Pairing - France/England
Fandom - Hetalia
Rating - T / light R? just to be safe.
Warnings - some language, implied sex
Summary - Arthur doesn't know when this thing with Francis started, only that it's far too late to get out now.
Notes - Title taken from "Bruises" by Chairlift. Also, I don't own anything! And, and, written for the Challenge Cycle at what_the_fruk
Today, Arthur wakes up to the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. The curtains do practically nothing to filter the sunlight streaming in through the window, and he buries his face beneath the pillow.
Then he abruptly flings the pillow away and gets out of bed, tossing the sheets aside. He pads across the cold hardwood floor to the bathroom. There’s something nagging at him, as though he should be annoyed at something, but he isn’t quite conscious enough to realize it. He splashes icy water on his face in an attempt to throw off the clinging fingers of slumber.
He is fully awake by the time he returns from the bathroom and takes a moment to appreciate the mess they’ve made of the cotton sheets. They’re terribly wrinkled, and give off the distinct aura of having been slept in. There’s a thick book, tossed carelessly on the floor, but he can’t be bothered enough to care.
As always, there is no trace of another person having ever been here.
Arthur tells himself he doesn’t care.
Today, he almost believes it.
. . .
Arthur isn’t quite sure when this thing started. There are flashes of hate-filled smirks and fingers wrapped around his throat until he can’t remember what it feels like to breathe, and blood, (oh, so much blood), intermingled with hazy recollections of grassy fields and daisy chains and a haircut until he doesn’t know what’s what anymore.
Perhaps that’s the point.
. . .
After breakfast, he finds himself in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with slow, mechanical movements. His eyes wander the room, the tiles, the sink, the lights, the mirror. To his surprise, there actually is a trace of last night left behind. It’s tucked in the corner of the mirror, a smudge in pink lipstick. Arthur narrows his eyes, squinting.
It’s a lip print.
In his mind’s eye, he can see him in all his glory, a satisfied, Chesire grin on his face as he carefully outlines his lips with something from Dior or Chanel or whatever the fuck he’s come up with now and presses a lingering kiss to the cold glass. After all, Arthur thinks viciously, it’s not like he’s picky about what his mouth is on.
He wipes at the print with his bare hands, with rough and savage motions until his palms are an angry red in protest. He only succeeds in creating a larger smear. He curses, loudly, and swears he’ll never let the Frenchman in his bed ever again.
He knows that’s a lie.
. . .
This is what Arthur doesn’t remember from last night:
Afterwards, Francis murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, entirely in French, as they lie beside each other. Sticky sheets, bunched up around their ankles. Arthur, half-asleep, face-down, nose jammed roughly into the pillow.
“Stop that, it tickles,” he complains when Francis teasingly blows in his ear. He receives a chuckle in response. He goes on, voice tapering off at the end as he drifts into sleep. “Will you…” He breaks off with a yawn, “…be here in the morning?”
“Do you want me to be?” is the reply, but Arthur only snores and shifts away.