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oumaheroes · 2 years

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Fatigue

For frukweek: Day 4 Reminiscing about old times / WWII (I did old times and then fell into WWI)

Also dedicated to @thedisappointedidealist12 who helped to inspire the setting of this story <3

Summary: This war is different. France and England know this more than most

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‘What are you doing?’

Against the moonlight through the open stable door, France saw England stiffen in surprise.

‘Go to sleep.’ He said in a whisper. Carefully, so as to make as little sound as possible, he pulled the door to and slid the bolt across, cloaking them all in darkness once more.

Belatedly, France realised that he had caught him coming in, not going out. He stepped towards him and impatiently willed his eyes to readjust so that he could get a decent read of England’s face.

‘Where have you been?’

England looked pointedly over France’s shoulder at the sleeping humans around them- English and French soldiers they were trying to move to a new position down the front line where they’d be lost in seconds- and tried to move past him.

France caught him by the elbow, noting the night air coolness of his clothes, and lowered his voice to a low whisper, ‘You were not supposed to be on watch tonight.’

‘I wanted a walk.’

‘You’re supposed to be sleeping.’

A man a few feet away grunted. England and France fell silent, watching him adjust his sleeping position and fall still and quiet once more.

France let go but did not step away. England didn’t move either, merely watched him with guarded, sunken eyes as if waiting to see what France would do.

‘How about we both sleep, hmm?’ France said after a moment of stalemate, ‘You’ll only be more irritated with me tomorrow if you’re tired.’

‘I’m always irritated with you.’

‘You are always tired.’

England snorted but quickly recovered, mouth a tight line once more. There was a rigidity to him, made only the more visible now that there was nothing left for him to do to hide it away. Without work or movement, England stood as if expectant of something, tense and awkward like a puppet without purpose. In the dark, all there was left to see of him were the absences.

France nudged his arm with the back of his hand and indicated further into the stables for England to follow. Wordlessly, England gave up the argument and did so, past their mixture of men to a stable box right at the back that they had both initially claimed upon arrival. As soon as he lay down, France’s body grew heavier, his limbs easing into the hay as the overwhelming need to sleep caught hold of him once more. He’d only awoken because he’d been cold alone and, without England there to remedy that fact and only serving to add more worry that France did not need, he’d reluctantly pulled himself up to go looking.

England came to sit beside him, his back against hay stacked along the wall.

‘You won’t sleep like that,’ France told him helpfully.

England made a low noise in the back of his throat and rested an arm loosely on a knee brought to his chest.

There was a small open window high on the wall behind them, split across their bay and the one next door. It gave enough light to outline them both in silver and France watched the way England’s fingers worried the material of his trousers and the controlled way that he breathed.

Too controlled. Too forced.

‘Arthur,’ France heaved himself up to sit level besides him, ‘What is it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

France took hold of his free hand, running his thumb across the dry, calloused skin of his palm. The silence of the unsaid between them grew thicker, balanced on the knife’s edge of breaking.

England let out a held breath through his nose.

‘I am thinking about how strange this all is,’ he said, voice a barely more than a murmur, ‘how mixed and messy. Not only this battle but-‘

He waved his free hand outwards towards the world beyond, ‘Everything. Military knowledge of every century pressed together and then buried under something new. Guns and gas with swords and horses.’

France stayed silent.

‘We’re here. Right now, we’re here in the middle of it all but I can’t tell. The field outside and the farmhouse and the barns- it’s quiet, as though we’re not in a war at all. As though we’ve woken from a nightmare and realising that nothing has changed.’

There were more of their men outside, far too many to fit inside the stables and the barns or the farmhouse- the terrified owners only placated by France himself promising them no trouble. France imagined England walking through their men in the fields under moonlight, a weary soldier of old wars stepping silently amongst children of the new.

England lifted their joined hands and twisted them over, regarding his cracked and broken nails with a blank expression. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. Guns, that is. The distance they give.’

‘You preferred to kill and be killed up close?’

‘Yes,’ England replied immediately, ‘Yes, I do. I prefer to see the life I am taking. It’s not real otherwise.’

‘Ever the sadist, hmm? To enjoy watching an end that you have caused.’

‘To know that I have done it. To make it real, otherwise we’re hardly any better than the Kings and generals who ordered the damn thing, sitting far away from it all in comfort and completely unaware of the reality they’re causing.’

‘This is hardly comfort.’

‘You know what I mean. There is no skill in this sort of warfare, no honour. Just hold the trigger down and watch children die in hundreds. You can no longer improve your chances of survival by training with a weapon. You cannot prepare for this, cannot defend against it. If you live then it is luck and if you die then that is expected but none of it feels real because you can’t even see what’s killing you.’

He took a deep breath, shaky on its way out and shook his head sadly, ‘Before, I could feel the physical toll. Now, I can almost pretend that I’ve not killed anyone at all.’

France said nothing, a hollow apathy preventing him from connecting to what England was saying. He agreed, logically. The sentiment was there, the understanding that he too felt what England was clumsily trying to say- that killing could be justified if it was equal somehow, could be pretended to be fair. To win because you are better skilled in a sword, to lose because you’re not as deft with handling a bow.

There was no pretending with this, there was no illusion of honour or greatness, or right. There was only death, mindless and nameless, and luck granted out blindly to not be stood in the path of a bullet meant for any man it caught. He knew this, but France did not feel it. He felt as though part of him were locked away, stored behind thick glass and forced to watch.

‘There has never been honour in war,’ he said eventually, listening to England breathing softly beside him, ‘Men kill and they die. The only ones who have honour are the fools who believe in it, and they rarely live long enough for it to matter.’

‘There was more honour than this.’ England closed his eyes, tipping his head back to expose the length of his neck, ‘And to think, this is all that our young ones will know. This to them is war.’

France ran the pad of his thumb over England’s thumbnail, his knuckle. Thought about all of the different things they both had done, how many more horrors they’d still do. He was long past being surprised by this war, that part of himself long lost and churned into the bloody fields of Loos and Verdun and Ardennes.

‘Speaking of young ones, I came across Mathieu a few months ago.’

England’s head did not move but his eyes opened to focus intently on the rafters above them.

‘He asked me how we can all do this so much. War, fighting, all of it, I suppose. I told him that this sort is new.’

‘He and Alfred at least know the ways that it used to be. It’s Jack and Alex and the rest I worry about…’ A squeeze of France’s hand, emotion slipping free, ‘But thinking about it does nothing.’

‘Thinking about it might be the only thing left to make it real.’

England shut his eyes again. He let go of France’s hand, ‘Don’t make this philosophical.’

France huffed without any real irritation, ‘You wouldn’t let me sleep. This is your punishment.’

‘Excuse me-‘

‘You’re excused.’

England wore fear like fatigue, sleepless nights and a racing mind that carved bags under his eyes. Something heavy and inconvenient that could be fixed if he only tried hard enough, if he only thought about all the ways to rub out the emotion with words and action.

England shook his head, his expression unreadable, and France knew that the moment- that brief and rare flicker of mortality and innocence between them- had passed. The feeling of something unsaid was still there between them, settled in the lines of England’s face and in the shaking of his hands.

France knew.

France knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to address it.

‘Stop talking,’ England lay on his side turned away from France, his arms tight across his chest, ‘And go to sleep.’

‘Stop making things so difficult then,’ France followed suit and came to lay pressed against him. He draped an arm over England’s waist, last there perhaps together in his comfortable Parisian flat, maybe England’s London townhouse, and pressed a kiss to the back of England’s neck.

England half lifted his head to look back at him. France knew that he wanted to say something and he waited for it, feeling Arthur searching his face for something perhaps Francis no longer had.

England said nothing. He lay his head down and that was that.

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@aphfrukweek

#APH England #APH France #hws england #hws france #frukweek2022 #frukweek #fruk #aph fruk #hetalia #hws #aph #heroes writes #historical hetalia #nationverse

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koolkat9 · 10 months

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Fruk Week 2023 - Day 5

@aphfrukweek

Prompt: Mistake are made || Letters

Rating: T

Pairing: Fruk

Word Count: 600

Read on AO3

Mistakes were Made

Arthur didn’t mean to spend the whole night with Francis. He didn’t mean to sneak away with them. He didn’t mean to fall into Francis’s bed (again). He didn’t mean to stay there until morning.

His head was pounding from a night of heavy drinking, but at least the rest of his body felt warm, something entrapping him, pushing back the cool air from his bare skin. He cuddled closer to the source of heat, groaning slightly from his headache.

He tried to recall what happened last night. He remembered Francis saying something stupid, then they got into an argument, which ended with them kissing, then he was guided to Francis's room, then they fu– Shit. He needed to get out of here. But it was so cozy, and his head was throbbing. So he stayed.

Then Francis stirred, pulling Arthur closer. Suddenly Arthur was fully awake. He needed to leave. He shouldn’t have stayed. He shouldn’t have even come here to begin with. But as much as Arthur struggled, Francis was just as strong and kept a hold of him. Eventually, Arthur just gave in, too tired and achy for this.

“Why do you always run?” Francis asked, voice soft.

“I don’t…I–You know this means nothing. Just a quick shag, and then we’re back to our fighting.”

Francis scoffed, rolling onto his back, finally freeing Arthur. “Why did I expect any less from you,” Francis huffed.

Arthur just rolled his eyes and began searching for his clothes. He slipped on his dress shirt, though kept it unbuttoned.

So you’re just going to leave,” Francis continued.

“Yes.”

“There is more to this, and you know it.”

Arthur whirled around, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what fantasy you came up with, but it’s all in your head.”

Francis’s eyes narrowed. “So all those smiles, those gentle looks, sweet nothings were all fantasy? Haven’t you realized how much gentler, tender these sessions have become.”

He was a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. Spread out, everything on display to Francis. No escape. Maybe it was true that sex had become softer between them, but that didn’t have to mean anything.

“Who knew the Great British Empire was represented by a coward?”

Something snapped, and Arthur was on top of Francis, fingers wrapped loosely around the their neck. A warning. “Take. That. Back,” Arthur growled.

Francis only smirked. “How kinky.”

That Goddamn Frenchman with his Goddamn wit, Goddamn curls, Goddamn kissable lips. Arthur crashed his lips into Francis’s, tugging at his hair as he laid claim. He thrusted his tongue into the mouth that never shut up.

Francis gripped Arthur’s shirt, trying to fight for dominance only to keep being pushed down by the raging Brit. But despite his bruised pride and flaring anger, as their lips rolled against each other Arthur began to melt against Francis. His lips slowed into a lazy yet sweet rhythm. Francis smiled against his lips, their grip loosening and instead cradling him carefully.

“Please don’t leave,” Francis begged, voice barely above a whisper.

“What if–” Francis raised a finger to Arthur’s lips.

“No one will disturb us. We’re safe in this room. I’ll help you sneak out later, but for now, I want you to stay. ”

His stomach was in knots, but with Francis running his hand up Arthur’s back, Arthur couldn’t fight the desire to just stay close to him. To share in his warmth and to forget about the world for a little while. He rolled off of Francis and planted himself in his side for the rest of the morning.

#hetalia #fruk #frukweek2023 #frukweek #hws england #hws france #fanfiction #hetalia fanfiction #my writing

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miramizar · 10 months

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@aphfrukweek

Day 4: Pets (sorry I’m a little late!)

(Takes place somewhere during the post-roman era)

~~~

Bonnie

Francis is in the garden again.

You may find it a bit odd, but for being a personification of a country he really isn’t that interested in battles, politics or even in expanding the borders of what is to become the Frankish kingdom. No, the young man loves beautiful things alone, and among them he loves his garden the most - he can spend literal hours in the clearings that are surrounded by lush forests and sparkling rivers, and he feels no shame in admitting that the meadows overflowing with pretty flowers are his biggest source of happiness.

But today there is something strange about the garden.

It is as he twirls in the grass that he notices something out of the corner of his eye; something bright and shapeless, and.. unnatural. He stops to look around, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. That should calm him, but it doesn't - Francis hasn't seen anyone for years, if you don’t count the conquerors that pass through every now and then, so for something to appear silently like this is quite alarming.

There!

He’s quick to react and grabs whatever it is that slithers across the ground near his feet, and immediately he is pulled forward, the power behind it forcing him to push his heels to the ground to avoid toppling over. After taking a couple of seconds to catch his breath, he turns his focus to the thing he is holding onto, which turns out to be a long, twisted rope with a loop that encircles a white horse’s neck. A surprised gasp then escapes the youngling’s lips as he looks up to see the horn located on the animal’s forehead.

“A unicorn?”

Then he is once again pulled forward, this time with such force that he loses his footing and finds himself being mercilessly dragged away.

He somehow manages to keep his hold on the rope until the unicorn slows down, and moments later he hears a cry of joy.

“Unicorn! Where have you been?!” Francis looks up from where he’s been dropped off and sees a mop of golden hair, green eyes and thick eyebrows that are raised high upon the little boy noticing him. “Who are you?”

Despite it sounding more like gibberish than words of an actual language, Francis understands enough to know that he has to introduce himself, which he does after tidying himself up enough to look presentable. “My name is Francis. Is the unicorn yours? It was in my garden - wait, I think we still are in my garden.”

He forgets his confusion when the boy leaves the unicorn and steps closer, squinting a little - because that’s when Francis recognises him.

“Arthur?”

It’s been ages since he last saw his immortal friend from across the sea, and he takes in the boy’s appearance, curious to know just how much he’s grown since then. Arthur on the other hand seems to become bashful under his gaze, running back to the unicorn when a hand is reached out to touch him. And yet, those big, beautiful eyes never avert from his and it doesn’t take long before they’re both smiling.

So if you notice something peculiar about the garden today, or rather it’s inhabitants, fear not - they simply got the nicest surprise of the century, all thanks to a certain magical creature that only the two of them can see.

~~~

(crossposted on AO3)

#manga #anime #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #hetalia fanfiction #aph france #aph england #hws england #hws france #fruk #frukweek #frukweek2023 #miri's writing

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broomcolate · 23 days

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Day 2: Memory lane

they look at their past selves as a picture and be like

France: Ah, I remember that annoying golden caterpillar!

England: Yeah, it was me.

@aphfrukweek

#hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #aph #hws #aph england #aph france #hws england #hws france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #fruk #fruk week #frukweek2024 #frukweek #art #artists on tumblr

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lucasuperawesome · 24 days

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FrUK week 2024

Day 1:

Roses & Flowers

I wanted to make them rest in a beautiful place. Don't look too hard on too background. Focus on the main thing. Yes. The wedding rings are intentional.

@aphfrukweek

#hetalia #aph hetalia #aph france #my art #aph england #fruk #hws france #hws hetalia #aph fruk #hws england #frukweek #frukweek2024

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aphfrukweek · 3 months

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Prompts vote

It is now time to vote on prompt for this year's frukweek! Click on the link below and vote for all the prompts that interest you and would want to see in frukweek.

Vote Dates

#frukweek #fruk #aph fruk #hws fruk #frukweek 2024 #frukweek2024

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sassypantsjaxon · 2 years

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Up all night

returning to @aphfrukweek for day 5! with more community theater au! i make no promises that I’ll return for the other days, but I’m here now

“This isn’t going to work.” Arthur said as he laid down on the stage next to Francis. “We need someone with actual artistic vision for the next show.”

“My artistic vision is fine!” Francis protested, raising his head to glare at Arthur.

“Yes, but you’re terrible at bringing it to life in a way that will work.”

“You don’t even have any artistic vision.” Francis pouted.

“Set pieces, Frog. I can’t have them falling over onto anyone,” Arthur rolled his eyes, “And nobody falling into the pit, either.”

“So, then. What do you plan we do?”

“I have a friend-”

Francis turned his head to give him a questioning look, “You have a friend?”

“Yes, I have friends!” Arthur snapped, reaching out to smack Francis before continuing. “He specializes in mechanical engineering and graphic design. Or something like that...”

“Sounds like he would be too busy to help us.”

“Not really. He’s a bit of a hermit. But I think I could ease him into it. I’m thinking of asking him to help out as a stage hand. I think he and Mr Beilschmidt will get along.”

Francis just looked at him for a few minutes. Arthur looked back, waiting for him to respond.

“That’s all well and good for your ten-year-plan, but it doesn’t help us right now.” Francis raised a hand to gesture vaguely around the stage, at all the half-built, half-painted, less-than-half-finished set pieces. “Not when it’s late and you’ve already sent everybody else home.”

Arthur slowly sat up, “What are your plans for the morning, Frog?”

“Oh, is this your way of propositioning me?” Francis teased.

“Not unless your definition of ‘proposition’ includes painting backdrops,” Arthur glared at him.

“I’m all yours, mon cher...” Francis said in the most seductive voice he could muster as he posed himself.

Arthur smacked him again before getting up. Francis followed, standing too close as Arthur opened a can of paint and handed Francis a brush.

“So this friend of your...” Francis hinted. Arthur rolled his eyes as he settled down with his own paint and props, as far away from Francis as he could manage while still being on the same dropcloth. “Are you two........involved?”

“No, we are not,” Arthur flicked some paint at his companion, “I don’t think he’s really the type. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“It could be,” Francis flicked some more paint back at Arthur, “I just wanted to know if I still had a chance...<3″

Arthur stared at him for a minute. Francis continued painting his set, as if he hadn’t just said anything. “You’re a bloody Frog, you know that?” he finally settled on saying.

Francis hummed in response, “So you keep telling me, but that doesn’t answer my question?” he winked.

Arthur blushed as he looked away from Francis. “Get back to work,” he mumbled, even though he was the one who had stopped, “We’ll be here all night anyway.”

#frukweek2022 #fruk #ukfr #aph england #aph france #'all the worlds a stage' au #for the record: this is a couple years before my other frukweek entry #and also the setup for kiku's entry into my polyship week series

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