine again to use one of the pretty feathers as the hunt prize, but now… The Angel shivers, and Fran sees that those pretty green eyes aren’t shining with defiance anymore, there not shining at all, now they look more like dull glass balls, staring unseeingly out in a lost haze. He quickly kneels to get a better look at the Angels face, seeing how much paler it is than before, and his breaths come in short, laboured gasps. He touches a hand to the blonds face, his fingers dampening with the sweat droplets beading his brow, and can feel an unnatural heat burning beneath the skin. Fran bites his lip in worry. Forget the wing prize, if he doesn’t do something soon the Angel might not last the night. “Non, Non, non, stop this. Stop it now!” He shouts, eyes flashing, his agitation causing him to unconsciously slip into his Hellian French accent. But no matter how much he shakes the Angel, he doesn’t get any response besides a pitiful groan. “This can’t be happening…” He only wanted to play with him, he doesn’t want to kill him! After such a short time, he can’t lose his pet now! Frantically, he looks around the room for something, anything to fix this, but nothing jumps out. Things can’t end like this! Growling in anger, Francis turns on the chain, snapping it apart with his bare hands, before turning back to slip his arms under the Angels body. “Don’t you dare die on me!” He warns, hurriedly standing and lifting the Angel to him. X Sneaking out of Hell with a dying Angel is a lot harder than you might think, especially one shedding feathers all over the place. But then, you might also think that Angels and Demons hate each other, so why would one care if the other was dying? Francis wonders that too as he knocks out the last guards by the Fire Gates. But before going through, he halts in his tracks. Just where should he go? No human could possibly help them, and no demon would give a damn if the Angel died here. So… He turns to look at the Plains Map. Looking between the map and the dying Angel in his arms, Fran closes his eyes, frowning deeply, before making his choice. Kicking the dial, he switches the Plains selection from the Top World to the High Sphere, otherwise known as, Heaven. The view through the portal swirls and changes from a grassy park to a bright white hallway, and alert blinking across the portal warning of Forbidden Passage to the Un-ascended. Well, he’s gotten this far, might as well do what Demons do best. Disregarding the warning, Fran tightens his hold on the Angel, and steps through. The world twists and warps around them for a moment, before settling in the long — almost painfully bright for Fran — white hall, and the humid heat of Hellfires turns to a cool breeze blowing from air conditioners in the ceiling above. But the second Francis lays a foot inside, a deafening alarm starts to blare, and dozens of Angels come rushing to the alert. “Warning, Unauthorised demonic presence detected in the entrance of Hall Beta. All available Archangels to Hall Beta immediately, this is not a drill. Repeat, All available Archangels to Hall Beta immediately.” Before Francis can even think up of a plan, he’s surrounded. The Archangels, Heaven’s security, are the first to arrive. These Angels, unlike Fran’s delicate pet, are much bigger and bulky looking, armed with swords in their belts, and golden symbols decorating their much larger wings. “What is going on here?” A tall and very muscular blond Archangel demands. “Seems a Demon has gotten himself lost.” Another violet eyed one smiles, but the look makes Fran more uneasy than a Demons grin. It’s then that the blond one looks to the Angel limp in Fran’s arms. “Arthur?” He asks in surprise, quickly striding forward to get a better look, “By Heaven, what have you done to him?” The Archangel gasps at Francis. “Please,” Fran begs, holding the Angel out, “you have to save him.” “Quickly,” The blond calls over to his smiling partner, “take him to the Halo, and hurry.” “Right away.” Violet eyes nods, and Fran puts up no protest when he scoops his pet out off his arms, flying off. “As for you,” the blond glares, drawing his sword and pointing it at Fran’s neck, “your coming with me.” Not having much option otherwise, Fran smirks, bowing mockingly, “Lead the way.” The Archangel huffs in distaste, but before leaving he turns to look down a corridor at one of the other Angels who arrived while Fran was distracted. “Feliciano, go summon the High Council, inform them of what’s happened.” The small brunet Angel jumps at being caught snooping, but quickly recovers, saluting the blond. “Sure thing boss!” But just before he runs off out of sight, the blond calls out again, “And Feli?” “Uh, yeah Luddy?” The blond sighs, “Go tell Peter to come to the Halo too, he’ll want to know.” “Right away!” X It seems Fran’s pet wasn’t the only Angel to despise him. As he’s marched through the Cloud Fields down to the Rain Fall Pits, every Angel he passes sends him a look of contempt. He hears their whispers, and sees how they turn their noses up at him. They all act so high and mighty, as if he wasn’t even worth the clouds they walk on. “Look at that.” “Is that a Demon, here?” “Disgraceful.” “Such a foul beast.” “What’s Hell playing at now?” “The Council will hear of this.” “Be careful, don’t get too close or it might sully your Grace.” “Keep it away from the Souls, who knows what foul things it’s planning.” “Urgh, I feel sick just looking at it.” Growing annoyed by all the whispering, Fran’s lips curl back in a snarl, growling at the next Angel he passes who dares to make a comment on his appearance, smirking when the Angels go scurrying in fear. But his fun ends when they reach the pits, giant wells of fresh Holy Water several hundred of meters deep, with a system of rain constantly falling to keep them from running dry. Fran had heard all about Heaven and it’s weird wonders like this, but never cared for it much. But now he wishes he’d payed a bit more attention to the tales as he’s unceremoniously kicked down into the well. The sides far too high and smooth to climb, Fran’s forced to swim to an inner ledge to stand, treading water up to his waist as he looks up at the Archangel. “You’ll stay here until the council decides what to do with you.” Is all he’s told before he’s left all alone. X Fran’s not sure how long exactly he spent in the well, but long enough for his nice suit to be utterly ruined, that’s for sure. He’s soaked to the bone and uncomfortably cold when the violet eyed Archangel from before peaks over the edge. “Hello again,” he smiles that same unnerving grin, “ready to get out?” “Quite.” Fran huffs, flicking at the water around him, “This Holy Water is terrible for my complexion.” “Are all Demons so funny?” He giggles, spreading his giant wings to fly down and pull Fran out of the well. “Why don’t you go to Hell and find out.” Fran smirks. The Archangel giggles again, dropping Fran from higher than necessary as he remains in the air. Groaning from the landing, Fran quickly picks himself up, huffing at having to look up even more to see the Archangel. “Well, now what?” “Now,” The Archangel drawls, waving a hand signal in the air, “you talk.” Suddenly a small group of Angels and Archangels fly over, they settle into a circle above Fran, before all dropping down together to surround him. “Talk?” Francis parrots, worriedly glancing around. “Perhaps we should explain first,” A short dark haired Angel starts, “It might be easier if we’re all on the same page first.” “Kiku’s right,” another blond with purple eyes nods. “But first, introductions. My name is Ivan,” the violet eyed Archangel starts, “mr muscles over there is Ludwig, and the annoying brat beside him is Alfred.” “Hey!” Alfred cries, but Ivan continues regardless. “We three are Archangels, though you probably new that.” Ivan smiles, gesturing to the smaller Angels next. “This here is Kiku, and the sweet little thing next to him is Matthew.” Fran wonders why he called Matt little when he’s almost the same size as the Archangels, but nods along anyway. “And lastly, the bag of nerves next to Ludwig is Feliciano.” At his name being mentioned, the brunet jumps, shifting closer to Ludwig for protection. “Now tell us,” Alfred cuts in, his wings fluffing up behind him in a display of strength, “what happened with the Hell Gate in Singapore?”

#hetalia #francisandtheworldweek #france x world week #day 4: Demon/Angel au #day 4 #APH France #APH England #aph fruk #aph austria #APH Prussia #APH Germany #APH Russia #aph north italy #APH Japan #APH America #APH Canada #francis #arthur #rodrich #Gilbert #Ivan #Feliciano #kiku #matthew #Alfred #peter #fanfic #my work

[armadaderaj]

The Sky in Your Eyes

Day 1: Photographer/Model au  @francisandtheworldweek

Pairing: (pre) Gerfra

Characters: France, Hungary, Germany, Prussia

Rating: T for language

Word count: 1219

Summary: Three years after the Great War, Germany is struggling to honor the Treaty of Versailles. France retaliates with military force. Stuck in the midst of the turbulent times are a particular German photographer and a French solider fresh from the front. 

Note: Not exactly a traditional photographer/model au. I decided to interpret and stretch the prompt a bit, hope I still did it justice

                                                                                                December 12, 1917

Lud,

     Congratulations on your new job, bud! Told you that newspaper would have to be crazy if they didn’t take you! When I get back you better be throwing an awesome party to celebrate. I expect lots of beer and women. Can’t forget the women, kiddo. And the wurst! The food here is trash but what can you expect I guess. Can’t wait to get home, but that’s gonna take a while. In the mean time, you take care of yourself, Lud. Work hard at your job and avoid the draft at all costs. The war is not all what is seems. Till next time little brother, and thanks for those cigarettes!

-Gil

                                                                                                       March 8, 1921 

It had only been four years, and the words were already fading. Not that it really mattered anymore. Ludwig had memorized them long back. 

His eyes traced along the curves of the horrendous writing, looking over the crumpled letter once more before folding it gingerly. He exhaled softly, tucking it inside his vest pocket before pulling his boots and coat on. A cursory glance around his shabby excuse for a room revealed he had forgotten his cap and his beloved camera. He scooped the two things up, placing the former upon his head before running out of the door. 

Taking the steps two at a time, he descended to the ground floor, rushing out the door and into the crisp morning air. Sadly, this morning he had no time to enjoy the weather. He had already spent too much time with his letter, and now he was going to be late for work. 

“Extra! Extra! Hear all about Germany’s failure to pay the Allied reparations!”

“This bread was not nearly so much last time!”

“Madam, I cannot control the value of the money! Now will you pay or will I have to make you leave?”

Ludwig kept his gaze averted from the lives surrounding him, each one with a sob story of their own, all alike due to one reason. The war.

It had ruined Germany. And continued to do so. As if the lives it had already took were not enough. Ludwig pulled his cap down further, quickening his pace, glancing up only when he knew he had made it to the publishing house. 

He had counted the steps. 

He slipped into the little building, immediately tackled by his partner. “Ludwig! You’re finally here!”

Prying the excited Hungarian off of him was a bit more difficult than he expected but he managed. “Yes. Sorry for being late, Eliz-Daniel” he quickly corrected. “Did the boss notice?” He glanced over the sharply dressed w- man in trousers and a button up, her feminine figure hidden under the larger clothing. 

“Oh he noticed awhile back!” Eliza snickered. “He said he’d fire you the moment you showed up!”

Ludwig cursed under his breath. Shit, right when he was going to be promoted too.

“But don’t worry Luddy! I just told him you were out on an assignment and he was okay with it,” Eliza chirped, smile so bright it could break her face probably. 

It took a few moments to understand what Eliza had stated, especially in Ludwig’s frazzled brain, but once he did he did not feel relieved. “What assignment did you tell him I was on?” he asked, afraid to know.

“Oh just that you were investigating some of the brothels in town.” Eliza flashed him an innocent smile.

Ludwig groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“What do you mean why? It’s for your own good! You needed an excuse, and I gave you one! No need to thank me! That’s what friends do!” Eliza linked arms with Ludwig pulling him along out of the publishing house. Ludwig sighed in resignation.

“What’s the assignment today?”

“Oh just the usual. The economy’s terrible, the reparations are so hard to pay, the Republic is unstable, all that,” Eliza replied with a wave of her hand as she looked around at all the people. “It’s a bit boring don’t you think Ludwig? The same old thing always.” 

The same old miserable thing.

“Wonder when it’ll get better,” the Hungarian murmured.

Ludwig didn’t reply, looking ahead as the two roamed the streets, steps falling in sync. 

A strange tremor ran through the ground. At first Ludwig dismissed it at his imagination. But it only grew. The vibrations of footsteps quaked through the streets below them, and Ludwig stopped, moving neither foot. The footsteps continued despite his halt. He looked up only to see the same puzzled expression upon Eliza’s face. “Eli-”

Blue. Out of the corner of his eye he saw blue. Ludwig turned his head to be overwhelmed by the color. Clad in blue cloaks and red trousers, men marched down the streets of Düsseldorf, guns poised upon their backs and helmets gleaming in the sun. 

“The French...”

Ludwig turned back to see Eliza watching with wide eyes. He glanced around to see the rest of the native crowd ogling at the newcomers, some even hanging out of their windows to see what was the commotion. He soon enough directed his attention back to the men, walking down Germany’s streets...As if they owned them. Ludwig’s blood boiled in a rage, and he clenched his fists as Eliza nudged him. “Quick! Take pictures!” 

“You want me to take pictures of invaders?!” he hissed.

“They’re for the newspaper Ludwig!” Eliza insisted, nudging Ludwig. 

Ludwig grit his teeth and raised his camera. His finger lay poised on the button, the only thing stopping him was his own hesitation and anger. 

Bastards. Scum. As if he’d take a picture of those fucking sons of-

Click

No more hesitation perhaps. Certainly not as the German straightened, looking up from the lens to see the exact thing that had captured his hesitation and rendered him hopeless. 

Blue. But a better blue than those hideous uniforms. No this blue was more like that of the sky and the sea, free and spirited. And gold. Hidden beneath that cursed helmet, but Ludwig could still make it out. 

He was talking to the soldier next to him, laughing at something he said and shaking his head. And all Ludwig could do was stare as the man moved in front of him adjusting the strap of his gun slightly. 

He felt a sharp jab in his side and a hissed word of pictures. He brought the camera up again, but this time he didn’t hesitate. 

The sea of blue flowed through the streets and out of sight, taking the golden soldier with them, leaving Ludwig behind with a camera in hand and that dazzling smile in mind.

Ludwig didn’t know for how long he stared after that color but soon he was shaken back to reality. Literally.

“Earth to Lud! Are you functioning? Hello?” 

Ludwig blinked. “What?”

Eliza snorted. “Man, you’re really out of it. Come on, we have to get back to the publishing house to get this story down.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him back in the direction they came. “Process those pictures quick, Lud cause we’re going to need them.” 

Ludwig glanced down at his camera. Yes they certainly would be needing them. He needed to find him again. That Frenchman with the sky in his eyes.

Author’s Note(s): 

- According to the Treaty of Versailles, Germany was to pay hefty reparations to the Allies in both money and raw materials. Due to the heavy burden the reparations placed on the country, Germany repeatedly could not pay it’s dues, and according to the Treaty, the Allies were able to impose military sanctions should Germany default on the payments. So on March 8, 1921, the French sent in troops to the towns of Duisburg, Ruhrort and Düsseldorf. This would eventually expand into the full on occupation of the Ruhr by 1923, and while France managed to get the raw resources they needed from the occupation, it was Germany who gained sympathy from the world thanks to their passive resistance and the spread of news. But by 1923, the hyperinflation of German currency (the mark) that began in 1918 had reached ridiculous levels with one dollar being worth 4.2 trillion marks, making the situation even more grim. (Note-this is just a general overview of the occupation, there are far more details and complications than this, but this is a general overview that will hopefully help explain the background for this piece)

- I know there’s a lot of unanswered questions in here like what happened to Gil? Why’s Eliza dressed up as a man? Will Ludwig ever find the mysterious Frenchman? Well I’m planning on making this a multi chapter fic and continuing it past this event, but that really depends on how much time I’ll have. Should I is the question

- So I know the prompt was photographer/model au, but I wanted to tweak it a bit, so I guess Francis is a model? Just an unwitting one at the moment XD. Hope that’s alright. Remember kids, in modern day it’s just creepy if you take pictures of people and in some cases illegal

#hetalia #aph france #aph germany #aph hungary #aph prussia #ludwig beilschmidt #gilbert beilschmidt #elizabeta héderváry #francis bonnefoy #1920s #letter #love at first sight #or atleast infatuation #gerfra #francisandtheworldweek #france x world week #day 1: photographer/model au #day 1 #my writing

[missdracu]

Dancing France and England @francisandtheworldweek

#Aph fruk #drawing #Aph England #Aph france #Hetalia

[childofthemoon86]

@francisandtheworldweek Day 2: Victorian era

Third time’s the Charm

Pairing: (pre)FrUk, implied past Frain Characters: France, fem England, America, Canada, fem Spain (mentioned) Rating: k+ Word count: 3520 Cross posted on FF.net Summary: Life hasn’t always been easy for Francis, but when he finds himself forced to hire a new governess to care for his boys while he works, things may just be about to get a whole lot more complicated. Note: Based on the same au as this post I did for FrUk week. 

Sometimes, life is easy. The day goes by like a good summers breeze, everything flows neatly together like an uninterrupted stream. Other times, life is oh so hard. You feel like the weight of the world is pressing down on you, judging you. Even the simplest of things become herculean tasks, and one wrong move is all it takes to be drowned by the rapids. Francis suspects today is going to be one of those days. “Alfred get dressed! Our guest will be here any minute!” He scolds the boy again, that’s three times this morning now. He watches the boy huffily stomp back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him, before returning his attention to the mirror, making last minute adjustments to his cravat and waistcoat. There, now at least he looks presentable, if only the boys were so easy to manage. He spots the boy’s door open again, and this time Alfred finally emerges wearing the clothes Francis had set out for him. Behind him, Matthew slowly trails out. “Matthew, come here mon chou.” Francis smiles as his son makes his way over. With one hand he directs the boy to stand with his back to him, and with the other, he grabs a comb from the desk, quickly getting to work sorting the boy’s bedhead. “I don’t get why we have to get all dressed up.” Alfred complains from the side, before Francis pulls him over and gets to work on his hair too. “Because,” Francis reminds, frowning slightly as he concentrates “it’s important that we all make a good impression.” Finally satisfied, Francis let’s the boys go for the moment, with strict instructions not to get dirty before the guest arrives. While they disappear off into the house, Francis heads for the parlour, checking everything is in order on the way. Really, he knows it’s not strictly necessary for the house to be in perfect order, or for the boys to be so tidy, but he really does want to make a good impression. Of course, he hasn’t exactly told the boys just who is coming, but he suspects Alfred knows. Or at least he hopes that’s why the boy’s been acting out so much lately. Ever since his dear wife died of scarlet fever nearly two years ago, he had been relying on Isabella, their governess to care for them. She had been a good friend, a really good friend and comfort after his loss. Or so he thought, until he found out she was pregnant with another man’s child. As much as it pained him, he had to send her away. For the sake of his boys, he couldn’t be seen to have a governess maintaining relations with another, let alone one who is pregnant. He still hopes she’ll be okay… But now, after three weeks alone and work demands at the factory picking up, he has no choice but to hire a new governess. He was careful in his selection. They had to be smart, good at taking care of such a large house and two young children, and above all else, they must understand their boundaries. Francis won’t be burned again, he’s suffered enough pain. So here he is, anxiously awaiting their arrival. As the grandfather clock chimes ten, three short knocks come at the door. Right on time. Quickly he opens the doors, smiling coldly, he greets, “You must be Alice, correct?” Before him stands a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a simple white blouse and long green skirt which, Francis berates himself for noticing, brings out her forest green eyes, and her long blonde hair is tied up in two simple pigtails. “Yes sir.” She agrees with a slight bow of the head, and Francis can’t help his smile turning warmer. She clearly knows her place in society, just like he wanted. Still, there’s something in her eyes that makes Francis curious. She doesn’t smile, keeping her face neutral, but it almost feels like she’s frowning at him just from the depths of her eyes. Turning away, he looks back into the house, sighing at the lack of children in sight. “Boys, come here for a moment.” He calls into the parlour, waiting patiently for the sound of two pairs of feet to come running. Once the children are within sight, he ushers them over with a wave of the hand. “I want to introduce you to your new governess,” he smiles, turning to the young woman in the doorway, “Boys, meet Alice. Alice, meet my children and your new charges, Alfred and Matthew.” “Hello, Alfred. Matthew.” She greets in the same neutral tone. As expected, Matthew shyly ducks behind Francis’s legs to hide, he’s always been slow to warm up to new people. But Alfred’s reaction is more unexpected as he curls his hands into fists and angrily stomps his foot. “So your just going to replace Issy? Like you replaced mum?” Al cries, face scrunched up in hurt. “No, mon chou, that’s not-” Francis tries to explain, but Alfred isn’t for listening. “Why do you always have to take everyone away from me?! I hate you!” Before Francis can get another word in, Al throws off his good coat and runs up stairs, the sound of a door slamming comes shortly after. He sighs, placing a hand on Matthew’s back, before returning his attention to Alice. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Alfred has been having some trouble adjusting since I sent their last governess away.” Something like pity flashes across Alice’s eyes before being buried beneath cold indifference. “It’s quite alright. It’s only natural that it will take time for the boys to get used to me.” “Yes,” Francis agrees slowly, before shaking himself out of his stupor, “Anyway, please come in.” He steps aside with Matt still attached to him, letting Alice in before noticing the time. “Merde! Is it that late already?” He panics, if he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to be late to the factory. “There is a list in the study of everything you need to do. If I am not back by six, only make dinner for the boys.” He tells Alice, before turning to kneel by Matt. “Matthew, be a good boy while I am gone, and try to get along with Alice, Alright?” Quietly, Matt nods, before Francis hurries to depart. Now alone with Just Matt, Alice directs her stare to him and demands, “Show me to the study so I may begin.” X Francis sighs tiredly. It’s late, nearly nine o’clock, far later than he planned to return home. On the plus side his textiles are booming, but managing all of the demand from just one factory is almost too much. And he really could have gone without those five accidents today. He really does pity the children that work so hard for him, but that’s just how things are. He made a promise long ago that he would do everything he could to keep his sons from such a life, and if that means working others to the bone, so be it. When he finally returns home, he stands in shock at just how, clean, everything is. He had thought the house was tidy before he left, but he never realised how much dust had built up in the place. Even when Isabella was here, the house never looked this good. It’s also suspiciously quiet. “Alfred? Matthew?” He calls, but the one who greets him is neither. “Welcome home sir.” Alice nods, coming from the direction of the kitchen. “Where are the boys?” “Asleep.” “At this time?” Francis is shocked, they never go to bed when he tells them. “Yes. Alfred was disobedient, so I punished him. And Matthew chose to stay quiet rather than come to me when his brother started the fire, so I had to punish him too.” “Fire?!” “Yes,” Alice repeats, sounding annoyed, “In the back garden, he then attempted to hide in the old oak tree. He refused to come down for several hours, so I sent them both to bed without dinner.” Francis’s mouth opens and closes, before he sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I will have a word with him. He really is a good boy you know, they both are.” Rather than comment, Alice switches the subject, “Would you like me to draw you a bath before dinner?” “Ah, oui, merci.” Nodding, she disappears, leaving Francis to go check on the boys. The sound of sniffling can be heard through the door, and Francis sighs sadly again as he enters. “Oh ma chérie.” He breathes at seeing Al sitting by the window, trying to not cry, but his eyes are still clearly red and puffy. He can see Matt silently watching from his bed to the side too. “What happened? Alice said-” “I hate her!” Al cries, voice sounding chocked, “Why’d you have to bring her here?” “Haa, you know why. I need someone to look after you two while I’m gone.” “But Issy-!” “Isabella can’t come back. Please Alfred, just try to get along with Alice. For me, please?” When Al only sniffles and looks away, Francis turns to Matt, “And Matthew, why didn’t you tell Alice Alfred was misbehaving?” “I don’t like her.” Matt whispers, as if he’s afraid she’ll hear him, “She doesn’t smile, she only shouts at us, and when we told her we were hungry, she sent us to bed.” “And the fire?” “I was just trying to have some fun.” Al protests. “Alright. No more fires from now on, you know that’s dangerous. Now come on, let’s see about getting some dinner in you two.” Francis leads the boys down to the kitchen, where he finds Alice starting to prepare food. “Alice, the boys have something to say to you.” He looks to them expectantly, and begrudgingly they apologise. “Good, now would you make them some supper as well?” She frowns at them slightly before nodding, “If that is what you want sir.” “It is.” “Very well. Your bath is ready, dinner should be served once your done.” “Good, now boys, be nice.” Before Francis can leave, Alice turns to him, “Will you be needing any assistance?” “No, just leave a fresh set of clothes out for me, that will be all.” “As you wish sir.” X Dinner wasn’t what Francis had expected, but at least the boys seemed to be trying to get along with Alice. Or maybe they were simply too hungry to cause trouble. Either way Francis is relieved. Over the course of the next few weeks they settle into a new routine, and, thankfully, the number of incidents goes down, but Alfred and Matthew still seem distant around Alice. Francis knows he can’t force them to get along, but he really does wish things would be better. Maybe they just need more time. And for a while, things remained the same, stagnant. Until one night on All Hallows’ Eve. Francis returned home early for once, something Alice clearly hadn’t planned for. When he arrived, he was surprised to find the house in complete darkness. Curious, he headed up to the boy’s rooms, shocked to find it locked, and even more so to hear his sons crying inside. Hurriedly, Francis found the spare key in the study, and through the door open to find his sons huddled together on Al’s bed, crying and shaking. “Boys! What’s wrong, what happened, where’s Alice?” But no matter how much he asked, neither of his sons could give him a coherent answer, so Francis was left with no choice but to go looking for the one who should be caring for them. “Stay here, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He knows Alice has a tendency to be strict with the boys, but she has never broken his rule against striking the children, and he can see no sign of injuries, so something else must have frightened them. But as he wonders the house, he feels a strange chill run down his spine, and has the foreboding sense of being watched. He makes his way to the kitchen, but still no sign of Alice. But as he turns to leave, he hears the screech of a chair, and turns just in time to see it flying through the air, straight for him. Francis ducks and the chair sails over his head, but before he has time to process what’s happening, another two are mysteriously launched at him. He dodges one, but the second hits his back, knocking him to the ground. Winded, he shivers suddenly feeling ice cold, and a voice he thought he’d never hear again whispers, “why did you betray meeee?” Confused, he looks up, only for his blood to run cold and the colour drain from his face as he comes face to face with his deceased wife. “Why did you betray meeeee?!” She screeched, snatching a knife from the counter, and plunging it down on him. He closes his eyes and braces for the pain, but, it never comes. After a few tense seconds, he peaks an eye open to see his wife, or rather her ghost, frozen in place, knife dangling mere inches from his neck. Her mouth and eyes hang open in a soundless scream, and it’s then that he notices just how transparent she is. He can see right through her. Snapping out of his shock, he scrambles back until he hits the wall behind him, staring in terror. Then he notices something else, a thin green light, crackling like that strange new electricity, is wrapped around the ghost’s body like a rope. Then, he hears a voice, one he knows is very real, and very much alive. “Run Francis! I can’t hold her much longer!” Francis wonders how he never noticed her before now, but there is Alice, leaning heavily against the kitchen doorway, the dark lit by the glow of her eyes. “Run! Run to the children!” Had Francis more of his sense about him, he might have noticed how out of breath and tired Alice sounds, but at that moment, all he can think about is getting away, away and to find his precious boys. So he ran, scrambling to his feet, he dives through the pantry, out to the parlour, into the hall, up the stairs, and down the corridor to the boy’s room, all the while cursing how big the house is. He bursts in, and launches himself at the pair, still huddled together where he left them. He holds them close as his heart races. Below, a pained screech rings out, and a terrible crash clatters throughout the house as a blinding white light seems to emanate from the very air itself, before everything falls horribly silent and darkness returns. It takes more courage than Francis ever thought himself to possess before that night to lead his boys out and down the stairs, determined to get them out. But before he opens the front door, he turns to look towards the kitchen. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he tells his sons to wait for him here. Quietly, he slinks into the kitchen, where everything is worryingly still. But no ghost is in sight, and, if he had not been looking, he might not of heard the shallow breathing by the pantry. “Alice!” He hurries over to her, finding her lying amongst the vegetables. “It’s okay,” she tells him weakly, and for the first time, she smiles, “Your safe. Your all safe,” before passing out. X Birds chirp in the trees by the house as Francis paces by Alice’s bed, his boys sitting outside listening in. Alice, the governess he so carefully picked for his sons, after last night, she can only be one thing. She must be a witch. But can witches be good? Francis may not be the most religious of people, but even he knows that God disapproves of witches, they’re work is the devils work after all. She did save him, of that much he’s sure. But to what end? To think, a witch living under his roof all this time. That he trusted her to care for them, for his boys! But… every time he thinks of kicking her out, of running to the nearest church to deal with her, he remembers her smile, and his heart aches at the thought of any harm coming to that gentle look. When she starts to stir, he halts his pacing. He knows what he has to do, and no matter how much it pains him, he has to know just what she intends to do. “Alice?” “Mmmhh….” “Alice, wake up.” She slowly blinks awake, confused eyes falling on him, before she suddenly sits up, “Sir!” Francis holds a hand out to stop her, frowning coldly down at her. “I have questions, and by God’s grace, you will answer me truthfully or so help me-!” He cuts himself off, blowing a breath out his nose, before restarting. “Are you a witch?” Alice looks away, her gaze falling to her hands folded in her lap. “Yes.” Francis knew it to be true, but hearing her admit it is still a shock. “What happened last night?” Slowly she looks up to meet his gaze, her eyes cold and swirling with a depth that’s almost terrifying to look at. “This house, from the first day I came here, I knew it was haunted. A vengeful spirit had been trying to bring harm upon you. You were supposed to be out late, you shouldn’t have returned before the ritual was done.” She frowns, “But you did.” “Ritual?” Francis doesn’t know if he should sound shocked or disbelieving. “Yes, to purge it from the house.” “And you were going to do this with the boys around?” This time he knows he sounds aghast at the idea of putting his boys in such danger. “No, I kept them out of harms way. I locked them in their room, I’d been warding it for a few weeks, no spirit can enter there now.” “This is ridiculous.” Francis shakes his head in disbelief. Alice looks away again, quietly mumbling, “I know you probably don’t believe me, but I was doing this to protect you.” “By putting my life in danger?!” “No! I never meant for you to be put at risk. The vail between the worlds is at it’s weakest on All Hallows’ Eve, the closer it got to then, the stronger the spirit became. I had to stop it, and last night was my best chance.” “… why?” “Eh?” Confused by the sudden change in Francis’s tone, Alice looks up. “Why did you do this? Why not just leave? A smart woman like you, I’m sure you’d find someone else to hire you. Wouldn’t it have been easier for you?” “I…” Alice frowns, unable to keep looking at Francis, she turns her head away, a blush tinting her cheeks red and her hands bundling the sheets in her fists. “What?” Francis blinks, “I didn’t hear you.” Alice mumbles something again, but it’s still to indistinctive for Francis to hear. “Sorry? Please, speak up.” “Because I have feelings for you!” She blurts, her face bright red and eyes slammed shut in embarrassment. Francis can only stare in shock, he had no idea she felt that way about him. All this time, he had been so determined not to fall for another, he never thought about how Alice might feel. “I… I couldn’t just walk away, and I couldn’t turn a blind eye. Not when I… cared so much for you.” She sighs, tears falling down her cheeks of their own accord. “But I know nothing can ever come of these feelings, so I tried to forget them, to push them away. But, that only made it hurt more every time I looked at you. I-I’m sorry things didn’t go how I planned, just please, please don’t hate me.” Francis continued to stare, mouth working, but no sound coming out. But the longer he stood there, watching Alice cry, the more his heart twisted painfully in his chest. And rather suddenly, he realised, he wanted to make those tears go away, he wanted to take all her pain away. He wants to see her smile again. Gently, he lifts a hand to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the tear tracks, smiling softly he whispers, “I don’t hate you.” He watches as those words cause a glimmer of hope to flash in her eyes, and his heart twists more at the look. Sighing softly, he gives in. Francis is no fool, he knows exactly what this feeling is, he’s just been trying to ignore it, but really, how can anyone ignore love? Slowly he leans down, and, in a single breath, kisses her. It only lasts a moment, but when he pulls back, he sees that beautiful smile again, and that makes it all worth it. Perhaps it’s as they say, third time’s the charm.

#hetalia #francisandtheworldweek #france x world week #APH France #aph fem england #APH Nyo England #APH America #APH Canada #aph fem Spain #aph nyo spain #francis bonnefoy #alice kirkland #Alfred #matthew #aph nyotalia #aph fruk #aph France x fem England #aph frain #aph France x fem Spain #ghost #fan fic #my work #day 2: Victorian era #day 2

[childofthemoon86]

@francisandtheworldweek Day 3: Teaching each other to dance

Two Steps to Dance

Pairing: (pre)FrUk Characters: France, England, America, Gaul, Britannia. Rating: T for language Word count: 3509 Cross posted on FF.net Summary: France has a secret. A few in fact, but one of them is that he’s not a very good dancer. But that’s not going to stop him from stunning everyone with his move at the Dance Festival. He just needs someone to secretly teach him first. Time to pay England a visit…

“Absolutely not.” “Please Angleterre.” England huffed, angrily throwing down his needlepoint to glare at France. “Just what part of ‘no’ don’t you seem to get Frog?” France bit his lip in worry. Of all things, he was certain he’d never beg England of all people for help, but, here he is. He considers leaving, after all, it’s not like Arthur is the only one who could teach him. He could always ask Spain, Toni is bound to know how to teach him right? But if he goes to him, Toni will definitely tell Prussia about his eh, lack of skill, and then he’ll never hear the end of it. And he dare not ask America, lest he risk throwing out his back, or gaining some other painful injury. No, Francis sighs, anyone else he goes to is bound to turn him into a laughingstock for the next decade. So, as much as it pains him to have to ask England for anything, he’s the only one he can trust to teach him, because there’s no way Arthur would admit to being an expert. Dropping down onto the sofa next to the green eyed man, Francis pleads, “Come on Arthur, I really need your help.” Raising a bushy eyebrow at him, Arthur scoots back, putting as much distance between them as the three seater allows. “Why is it, every time I have a day off, you always turn up to ruin my day?” It takes a lot of self restraint for Francis not to snap at Arthur for being his usual unhelpful self. Or to tease him that if he didn’t what Francis to come visit, then why’d he never ask for the spare key to his house back. Arthur knows he has it, and it wasn’t like it was hard to steal. Instead, he forces himself to stay amicable. “I don’t always visit on your days off.” “No, you also feel the inexplicable need to bother me on your days off too.” Finally growing too annoyed, Francis snaps, “And why can’t you just do this one nice thing for me?” “Oh what sort of fool do you take me for?” England snaps back, glaring at Francis, “Do you honestly expect me to believe you, of all people, can’t dance?” “Please Angleterre, I’m begging you!” Francis cries, throwing himself onto the other man’s chest, “Teach me how to square dance!” Rather than answer him, Arthur twists around, swinging a leg up to kick France off of him, sending the man sprawling back over the arm of the other side of the couch. Why Francis expected any other reaction, even he’s not sure. He watch’s as Arthur angrily stands, but before he can storm out of the room, Francis lunges at him again, tumbling off the couch to grab England’s legs as he lies on the floor. “Pleassssse!” He continues to beg, fighting to keep a hold on Arthur while the other attempts to break free. “Let go Frog!” “No! Not until you agree to help me!” “What even makes you think I know how to square dance?” “I’ve seen you! Please, just teach meeeee!” “Oh for the love of-” Arthur growls, halting in his attempt to kick Francis off of him, “If I agree to help you, will you leave me alone?” Francis grinned happily up at him, putting on his best charm, “Oui, I promise I won’t bug you anymore. Just as soon as you teach me.” Huffing in barely contained contempt, England gives in. “Fine. Now let go of me.” Smiling wide at his success, France jumps to his feet, dusting himself off before looking expectantly to Arthur. “So, when do we begin?” “Well not in here, obviously. We’ll need to go somewhere with more space.” “Lead the way then.” Arthur sighs again, making this out to be such a hassle. Honestly, France wonders how this man enjoy’s anything besides arguing all the time. “Just why exactly do you want me to teach you? And why square dancing of all things?” Francis blinks in surprise, “You haven’t heard yet?” “Hear what?” Arthur looks highly suspicious, and suddenly things start to make sense to Francis. “Hasn’t Amérique messaged you yet?” Arthur frowns, looking around for his phone, “Probably. But it’s my day off, and I refuse to spend it going through the mindless drivel he sends me every twenty minutes.” That… is actually something France can agree on. The strange humour of the younger nations these days is beyond him. Finally England locates his phone, it having fallen off the coffee table during their scuffle, and starts to sift through all the messages from Alfred since yesterday. Francis comes over to help, raising an eyebrow at the number of ‘memes’ the boy seems to deem necessary to send. “What is ‘Big Mood’?” “Don’t ask.” Arthur sighs that long suffering sigh of a man given up on trying to understand. “Ah, this one!” Francis points, happy to find the right message, while Arthur frowns down at the one of dozens of annoying texts sent from the boy. Dudes check this out!!!! 👀👣👣🤩 url “I’m not clicking some random link from him.” England huffs, moving to just delete the text, but Francis beats him to it, opening the link. A second later and an annoyingly bright and flashy website fills the screen, proudly proclaiming Summer Dance Festival. “See?” Francis asks, scrolling down the page to the invite list and those already signed up. “What the?!” Arthur roared at seeing his own name listed, along with pretty much the rest of the world. “Why the hell-? Oh, when I get my hands on that boy!” Francis temporarily ignored, England furiously dialled America and, much to France’s amusement, noticed that Arthur has him on speed dial. Deciding it’s best to get out of England’s immediate striking range, Francis heads for the kitchen. While he busies himself with making tea, the sound of angry shouting filters through to him. “Alfred F. Jones, what the bloody hell do you think your playing at?!” … “Don’t you ‘hey dude me’!” … “…oh what ever gave you that idea?” … “…I sound upset do I?... No I’m furious! You-” … “Fun?! When have I ever-? …You didn’t consult-… oh and I suppose you have everyone else’s blessing for this?” … “That’s what I thought.” … “Good cause or not-! …Yes… No… Well now your just-… Argh! Fine!” The volume slowly decreases, and Francis smiles in wonderment at how Alfred can so easily convince Arthur. Perhaps he should ask him sometime… Tea made, France heads back into the living room to find Arthur resignedly slumped on his sofa once more, sighing into the phone. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you Sunday, but don’t expect me to like it.” Once he hangs up, Francis smiles softly and sits beside him, offering the tea in Arthur’s favourite mug to him. It’s times like this that Francis remembers just how well he knows Arthur. Without even thinking, he’d made Camomile tea just the way England likes it, knowing it’s the blonds go-to for de-stressing. He blinks out of his thoughts, sipping at his own drink, but still he can’t help but see the thankful glance Arthur sends him as he sighs into his tea. Moments like this are some of the few times things can actually be genuinely peaceful between them, and Francis wonders at his strange longing for more moments like these… He shakes himself out of such thoughts, setting his drink down and forcing himself to end the moment. “So?” He asks. “So?” Arthur parrots back. “The festival? You agreed?” “Well I can’t very well back out now can I? What sort of nation would I be to not turn up for a charity event.” He sighs, leaning back and holding his cup in his lap, “So this is why you want me to teach you square dancing?” “Oui, it is the main event.” “Alright. Well, we don’t have much time before Sunday, so you better be ready for a crash course.” He sighs again, though this time he sounds much calmer, a good sign for Francis, “Damn that boy. Why on Earth did he pick Cumberland Squares as the main dance?” France tries to hide his grin as he thinks to himself, probably because he knew picking one of your dances would make you more likely to turn up. Suddenly sitting up, Arthur turns to Francis and frowns, “Alright now shoo.” “Eh?” “Go on, get out. I now have to go arrange somethings, and I can’t have you under foot all day, so get!” “What am I to you, a cat?” “No,” Arthur smirks cheekily, “cat’s are useful.” X “Arthur?” Francis called quietly as he entered the lobby. When Arthur said he’d find a place for them to practice, he didn’t actually think he’d get a dance hall for them. “Hello there, can I help you?” The receptionist asks at seeing him looking lost. Switching on the charm, Francis smiles warmly as he walks over, “Oui, I am supposed to be meeting someone here today. Do you know if Arthur Kirkland is here yet?” The woman blinks, them smiles back, “Oh, you must be the last one then. Mr. Kirkland is in Hall B with the others.” Francis nods, thanking her before wandering off to find England, while also wondering what she meant by ‘the others’. He soon finds out however, when he enters hall B, finding Arthur along with six other humans milling about. “Arthur?” He asks curiously as he walks in. “Finally. Your late.” Is the first thing England says to him, before calling out to the room, “Alright, places everyone.” Francis is starting to feel a bit out of his depth as like a switch being flipped, everyone moves at once. He watches as they form three pairs and stand like a square; two pairs facing each other one way, and the other facing Arthur the opposite way. Impatiently, Arthur looks over at Francis, raising an eyebrow at him, “Well? Are you coming?” Slowly, Francis makes his way over to Arthur’s side, guessing that he’s going to be paired with him, and Arthur quickly shoves him to stand on his right. Once at his side, Arthur turns to address the group. “Everyone, this is the Frog I mentioned, Francis. Frog, this is the Two Sisters Dance Troupe. They kindly agreed to help your sorry arse out, so be grateful.” Despite Arthur’s sour attitude, none of the dancers seem put off by it, in fact, a few of them seem more amused than anything. The first to introduce themselves is a short blond girl to Arthur’s left. “Hi! I’m Sindy and this here’s my boyfriend Markus.” She beams, hugging the taller teens arm. “That there’s my big sis Clara and our cousin Jamie.” She continues, pointing to the pair at Francis’s right. “And the last two here are Yasmine and Sonya!” She ends, indicating the pair of young women across from Francis and Arthur. “Bonjour.” He nods to the group, relaxing more as he sees how easy going they all seem. “Yes, yes,” Arthur huffs moodily, “We don’t have all day, so let’s get started. Try to keep up Frog.” He then glares pointedly, “And if you step on my toes, we’re done, got it?” “Oui.” Francis winks, smiling when Sindy and Yasmine giggle at the act, making Arthur grow flustered. “Good. We’ll go through the step slowly first, then try the full thing with music later, got it?” “Anything you say mon cher.” Arthur glares at the pet name, no doubt suspecting Francis is acting up for the groups amusement, but begins anyway. “Well then, first thing you need to know for the Cumberland Squares Frog, is we have top couples; those who have their front or back to the music, and side couples; those who have their side to the music. So Markus and James are top pairs, we and Yasmine make up the side pairs. We’re doing it this way so you can see the moves before trying them, and also because those two have a male/female paring, makes it easier to demonstrate with. Now this dance works in a sequence of Tops, then Sides copy, Tops repeat, then Sides again, get it?” Arthur explains. “Oui, I think I follow so far.” “Good, then let’s try the first part. Tops face each other in an elongated pose side on.” Arthur orders and Francis watches as the two pairs turn, spreading their arms out wide and clasping hands. “Now the guys slide back to back for eight, then back again with the girls back to back. Go.” Just like that the pairs are off, side stepping toward the centre, Markus and James pass back to back just like Arthur said, all while the two ladies and Arthur clap to maintain a rhythm, with Arthur counting out the timing. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and back, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and stop. Good, then when they return to home, we Side pairs do the same.” Francis blinks, jumping to face Arthur, surprised that the other man isn’t putting up any protest at holding hands. But Francis becomes so distracted with this that he fails to keep up with the sudden movement, resulting in Arthur half dragging him for the first few steps before he forces himself to pay attention to his feet. With Arthur taking the lead, Francis Just has to follow along with his moves. It should be easy, but no matter how hard he tries to focus, the feeling of Arthur’s hands in his and how close their bodies are is just too distracting. The trip was inevitable. Francis isn’t exactly a bad dancer per-say, he’s taken part in plenty of court dances in the past, but now it’s like he has two left feet as he stumbles over himself and tumbles to the ground, almost bringing England down with him. “For God’s sake!” Arthur grumbles as he catches himself, cheeks oddly tinted pink, “Can’t you at least try to have some semblance of coordination?” “Sorry, Sorry!” Quickly jumping to his feet, Francis rejoins hands with Arthur, and they restart the move. Thankfully for both their dignities, Francis is at least able to focus long enough to follow the steps through without falling again. “Right,” Arthur huffs, stepping back slightly from Francis, “Next part is the right and left hand stars. Pretty simple, top couples step into the centre, raising their right hands first to touch at a point in the middle, and then do eight walks to the right, then back again with left hands to the left. Go.” Carefully Francis watches as the pairs move just like Arthur said, this time also clapping along to the beat. “…2, 3, 4, 5, 6 And left hands, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and back to home. Then side couples.” Taking the cue, Francis moves in, raising his right hand up to join the star and walk the circle. This one, he’s happy to do without trouble. “Good, now the next part is the most difficult of the dance, so pay attention frog.” Arthur glares pointedly at him again, before going on to explain, “This part is called the Basket or The Helicopter. First top couples move in to a tight circle in the middle, then the guys link hands behind the ladies waists, and the ladies hold on at the shoulders for grip. Next we do what’s called a heel and toe polka. Place the right foot forward and put your weight on it, then do a cross step to the right. The point of this move is to spin fast enough to lift the ladies feet off the ground as you spin for eight. Then when you finish, guys make sure to keep a hold of your partner so no one goes flying. Now go.” Francis blinks, Arthur wasn’t kidding when he said this part was complicated. The others make it look easy as they rotate, Markus and James easily lifting Sindy and Clara up, their feet swinging out behind them to Arthur’s counting. They separate and return to base, making room for Francis and Arthur to join Yasmine and Sonya in the middle. As Arthur clasps his hand with Yasmine at Francis’s waist and Francis is forced to hold onto the blonds shoulder, he becomes hyper aware of just how close Arthur is. Heat rushes to his face of it’s own accord, and dread fills him as he just knows he’s going to mess this up. There’s no way he can concentrate like this. The deep frown remains on Arthur’s face as he begins counting, and immediately Francis loses all sense of footing, tripping into Yasmine and breaking the circle apart, this time, actually pulling Arthur down too. “God damn it Frog!” England roars, face red as he pushes Francis off of him. “Why don’t we take a break?” Sonya suggests before a fight can start. Without a word Arthur storms out, leaving Francis bewildered on the floor. As soon as he’s gone though, Sindy grins wide and laughs, “Ha! Toooooold you~ Pay up Jamie!” France watches in confusion as the lanky teen sighs, before going over to the bags in the corner and fishing out a £20 note to hand to his cousin. “Don’t worry about them.” Clara smiles, offering Francis a hand up. “They made a bet?” “Yeah,” she nods slowly, shifting from foot to foot. “Am I really that bad?” Fran sighs. “Oh no, it’s not that! Well, I mean, your not great, but not terrible! Just…” She trails off, seeming unsure if she should really be talking about this. “Just?” He presses, but Sindy jumps in before she can answer. “So when’s the wedding?” “Sindy!” Clara cries in shock, slapping a hand over her sisters mouth. “Oh don’t be so prude.” Sonya huffs, rolling her eyes at the pair. “It’s plain as day for anyone to see,” she turns to look up at Francis, “You like Mr. Kirkland right? He sure likes you.” “Eh?” Francis balks, shocked at the suggestion. “Don’t play dumb! You like him~” Sindy sings from behind her sisters hand. “Non, Non, you’ve got it all wrong! We’re just…” Francis tries to explain, but finds himself unsure what to say. Just what is England to him? A friend? Enemy? Occasional drunken night fling, forgotten by the morning? He’s always tried to avoid labelling their relationship, it’s just too complicated for him to think about. And he always thought he and Arthur had an unspoken agreement never to discuss, well, them. But how does he go explaining that to a bunch of young humans? “Here,” Yasmine suddenly says, bringing Francis out of his spiralling thoughts, “Let’s do a test. Pair with me, Sonya, you go with James. Let’s run through the Basket again.” Francis thinks he knows what they’re up to, and the logical part of him is screaming at him not to do it. You don’t want to know the answer, it’ll only make things more complicated than they already are! But, he’s always been a man to be ruled by his heart over his head, and his hearts telling him to go along with them. It’s just like his head was warning him, he does the move perfectly, no distraction to be found. Yasmine beams, voicing what Francis has dread being true, “You like Mr. Kirkland. That’s why you’ve been messing up.” “And he likes you~” Sindy pipes up again. This is suddenly all too much for Francis to reconcile with. After centuries of skirting around each other and denying his feelings, to have a group of kids telling him the truth he’s tried so hard to avoid… He needs air. As he rushes out, an old, long forgotten memory flutters back to him. X The sea breeze ruffled Francis’s hair as he held his mothers hand, following her to the small settlement ahead. There, they met up with a woman with hair like fire, and the fiercest green eyes he’d ever seen, carrying a bundle of cloth nestled in her arms. She’d be scary, if it weren’t for the warm smile she shared with his mother. “Gaul,” the woman sighs tiredly, “you came.” “Anything for you Britannia dear.” His mother smiles. The woman, Britannia, then turned to him, and smiled, “You must be Francis. Look, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Her eyes were soft as she kneeled down, holding out the cloth bundle to him. And in it he saw a  sleeping baby, an infant no more than a few days old, but instinctively Francis could tell he was just like them. And when those bright green eyes opened at him for the first time, Francis instantly fell in love. And he’s been in love ever since… X As he bursts out the lobby, Francis halts on the steps to the street, coming face to face with those very same eyes. He takes a deep breath and steps forward. Moment of truth…

#hetalia #francisandtheworldweek #france x world week #Day 3: Teaching each other to dance #day 3 #APH France #APH England #aph fruk #APH America #francis bonnefoy #arthur kirkland #alfred f jones #dancing #fan fic #my work #featuring headcanons and cliffhangers

[childofthemoon86]

@francisandtheworldweek Day 1: Photographer/Model au

Love is Inspiration, Inspiration is Love

Pairing: (pre)FrUk, implied spamano

Characters: France, Spain, Prussia, England, America, South Italy (mentioned)

Rating: T for language

Word count: 2350

Summary: When Francis loses his love of photography, inspiration comes from an unlikely, and rather drunk, source.

Cross posted on FF.net

Francis sighed as he clicked through the images on his screen. Male models sporting the latest fashion flick past his eyes with barely a moments glance. Snazzy street clothes, expensive suits, swim wear, underwear, each image taken has the perfect theme for the occasion and really, by anyone else’s standards, the pictures are beautiful, breathtaking… perfect.

But when Francis looks at these pictures, he doesn’t see that special spark anymore. He sees hours of rigging just to set up the right lighting for maybe one or two passable photos, and dozens more tossed for not being ‘just right’. He sees fussy hair and makeup designer arguing over the same faces day after day, only to paint the same look on each one. He sees boring models who act more like play-doh than clay. He sees dozens of people acting like cogs in a machine, and the expectation they all have of him, for him to make it all work.

He sees a process, a set up.

He doesn’t see art. He doesn’t see life.

Turning from the screen, Francis pushes himself away from the desk, the wheels of his chair squeaking under him as he rolls back from the force. He leans back, slowly letting his eyes rove around the studio.

Around him the white walls are decorated with some of his best works. Large portraits filled with bright, and back then new, models in some of his more… ostentatious works. As his eyes roll over each, he can’t help but feel a smile pull at his lips. How can he not? Each picture has a story, and every time he looks at them, he feels himself whisked right back to the day he took it.

But then his eyes returned to the black screen at his desk.

He frowns, wondering when did he lose his spark? Just when did he start to hate the very thing that used to give him such joy?

Looking to the side, his eyes land on the small frame nestled on the corner of his desk.

Most people who come to his studio don’t even know he’s the one who took it, mostly because he’s in it, that, and the fact that it’s nothing like the others. It’s a bit blurry and off centre. It also has an odd tilt, and lens flare from the sun blots out the upper right corner with it’s glaring white light, almost blocking out the view of one of the peoples faces.

But despite all these apparent flaws, it’s by far Francis’s most precious picture.

Gently, he lifts it up to examine it closer.

The picture was taken in a park, one not too far from his old studio, and is a simple one of three friends. It was a summers day, the last summers day that the three friends would share for some time, and they wanted to remember it. Francis was only a budding photographer back then, but even so, he knew just how to capture the day.

He had set up a tripod with his new camera all ready to go. The timer was set and he rushed back to the others for the perfect shot.

What he didn’t count on was a ball bouncing down the hill he set the camera on, or Gilbert’s decision to be ‘helpful’ and kick it out of frame back the way it came. The ball veered to the right and struck the tripod, causing the camera to tumble. The timer ticked down and the shutter went off before the camera hit the ground, capturing the sight of Gilbert cheering to his right, Antonio laughing at the accident to his left, and Francis in the middle, dashing forward in the vain hopes of catching the camera.

It’s an image full of life, and the very picture that set Francis fully on the path to becoming the photographer he is today.

Before he can set the picture down again, the door flies open and the sound of manic laughter soon reaches Francis’s ears.

“Hey Franny! What you still doing sitting there?” Gilbert calls, grinning like a mad man as he steps in.

Francis looks up in confusion for a moment, before he spies Antonio through the doorway.

“Merde! Is it that late already?” He curses, looking at his watch.

“Yup!” Gil beams, “So get your butt out of that chair and let’s go drinking!”

“Ah,” Francis shakes his head sadly, “Sorry, but I still haven’t finished here, and the deadline is tonight.”

Before he can apologise further, Toni waves away his worries, “We thought you might say that, so I had a word with Lovi, and we both agreed to give you an extension, so no worries!”

Francis chuckles, shaking his head at the pair.

Of course, he should have expected as much. Not many people are as lucky to work for their best friend.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Ja, now let’s go hit the bars!”

X

Francis knows he should be trying to enjoy himself, but he can’t stop feeling bogged down with this new inexplicable loathing for his work, and he hates that he hates it.

“Aww cheer up Fran,” Toni chirps, waving the bar tender over to order him another drink.

“Ja,” Gil nods, trying to act sagely as he clumsily claps the blond on the back, “It’s not like you to be this down. It’s weirding me out.”

“If you need a change of pace, Gil could always model some stuff again.”

“Damn right I could! You know I make anything look hot.”

“No,” Fran sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Thanks, but I don’t think even Gil’s eccentricities can get me out of this slump.”

Toni hums in thought, though how clear such thoughts are is questionable at this point, “Maybe you just need something new, like last year with the spring wardrobe change? Though I don’t think I could take another of Lovi’s tantrums…”

“Just get a new model.” Gil slurs slightly, taking another swig of his beer before continuing, “I mean, no dummkopf pretty boy will be as good as me, but can’t hurt to try right?”

“Gil has a point,” Antonio nods, sipping at his own drink, “that’s what you used to do at the old studio, right?”

Francis shook his head, frowning at his drink, “No, I mean yes, but, it’d be impossible. Even if I could find someone to model, there’s no way I could reshoot all of Lovino’s line by next week. I’d have to work 24/7 solid to get it done, and you know how fickle the makeup department is. It’s impossible. I’ll just have to… make… do?”

Francis trails off, his attention drifting to the other end of the bar where an argument seems to be getting out of hand.

He can just about see a head of scruffy blond hair slumped across the bar, and another taller blond trying, and failing, to pull the slumped man up.

“FUCKING PISS OFF!” An accented voice heavily slurs as the smaller man tries to push the other away.

“Dude, Artie, come on. It’s time to go.” The tall one sounds frustrated, but is doing well to stay calm.

“A said Fuck OFF, am still drinkin’ h’re!”

“No your not,” the bar tender cuts in, frowning disapprovingly at the drunk man, “I cut you off half an hour ago. Now will you please leave before I call the police.”

“Whoa, no need for the cops dude, I can handle him.” The tall blond grins nervously, before switching to a more direct approach.

Francis, and by now most of the bar, watch as the young man stuffs his hands under the drunks armpits, forcefully lifting him up off the bar and pulling back to remove him from the stool. It goes well for about five seconds, before the drunk man seems to realise what’s happening and tries to pull away. The ensuing scuffle sends them down the bar, and, by a bout of bad luck, the drunk man tumbles free of his helper/captor to land in Francis’s lap.

Bloodshot green eyes look up at him in dazed confusion for a second, before rolling over to vomit down Francis’s trousers.

Francis is fairly certain it’s the booze talking, but as he watched this man puke, he saw a glow, and just like that, to the sound of retching and the disgusting warmth running down his legs, he’d found his new inspiration.

“Oh shit! Dude I am so sorry!” The young man cried as he pulled the sick man to his feet.

Downing the last of his drink, Francis stood, beaming as he helped to steady the drunk and proclaimed, “Your hired!”

X

At exactly 11am the next morning, Francis eagerly paced the studio, making last minute adjustments to the lighting, before nearly jumping in glee at the sound of the door buzzing.

Hurrying over to the intercom, he excitedly asked, “Hello?”

His excitement however, was met with a far more cautious and nervous voice, “Yes, Hello? My name is Arthur, I, Uh, believe you made a job offer last night? The card said to come here so…” the voice trails off, but Francis is far to excited to pick up on it’s unease.

“Oui! Oui, come on up!” He calls, happily buzzing the man in.

It only takes a few minutes for a knock to come at his door, and Fran near pulls it off it’s hinges in his rush to open it. But any words he had prepared leave him in a rush of air as he lays eyes on the man before him.

The sloppy drunk in a ratty old band tee, jeans, and heavy jacket that was hanging off of him last night has been completely replaced. Instead what stands before him is a neat, casual suit wearing man, who stands straight and clean shaven. Though the hair remains the same, and what was confused green eyes, now stare back at him with weariness behind dark sunglasses that some how go with the suit.

So this is Arthur Kirkland when not drunk out of his mind, Fran thinks.

It’s only when Arthur coughs does Francis notice he’s been ogling him for far too long and is now making things uncomfortable.

He quickly smiles to recover, stepping back and waving a hand to welcome him in.

“Please, come in, Mr. Kirkland.”

There’s a moment of uncertainty before he does, and Fran sighs in relief.

“Um, so what is it exactly you wanted to hire me for?”

Now Francis realises why Arthur sounds so unsure, and he chuckles at his own blindness.

“Ah, I suppose you were rather, incapacitated last night, though I thought your friend, Mr. Jones? would have explained everything to you?”

Arthur seems to frown at the mention of his friend as he looks around the studio, “Alfred left early for work, all he left me was a note and your card. Not exactly much to go on.”

“Ah well, in that case, allow me to explain. My name is Francis Bonnefoy, I am a photographer for the fashion magazine Project Tomato. And what I want you to do, Mr. Kirkland, is model for me.”

“Model?”

Oh, Francis doesn’t like the way he said that, as if the very notion was ridiculous. He has to save this, and fast. Time to pour on the charm.

“Why of course! You see, back before I started working for PT, I was an independent photographer, and part of my work was finding fresh new faces to be models, so I know when I see potential.” He grinned, pausing to try to gauge Arthur’s reaction before continuing, “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything too taxing on your first day. We’ll start of easy with a simple white drop background and something light and easy to wear, maybe a few costume changes later on, but nothing big.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur blinked, shaking his head like he’s trying to understand what’s going on, “but you want me to model?”

Trying not to show his worry that he might lose his one shot at new inspiration, Fran smiles warmly, “Yes, that is what I said.”

“Me? Model?”

Fran sighs, now getting frustrated with this circling.

“Yes. You. What about that is so hard to understand?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so sharp, but he really needs Arthur to agree.

Arthur looks around at the studio again, this time clearly taking in all the pictures, and if Francis didn’t know any better, he’d say Arthur almost looks scared.

“But aren’t models supposed to be…” he trails off.

“Supposed to be what?”

“Never mind. You said the pay would be good? Or Al’s note said that…”

Finally getting somewhere, Fran beams, “Yes, very.”

“Alright then.” Arthur sighs, before directing his full attention to Francis, “What do I have to do?”

X

Francis can easily say that Arthur is by far the most difficult model he’s ever had to work with, and for some unknown reason, that delights him. He hates the makeup and hair designers, he refuses to wear any shorts, or sleeveless shirts without a jacket to cover his arms, and he absolutely won’t let anyone near him when he changes. He’s grumpy, demanding and unreasonable. He’s an unpleasant spanner in the once smooth running machine of Francis’s studio.

And that makes him perfect.

He’s not play-doh, or clay, he’s a rock. No, a gemstone, a diamond in the rough. It’ll be tough, but with time, Francis is certain he can polish him to shine greater than any model before him.

But more than that, Francis finds himself drawn to him. He doesn’t remember the last time his camera was so draw to something, when one, twenty, forty photos was never enough.

And when the day’s shoot is over, never has he been more afraid of a model deciding this wasn’t for them, or chased after someone to beg to know that they’ll come back the next day.

And never has he been so happy when they said yes.

#hetalia #francisandtheworldweek #france x world week #day 1: photographer/Model au #day 1 #aph france #aph prussia #aph spain #aph south italy #aph romano #aph england #aph america #aph fruk #aph spamano #francis bonnefoy #arthur kirkland #fan fic #my work