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senditothemoonn · 5 months ago

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New Year’s

This is suffocating, Francis thought, eyeing his colleagues, all a little drunk already, dance to the beat of some rave music. This is absolutely suffocating.

When Francis was invited do America’s “New Year party”, he expected something more… traditional. With a Christmas tree and decorations, some cinnamon buns and hot chocolate perhaps. Something familial and small.

How could he forget that America doesn’t do “small” nor, sadly, familial?

He wanted a quiet celebration with a dinner and toasts to the upcoming year and how it (for sure-for sure!) will be better than the last. Instead, he had to pull Antonio’s hair out of the toilet twice. He was quite impressed with his friends’ abilities to get absolutely smashed in just under four hours.

At least such a way of spending it didn’t get him too hopeful for the future. Perhaps he should’ve stopped celebrating the ‘traditional’ way a long time ago, you know… not to get his hopes up. He looked over the dim lighting of the room once again, caught Prussia trying to beat Hungary at speed-drinking vodka and decided. Decided that he needed some fresh fucking air.

He stood up and slipped among countless people in the house, making his way to the second floor, the desired balcony in his sight already. He stopped in his tracks suddenly, looking down the stairs to the first floor. Should he take his coat with him? The music became even louder and he shuddered. No, he’ll be fine. It’ll just be a minute anyway.

He stepped forward, into the corridor, the only place in the house that wasn’t plagued by people and lights and alcohol and—

He opened the doors to the balcony and felt the fresh breeze hit against his face, a sensation welcomed with a fond smile.

This is exactly what he needed. His shoes clicked lightly against the floor as he walked on the metal, eyes fixated on the starry night. The house was far away enough to allow stargazing, but close enough to civilisation for Francis to be at the outskirts of the nearest town in thirty minutes by foot.

His fingers traced the railing of the balcony, inhaling the crisp winter air, leaning against the railing with a soft smile.

“You’ll get cold standing out he—“

“sACRE BLEU!”

Alistair scoffs and Francis sees his face being traced by a smirk. With his hand still on his chest and his eyes a little wider than normal, he exclaimed with bafflement:

“You scared me!”

“I noticed.” Francis rolled his eyes, leaning forward again. Scotland takes out a cigarette and lights it up.

There was a pause in them talking. While he wanted to start a dialogue, it was a bit… awkward, especially after the encounter ever so slightly before that.

“So…” he could sense Alistair’s eyes shifting onto him, the cigarette between his lips. “What are you doing out here?”

There was a low hum.

“Well, y’know how it goes for me with loud sounds. Cannie stand them.”

“So… searching for shelter outside?” Alistair nodded slightly. “And your brothers? I think I’ve seen them inside…”

Another hum, after which Alistair turned his head towards him, the slight pride present in his voice. Diluted, but after years of knowing him, he learned to pick up on such subtleties.

“Arthur challenged me to a drinking contest and I’m afraid he’s not taking the aftermath too well”

It was Francis’ turn to giggle.

“And you? I thought you’d be hanging out with your friends?”

“Uhh… ‘My friends’” he answered, mirroring Alistair’s words “perhaps had a drinking contest of their own.” Scotland let out a chuckle.

“I see we’re in similar positions”

“I guess”

Again this pause, not as uncomfortable this time. Francis closed his eyes, feeling the wind playing with his hair, his cheeks reddening, embracing himself, feeling the cold creep under his sweater and biting at the skin underneath, shivering.

“Told ya, it’s cold out here” Alistair’s blazer was dropped on top of his wool sweater.

Francis’ cheeks flushed with a new force, not from the cold this time.

“Chéri, now you’re gonna be cold, I can’t take your-“

“Francis. I’ll be fine.” another inhale of the smoke and Francis was grateful to have this absolutely hideous blazer. Grateful to spend some time with Alistair again.

Nowadays they barely ever met, they didn’t talk too often. They didn’t have the time and in those evenings when Francis ached for a chat with Alistair, he just stared at his phone screen, at Alistair’s number neatly typed out on it and he just couldn’t. It wasn’t the time. What if it was weird? There was such a gap between him reaching out, it must be a bit odd! And what if Alistair didn’t reach out because he didn’t want to be friends with him anymore? Perhaps the connection they had as teenagers was lost forever. Perhaps there was nothing left of it. Perhaps he was an idiot to begin the conversation in the first place.

“Hey, Al.” The Scotsman looked at him funny, having forgotten the nickname by now for sure, especially after years of court manners and pompous etiquette. Francis barely registers the quiet ‘Aye?’ before continuing. “Do you ever think what it would be like if we… if we never broke off the Alliance?”

Alistair looks back towards the night sky at that, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, his thumb tracing the metal of the railing, fidgeting as he does when nervous. And Francis already regrets asking. Regrets bringing it up.

“No, nae really” he answers simply, putting out the cigarette before throwing it off the balcony, into the garden. Francis feels his anxiety strengthening at that, cursing himself for his long tongue. “It would’ve been the same anyway. England would’ve gotten the best of me eventually and we’d have to quit it, just less… peacefully this time.” he rearranges himself now, his palm cupping his cheek as he looks into the distance. “I do wonder, what it’d be like, if we didn’t stop writing letters to each other tho.”

The question bugs him, too. Would they be closer now? Would this night flow easier? Would he even be capable of maintaining this connection at that time, when adrenaline was running high, his empire big and only growing, his headaches consisting out of wars and conquests?

“I don’t blame you tho.” Francis looks at Alistair with confusion, enquiring for explanation. Alistair only shrugs. “I mean, I get it. My brother can be a pain in the ass, that I would know!” Francis snorts at that, shaking his head slightly. “With a prick like that across the front line — I would fail to concentrate on anything else, too!”

“You don’t change, do you, Écosse?”

“Can’t say the same about you.” Scotland answers, a smile on his lips. Then Alistair’s eyebrows shot up in a quick motion, as if blocking away whatever chain of thought he had beforehand, moving his attention onto something completely different. He reaches for his pocket, taking out an army flask, presenting it to Francis with a look of offering. The Frenchman scoffed a laugh.

“Oh come on! I just got away from all that alcohol!”

Alistair shrugged with a smile.

“It ain’t New Year’s if you don’t get even a drop!”

“What is it then?”

“Wine.” Alistair caught the look of interest and extended the bottle slightly further. “Red, too.”

“Oh, be damned!” Francis waved a hand at him and took a hold of the bottle.

***

23:46

“And so the barman says, ‘For you? No charge!’”

Francis thinks that this is the least intellectually-challenging joke he’s heard in a bloody while and it’s so ridiculously obvious and unfunny, but he bursts out laughing anyway. And the two of them laugh and laugh, to the point of suffocation and pain in the chest. He tries to get a hold of his breath and Alistair tries to do the same, only for their efforts to prove futile as they lock eyes again and start giggling like idiots.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, although they didn’t have too much. Maybe quarter of a litre each. But it’s easier for him to look at it that way, than admit the the reason why he’s so eager to laugh at Alistair’s terrible jokes, stay with him in the freezing weather in which he’ll probably catch a cold and just keep talking and talking, is just so that they don’t part ways again.

The two of them calm down, heaving breaths showing in the freezing cold. Francis catches Alistair’s eyes on his and offers a smile. A dazzling smile, Alistair thinks, truly unforgettable. A smile that he earned to see for too long.

“Hey, Fran.”

“Mm?”

He takes the last gulp out of the bottle.

Twelve…

This is it. Now or never. Alistair knows himself, knows that he won’t have the bloody courage to yell this out, if he doesn’t this exact moment.

Eleven…

Knows that he only can pull off the “oops, must’ve been that drunk, especially after the whole England deal” card once. That he will be damning himself for weeks, months, years, centuries, if he doesn’t get this settled here and now, with Francis so close to him and with his hair slightly unkempt and his pupils wide from the booze.

Ten…

And he feels that he’s been silent for too long, that it looks weird, that he’s making it so much worse with every second that he doesn’t reply.

Nine…

No, this is not the time. This is definitely not the time, he’s not ready. This would be the worst confession on planet Earth if he says it after such a gap in dialogue.

Eight…

And so he says the first thing that comes to mind, the very first thing aside from “forget it”, which unfortunately is…

“I love you”

Francis gasps then, eyes wide. He feels his heart stop, the way it stops in his throat, leaving him breathless, the phrase echoing in his mind over and over.

Seven…

…I love you, I love you, I love you…

Six…

And the moment replays in his mind, the movement of Alistair’s hands, the way his hair reflected the moon glow, the glint in his eyes. And Scotland is no better, looking shocked at his sudden display of affection, regretting those three words that’s spilled so effortlessly.

Five…

“I—“ Francis blinks, the blush on Alistair’s face becoming darker and darker, a mixture of intoxication and shame. “I love you.”

He loses the “too”, simply forgets to add it. He mirrors Alistair’s words, really just now sinking them in. And he smiles then, a little dumbly, he’ll think later, but Alistair finds it adorable.

Four…

“I love you.” he says again, with more confidence.

Three…

“Oh…” Alistair says, still slightly shellshocked from the initial reaction. “Oh.”

Francis comes close then and wraps his palms around Alistair’s neck, their lips a breath away.

“May I?” he whispers, eyes half-open as he feels Alistair place his hands onto his waist.

Two…

Scotland looks at him intently, focuses, takes in every detail of Francis. Indulges in the proximity, allows himself to drown in the worth of it all.

“Yes.” he says, even through he doesn’t need to. It’s all on his face.

One…

He feels Francis’ lips against his own, soft and sweet and so desired.

Somewhere in the background, shouting starts. Chaotic mixture of “Whoo’s!” and “Happy New Year’s!” bursting out of the house. They pull away shortly after and Francis scoffs a laugh, still standing way too close.

“Happy New Year, cheri!”

“Happy New Year, Fran.” he answers, before pulling him back in.

#🥺💞💖💕💗#i am there i am with them i am cheering them on #this was so cute and heartfelt it had me going 🥹 the whole way through #fic recs #i love this

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senditothemoonn · 8 months ago

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Day 3 - “Is this what you want?”

Today the streets were loud, boiling with life, rainfall heaving down onto the inhabitants, with unbearable traffic, some absolute morons yelling at each other through rolled down windows and an insane amount of responsibilities suddenly falling onto Francis’ shoulders.

It is on days like this that he regrets quitting smoking. But all of that (thankfully) was over.

Aside from the paperwork.

His opinions changed a lot throughout the centuries, but there were things that he felt very strongly about. For example, that your shoes should always match your bag, that dark brown was certainly not his colour and that paperwork was awful. Paperwork was something he dreaded with his entire being, for his hand hurt too much after signing, signing and signing everything, for he was having a migraine after hours of trying to figure out some misprint, only to find out later that the whole paper was actually never meant for him in the first place, for the moment he looked at the dull papers, black lines crossing them all over, he felt his heart sink and eyes roll at a yet another request from one of his officials.

He dragged himself up the staircase and took out a key. The wrong one, of course, because the universe despised him today.

The clicking of the lock, the smashing of the door against the wall, his bag falling onto the floor and him slumping against the corner of the hallway, on top of the shoe cabinet.

Francis knew he needed a moment after such a day, just sitting there in silence for a few minutes before he said anything to the love of his entire life, or he’d look too miserable for his own liking. Or, at least Francis thought that he needed it, before he heard the sweetest words flow out of the dimly lit living room, where Alistair was, no doubt, reading.

“Welcome home, Fran!”

A lazy smile appeared on his face.

“Hello.” He said back, softly.

***

“Ugh…” it was taking way too long for him to get through all of that. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should’ve done all of this when Ludwig told him to. And perhaps (perhaps!) he needed to look at this law that was passed on a little earlier. And perhaps—

Francis threw his head back, eyes closing and hands covering his face. This is exactly why he didn’t like this whole “sign the damn paper” thing. It wasn’t just about signing the damn paper. It was about figuring out whether or not they had the finances for it, if it was the right thing to do, if there were loopholes through which one can do something questionable. And, of course, it was about endless, notorious, boring calculations. It was about unnecessary drama and pity parties… and his thoughts were driving him insane again.

“This is hell” he picked up a pen and looked at it with disinterest, not really looking at it at all “I am in hell.”

“Then I’m here to save you.” Francis jumped up in his seat, head snapping to the right. Too invested in his own thought, he failed to notice the door opening, or a certain Scotsman leaning onto it, observing him. The same Scotsman that was now looking at him with a smug grin and a glint in his eyes.

Francis shot him a look. It was meant to be threatening, but either Alistair didn’t care after being objected to it so many times, or he completely misunderstood it for a ‘what do you want?’, because he answered :

“I made tea.” and nodded to the corridor, after which he walked out of the office.

***

Upon entering the kitchen, Francis was greeted by the sight of Alistair, who spared him a mere glance before continuing to pour tea into two cups.

And the stove on, for some horrid reason, but that’s a headache he’ll deal with later.

He sat down opposite to Alistair, looking at him with glassy eyes. No thoughts were really in his head. They generally had the tendency to disappear once he locked his eyes on Scotland and he still wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing, or a curse.

He watched Alistair’s hands place the teapot back onto the table, his fingers curving at the handle of his cup, holding it sternly, thumb tapping its top.

And looking at that, Francis reminded himself that he should probably take his mug. He reached out slowly, holding the porcelain in his palms, warming them against the liquid inside.

He took a sip.

Alistair followed his example, eyes closing for a moment, the way he always did when appreciating a good earl grey.

“How was your day ?” the question was gentle and Francis understood that Alistair was prompting him to a rant, the way he did when he knew that Francis was in the mood for gossiping (almost always).

He smoothed his hair behind his ear. “Horrible.” Another sip. “Today was absolutely horrible.”

Alistair answered with a low hum and Francis felt the need to continue.

“First the gas in my car was about to run out, so I pulled over to the gas station, but there was a huge line. So, when it’s my turn, I look at the hose and it says that it ‘reaches both ways’” he put the cup down and mimicked the speech-marks. “and then it didn’t! So, then I have to drive out and get to another line and that goes by pretty quickly. And when I went to the cashier, they go ‘Sir, am sorry, ye cannae pay with a card’” the imitation of the accent made Alistair choke on his tea with laughter, but Francis was too absorbed in his own story to notice. “And I don’t have any cash on me at the moment!

“I go into the car, search high and low for these damned thirty pounds and I find them. Ten minutes later!

“I finally get out of the gas station and I’m driving to the conference room and there’s a traffic jam. I stay in there for nearly half an hour!” He sips his tea again, more angrily this time.

“So, of course I arrive late and the first thing I hear this morning is a lecture from Germany about punctuality, after which your brother” Francis points an accusing finger at Alistair across the table, who puts his hands up in surrender, after which proceeds with even more poison in his voice “uses it against me, as a proof that I’m lazy and am no fit for a ‘gentleman’ like him!

“So, now I have a lot of work and a headache. Work that you are preventing me from doing!” he looks Alistair in the eyes and both of them know that it’s a joke. A playful remark. But Alistair pretends that he doesn’t. He leans forward and tries to hide his smirk as he speaks.

“Is this really what you wanna do? Paperwork?”

Francis lets out a groan at the mention and throws his head back again, hands wrapping around his cup.

He hears Alistair chuckle.

“I might have something that can make it up to you a little.”

The mention makes Francis curious and he tilts his head towards Scotland slightly. He watches him get up, hears the fridge open and is soon presented with a plastic box being set in front of him on the table.

It takes him a second to realise what he’s looking at, but it does light his day up a little when he understands what it is. Francis smiles.

“You got me a crème brûlée!”

Alistair shrugs his shoulders and nods to the side, a small smile on his own face.

“Thought you deserve a little treat.”

“Mmm, thanks” France hums out, eyes softening as he looks up at Scotland.

He gets up, circles his chair, fingers dancing on top of it lightly, after which he stands directly in front of Alistair. “There’s something that would make me feel even better though.”

There’s a played naivety in his voice and Alistair thinks that he has a pretty good idea what that ‘something’ is. But Francis gave him a role and he’ll have to carry it out.

“Oh?” he reaches out and plays with the ends of France’s blond hair. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice “And what is it?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he does.

#ADORABLE 😭😭#ugh my baby franny…forcing him to do work should be illegal #he was made for a life of hedonism not labour…#this is so sweet though for real #what a wonderful fic #<3 #fic recs

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