literature

Cat's Game :FrUK:

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Literature Text

It all started on a dark, winter's night in a pub in Bristol. Arthur Kirkland had resolved himself to becoming flat-faced drunk in light of recent events. He had refused to have any further contact with Alfred and his bloody war, if not only to save himself some pocket change. The blitzkrieg had damaged London fairly badly and he needed to work on restoring some of their more significant landmarks, all of which cost a fair amount of money to spruce up after all that hustle and bustle.

His people didn't need another war, and yet he was working quietly behind the scenes, if not to alarm most of his populace. No where near the magnitude of the grave Alfred had dug himself, however.

Yet Alfred was, as usual, an ungrateful prat who refused to acknowledge he was helping him at all. Called him a coward and a whole host of other unflattering names in the light of his minimal involvement. Selfish dimwit should have been happy he was doing anything at all after the horror he had to face from their last war. Some of his soldiers had to be put in mental asylums, for goodness sakes. Alfred couldn't possibly ask that much out of him.

It was painful not to be near him, though. Despite Alfred's complete and utter arrogance and ignoring his subtle hints, he still loved that blooming idiot with all his heart and soul. He hadn't given up hope that one day, Alfred might just reach into the confines of his arse and yank his head free to smell the fresh air and see what a catch he was in the first place.

Until then, he was feeling rather guilty about leaving such a naive child to deal with such a serious matter like choosing another country's government. Alfred's government was about as pushy and arrogant as Alfred himself, and he knew it would only run them straight into trouble, fuddling with Russia's privacy like he was.

When he stumbled home drunk that evening, he ended up sobbing at Frances doorstep instead.

He couldn't remember anything about how he'd got there or why he chose that particular stoop to vomit on, but he was somewhat surprised and yet an inkling glad of who opened the door with a curious expression on their stubbled face, as Arthur stooped over his rose bush and poured the contents of his stomach.

    "Qu'est-ce qui a fait ce bruit ?.... Arthur?"

Francis stared with shock down at the man doubled over on his front steps, using the wall of his house to support himself, looking green and none to sober. Francis perked up his brow and gave him a once over, then sighed to himself, rolling up the sleeves on his white button-up shirt and pulling an arm around Arthur's midsection, and heaving Arthur's arm over his shoulder to support him. He dragged the Englishman into his modernly fashionably bachelor pad, laying him across his alabaster couch and instructing him with a bit of french and some hand motions to séjour a mis or, in English, stay put.

When he returned, he had retrieved a wet cloth to lay across the boiling head of the Britain, which he placed over his eyes to block out the light from his many lamps. However, while a nice gesture, it was rather useless as the minute England's head had hit the soft cushion of the sofa, he was out like a faulty light bulb.

France sighed, rubbing his temples. He was supposed to have a certain mademoiselle over tonight for some sensual activities, but it was fairly obvious he would need to cancel on her. It was a pity, as when he spied her from across the room he could have sworn his heart had picked it's true love... at least for that midnight rendezvous.

However, now he would be babysitting a drunken brute. Exactly how he wanted to spend his evening.

In the morning, Arthur awoke to the smell of something sweet. He identified this as a breakfast pastry, but he wasn't sure from where. It was dark when he opened his eyes, evident by the now warm cloth laying on top of his face. When he removed the damp rag, he was in France's home.

Instantly his heart dropped and at first, he assumed he was dreaming. But when he sat up and had a quick look around, his fears were very much confirmed. He was blushing profusely, and he looked down at his disheveled clothes and assumed the worst had happened during his time here.

Oh what if he, in a drunken stupor, slept with him? He didn't even remember how he got here, let alone if they had intercourse or not. Knowing that french rat, it wouldn't have surprised him if he had taken advantage of his alcohol addled state to cope a feel. Sick pervert.

He shot up, stomping in the direction of the sweet smell, his face fuming with anger.

    "Explain yourself!"

England barked, causing France, who was busy cooking a very French breakfast, complete with a light morning wine, gasped and spin around, nearly spilling the contents of a crepe out of his skillet.

    "Mon Dieu!"

France gasped in surprise, though his surprised expression quickly turned to frustration, as he glared blue eyes down at the fuming Englishman.

    "Explain qhat?! Zhyou show up drunk at my doorstep. I take zhyou in to my home and zis is ze thanks I get!"

His accent began to thicken the more irritated he became, his face too contort into that of quite the angry fellow. England rose a suspicious brow and began to step forward, scrutinizing him, as if his position stooped over the stove would give something about his intentions last night away.

France didn't seem to appreciate the unnecessary distrust, after he had done so kindly as to help his drunken self into warmth and comfort, and to also prepare an extra plate for him... finally, he huffed and turned up his nose, as if insulted by his behavior, and began to concentrate back on not burning their meals.

    "Zhyou may zink what you please. I would nevar sleep with such a man in such a sorry state as zhyou were."

His indifference seemed to calm down England, who watched as his tension melted away a tiny bit. He let out a irritated grunt, but did finally take his seat at the table, albeit with a pompously annoyed expression as he waited for free food like he deserved it.

When France was finally done, he undid the ribbon keeping his hair out of his eyes and pulled off his apron, setting it on the back of his chair. Plopping down, he properly placed his fork and knife and began to eat, ignoring England's presence at the table all together.

England began to eat as well, if not eyeing him when he thought he wasn't looking, as if waiting for him to do something dodgy.

    "So."

France finally piped up, swallowing down a bit of egg and placing his silverware aside on his napkin. He placed his elbows on the table and laced his fingers, placing his chin onto of his clasped digits.

    "Why did you come?"

It was a simple question, but England found it frightfully rude for some reason. His brows furrowed and his crepe danged from the side of his scowling lips. He finished off what was in his mouth and used his napkin to wipe his face, then promptly crumpled the linen in his fist with a displeased look. He attempted to cool himself down, trying to wash the sheer irritation off his face with a sip of milk. He pretended to be indifferent to the question.

    "I haven't the faintest. Perhaps I found your rose bushes repulsive."

He attempted to say so with more valor, but instead his voice cracked with a shaky lack of resolute. He honestly didn't know why he was here, so it was indeed the truth, though France only seemed to smirk slightly at his uncertain tone of voice.

England only seemed to be angered by this, once again, and huffed in response to his coy look.

    "Zat could be. Or zhyou could have needed someting. Like, comment vous dites... Companionship."

England nearly sputtered his wine all over the table, instead of his burbling rudely into his glass like he did. He slammed the glass down and his face grew red, and you could have sworn that steam was billowing from his ears.

    "Companionship, Francis? That's a good yank!"

Hissed England, far less good humored than he was attempting to be. He crossed his arms over his chest, despite how rude it was to do so at a table and then crossed one leg over the other, his normal 'upset' stance. Not even Alfred could make him quite this wrathful, but it seemed something about being anywhere near France that made his temper become nauseated, causing him to vomit rage all over the place.

France seemed all to happy in his seat, watching as England blushed with rage at his comments. There was nothing more thrilling than to upset and embarrass his neighbor to the north, as doing such almost became too easy over time. England was eager to find any and all reasons to dislike him profusely, even spending money to prove his ridiculous brutish points. It was all in vain though, he knew how he felt instinctively.

    "Do not get too riled up, mon petit Anglaise, you might desecrate more of my home. Not zat I blame you, your food is quite terrible."

The comment about his cooking had snapped his resolve to stay here to grace him with his presence like a twig. France seemed to half laugh at such a comment, but it was partly said with a jab at his ability to cook compared to his own. Not everyone had an amazing talent, some people needed to work hard to hone their abilities, it was not good show to go making fun of some people for failing at times in this endeavor.

With a frightful glare, England pushed out his seat violently and stood, brushing off his clothes, he was quite visibly upset with him, as he had been from the moment he met with him sober.

    "Well then. Thank you for the breakfast, good sir, and I'll be taking my leave of this wretched den of sin."

England made an attempt to sound polite, above France, but instead hissed the last part of his sentence in contempt. He smelt horrible, and he would really like to get home and as far away from the subject of much of his rage as soon as possible.

France simply watched with a beaming, sastified smile - as if he had won his game. England only scoffed at this and quickly passed by him, making a B-line for the door. Of course, as he made a motion to pass him, France jutted out his long, gangly leg and England, unbeknownst to the new obstacle in the path, quickly fumbled over it, falling flat on his face.

France was quick to gracefully rise himself from the seat, twirling the chair on one leg and placing it back against the table. He then, with a rewarded and coy smile, pulled England up by the back of their collar and skillfully twirled him up against a wall.

England, with a red mark on his forehead, stared with a pug-faced look of the greatest displeasure at the whole incident. He crossed his arms squarely over his chest, seemingly unaffected by the Frenchman's charm.

    "What are you doing, Francis?"

He asked, unamused. France simply smiled still, his eyes half-lidded and his expression relaxed. Then, a small chuckle as France drew one of his arms up and sniggered cooly into it.

    "What's wrong then? Why are you laughing, git?! Is there something on my face?!"

    "No, but zhere will be."

    "What are you going on ab-"

Before he could complete his sentence, his lips were seized with a kiss from the French, though not a French kiss mind you. England was instantly engulfed in a deep maroon, even stretching as far as both of his ears, which now burned brightly like he had just eaten something hot.

It was not as unpleasant as he had imagined it, in fact, France's lips were soft and gentle. They were not dribbling with spit, but were just the right kind of moisture, akin to a cat's tongue - minus the sandpaper.

It was in fact, so enjoyable and skilled, the way his lips moved against his, that he forgot for a moment who exactly he was kissing in the first place, even though he had been staring him straight in the eye.

The gentle, close-mouth kissed last for around 30 seconds before France finally pulled away, staring down at him with the same pleased expression he had started with when he first approached him.

He was looming over the man, his arms pinning Arthur to the white-washed wall and his handsome, slightly stubbled face was grinning like a cat who had caught a particularly plump mouse in a corner.

    "Tomber en amour avec moi."

England watched him with a face that was a mix of befuddlement and shock. He watched as Francis' lips carefully formed each word, but no matter how many times he replayed the syllables in his head, he could not understand them.

France drew closer to his face, although very slightly. He was grinning again and finally, realizing England did not understand his implicated, repeated.

    "I said... fall in love with me."

Explanation for the Title: This is supposed to be paired with Stalemate so the title reflects that. a "Cat's Game" is a game where it ends in a stalemate, which neither side being able to move.

France's Accent: I wrote this rather sloppily, but in any case, the reason why his accent is more thick during some times is because when he's angry, his accent thickens.

Translation: If you want to know what France says in French, just go to a free translation site (like Google Translate) and translate it. I did get most of my French from translation notes written by native speakers, so I'll trust it's somewhat accurate.

--

This was written to be a companion fic to Stalemate, so please think of it as such.

I really, really despise this pairing but I felt like I need to elaborate on how Arthur even got together with France in the first place, since I found it to be interesting enough of a story in and of itself that I didn't want to explain the whole thing in Stalemate.

The pairing is FrUk.
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HowlerMoony1812's avatar
This was wonderfully written. Kudos to you