Characters: France, England. Eventual FrUk. Appearances of others
Warnings; France, England.
Summery: Arthur Kirkland: Radio talent, aspiring novelist. Arthur Kirkland: Human embodiment of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Stuck between two worlds. Is Francis really the only one who can help him right now? Before he's trapped in the wrong place.
Arthur yawned and stretched, his fingers brushing against the soft sheets of his bed as well as… something warm. Still half asleep he moved toward the source, snuggling up against the welcome heat. That is, until it moved. Eyes snapping open he gaped at a shoulder attached to a neck attached to a sleeping face covered by a mop of golden hair…
"Perverted bastard!" If his yell didn't wake Francis from his slumber then the slap that followed soon after certainly did. The Frenchman's eyes flew open as he fell off the bed and landed with a thud on the floor. Arthur pulled the blankets around himself and stared, horrified, at the place Francis had once been. He searched through the recesses of his mind but couldn't find anything about what had happened the night before that would lead to this.
"You goddamned frog! What the hell did you do to me?"
Francis poked his head over the edge of the bed, a hand over his stinging cheek. The man raised a brow at him, "You honestly do not remember?"
All the color drained from his face as he ran through all of the possibilities of what Francis could have and probably had done to him, "Oh my god, what did we- what did you do to me?"
"Angleterre, I did nothing!" Francis smirked, "Contrary to popular belief I do not make a habit of making love to those who are unconscious."
"I knew it you-! Wait, what was that?"
Chuckling, he sat up on the bed again, "Barely conscious, maybe, but never unconscious. Though don't assume…" he grinned, "that I wasn't tempted, mon cher."
Blushing, he pushed the other away, "Keep it in your pants you sodding wine freak!"
Face becoming serious Francis leaned in close once more, "Angleterre, do you honestly not remember?"
He pulled back, scowling. He was suddenly very aware of his heart pounding inside of his chest, "Remember what…?"
"We were walking out of that horrid basement of yours when you passed out," Was that a touch of… concern in his voice? "And Arthur-"
"Yeah well," he started, moving away from the topic as quickly as possible and clambering to his feet, walking towards the door, "Thanks, I guess. You can leave now."
"Angleterre!" He had barely started going down the stairs when he heard Francis calling after him, "Wait!"
Walking faster he made his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea, "Dammit frog, I said thanks already! Now get out of my bloody house!"
Francis followed him, "Arthur, will you just listen to what I have to say?"
Putting the kettle on the stove top he glared at the blond nation standing across the room, "No matter what you may have done for me I'm not going to sleep with you, you wanker!"
Laying a hand on his face it appeared as though Francis was counting under his breath before looking up once again, trademark smile on his face, "Oui, je sais. But surely you would not deny your savior un petit dejunner?"
"Savior my arse… But I guess you can stay." Opening a cabinet he removed a pan and placed it on the stove next to the kettle, "What do you want?"
Francis laughed, reaching forward and taking the cookware from his hands, "As if I would let you poison me with your cooking skills. I will make it."
Arthur flushed angrily, "What was that about my cooking? I'll have you know-"
"Yes, yes. I know. Now run along and get your tea. The water is starting to boil."
Grumbling to himself he sent a piercing glare at the Frenchman's back before wandering over to his tea supply. Opening the door to the freestanding cabinet he pulled out a small tin of earl grey. Smiling slightly he popped the lid off to take a whiff of his precious leaves.
The tin was completely empty. Frantically he tossed it aside, opening another. And then another. Two more tins of earl grey, oolong, English breakfast… Even the green tea that Kiku had given him a while back had run out. All that was left was some dinky old box of 'herbal samplers' that Alfred had sent him for his birthday two years ago. It wasn't even real tea, blast it all!
"Something wrong, mon cher?" Francis enquired from his position at the counter.
"Ye, there is and don't call me that!" he barked at his unwelcome house guest, "Because I just remembered that after I finished closing that trans-dimensional door I was telling you about I was supposed to go shopping!"
Francis raised a brow, "What's the problem? There's plenty of food in the house."
"There is? W-well that's not the point!"
"Then do enlighten me, mon petit."
"It means," he pointed a finger at the offending tins, "That I have no tea!"
A knowing look crossed the other's face, "Ah, I see. Not to worry, Angleterre." The next thing he knew Francis had directed him to the table and plopped him down in one of the chairs, "Once you taste my cooking all of your woes will be forgotten!"
He let his head fall against the table, "I highly doubt it, frog. What are you making anyway?"
"Une omelette des fines herbs. It will be ready in mere moments!"
Arthur responded with a grunt, commenting no further after that. He rubbed his eyes, remaining silent as Francis continued to cook, "… You know I think I had a dream about this."
"What?" Francis smirked, "You were dreaming about me? Angleterre, I'm touched."
Eyes flashing and face turning red he leapt to his feet, "I was not dreaming about you, you twit! I'm talking about me tea."
Francis' face fell, "Oh, how dull. You should really try to have more interesting dreams."
Crossing his arms he stood there, thinking, "I was… a radio figure of some sort. Or something. I was called in on my day off, and I was completely out of tea except for that one forsaken bow of herbal…"
"Still sounds horribly dull to me," Francis replied, "Now why not sit down?"
He pulled out his chair again when a thumping at the door made him look up. Sparing a glance at Francis he walked out into the hall and pulled the old wooden door open to find the morning paper sitting on his stoop. He smiled slightly, lifting it into his hands and slipping off the elastic, the newspaper unfurling in his hands. Scanning over the headlines his eyes widened, fingers crumpling the paper as his grip tightened.
"Francis…" he whispered, "Francis!" Arthur rushed back inside, waving the paper around like a mad man, blood pounding in his ears. I couldn't be right- there had to be some mistake! "How long was I unconscious? Tell me, frog!"
The Frenchman stood his ground, holding a plate of food in each hand, "Two weeks, Angleterre. I tried to tell you earlier, you know."
"Two… Two weeks?" he shouted before collapsing to the floor, the paper falling from his grasp.
Arthur stepped into his apartment, kicking off his shoes and brushing the snow from his hair, as it had finally gotten cold enough for the soggy rain to freeze on its trip down from the sky. It had been a long day, but at least it was a Monday, which meant that Alfred couldn't call him a million times like usual thanks to Matthias. Stretching, he hung up his coat and walked across the cold linoleum floor, heading into his room and plopping down at his desk. For once the surface was relatively clean, documents organized and pens gathered neatly in a cup. His laptop sat dead center, and with the push of a button its warm mechanical light soon filled the room. Quickly pulling up the correct file he leaned forward to read what he had written.
It had been raining for days, the heavy clouds soaking the city in mist and fog.
So maybe it wasn't much for his first novel but at least it was a start. Pressing back against the chair he shook out his long fingers before settling down and starting to type.
It had been raining for days, the heavy clouds soaking the city in mist and fog. But inside the theatre it was warm, actors and jeans and t-shirts basking in the stage lights. Romeo moved to the center of the stage, script in hand and feet settling over the small white 'x'. In the background a man stops painting the set and turns toward the voice echoing over the seats cloaked in darkness. The dried paint on his face cracked as he smiled, turning back to his work. He painted to the beating hi his heart, the brush in his hand moving up and down and up and down. The color not only covered the plain wood but the words he whispered to himself, mimicking Romeo with precision and ease. How many times has he heard the words, never getting a chance to speak them himself as much as he desires to?
And this is the life of-
Arthur stopped, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. What on earth would he name him? This character that had very nearly come to him in a dream… Something to go with the blond hair, the blue eyes. The air of extreme confidence and the artists hand.
And this is the life of Fillip Browning.
Fillip Browning. He worked the name over in his mind. Yeah, that sounded about right. Briefly he toyed with the idea of making Fillip an artist outside of set design. The man's ultimate goal may have been to act but that didn't mean he couldn't have any other pursuits.
The ringing from his mobile jolted him back from his silent reverie. Scowling, he rubbed his eye before picking it up and pressing it to his ear, "Arthur Kirkland speaking."
"Arty!" Alfred's voice boomed, "How's it goin'?"
He rolled his eyes, "Fine, Alfred. What do you want?"
"Really? You can't guess?"
"No, I can't guess," he cast a glance at his laptop, "So if you have something to tell me then say it. I'm busy."
"How could you not notice? The strip club across from your place just opened!"
Raising an eyebrow Arthur rose, wandering to his window and peering out. Sure enough, flashing neon lights greeted him proclaiming the new 'open' status of the club. He supposed he had been so keen on avoiding the place that if he had noticed the opening sign it had completely slipped his mind.
"Well, that's nice," he sneered, "What's that got to do with me?"
"We have to go together! Like, now!" Alfred shouted.
"No thanks. I'm perfectly happy staying in my own living space, I'll have you know."
"What is wrong with you? All that tea must have gone to your head."
"Nothing is stopping you from going. Except those morals you seem to have forgotten back in America."
"Fine, fine. Can I crash on your couch when I'm done?"
"No! If you're out so late that you can't find a cab on your own then you don't deserve one!"
He could practically hear Alfred pouting, "Its not like you're doing anything."
"On the contrary, Alfred, I was planning a nice and quiet night alone," pulling away from the window he walked back into the kitchen, grabbing a pan from under the counter, "Now if you'll excuse me I want to eat my dinner."
"What's cooking? Hopefully not you!"
As Alfred laughed at his own 'horribly funny' joke, Arthur's face burned, "My cooking is fantastic!"
"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."
"I am hanging up on you!" He slammed his mobile on the counter, positively seething. But then he stopped, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Maybe he had read somewhere that strong emotion was good for writing inspiration but he was pretty sure that getting pissed at Alfred was not what they were talking about.
Sighing deeply he reached into the fridge, pulling out a couple of eggs. Making an omelet shouldn't be that hard to accomplish, after all.