And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Hetalia

Characters: HWS France/Francis Bonnefoy; HWS England/Arthur Kirkland, HWS Japan/Kiku Honda

Rating: Teen

Additional Tag: Complex relationship; Domesticity; Implied Sexual Content; Nationverse

 

Prompt: Soulmates aren’t the ones who make you happiest, no. They’re instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike surrender. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope

 

 

 

Talking about soulmates wasn't something England planned when he decided to invite Japan to a tea place he knows well, exploiting the nation having to be this side of the globe for some, unspecified, business.

But then Japan had started to talk about his last trip to Greece, all the ruins he saw there and how Greece himself played Cicero. He told Japan about the myths those lands of gods and men had brewed.

Like once there were creatures with two heads till the gods got jealous and separate them as punishment. Since that day, each half is still searching for the other

"That's quite the story."

"It is. I found it fitting with the red-string myth*"

 

England searches his memory. "Two people linked by Fate. You think it's possible?" he asks, making an effort to tone down the sarcasm.

"I do."

"For our kind."

 

Japan nods, with serious intensity, perusing the offer of blends. "I do," he says and England thinks he can give him the benefit of the doubt. Japan's one who won that luxury. He's old, older than him, so England assumes he abandoned naivety along the way.

"Maybe in some cases," he concedes. "Austria and Hungary seem to get along quite nicely nowadays still. Sweden and Finland, also," he lists, unsure. "Poland and Lithuania, maybe."

 

Japan, however, doesn't seem satisfied with the examples. Pouring hot water over the leaves of the blend he picked, he says, "It is fun you don't include yourself in these examples. "

"Well, I don't have a soulmate,"

The proof of the fact should be obvious. None of them has soulmates. He already has a hard time believing it possible for humans; for them, it is a silly dream.

"You seem quite adamant about that."

"Because it's the truth."

 

 

***

 

England doesn't have a soulmate, no matter what Japan may think. He wonders if this is not a case of cultural differences between Easterners and Westerners.

It's not like the idea disgust him. Actually, he thinks it'd be nice to have a soulmate like described in legends. People like to peg him like a cold-hearted, cynical bitch, but that's the surface. He'd be happy with a partner. Finding a partner that could work for him, that is the problem.

 

Not that he lacked the chances. For a time he thought he and Portugal could work perfectly together, but that story was in the past. They are still on good terms, and sometimes their meeting turns into a satisfying one-night stand.

Soulmates, however, are a whole different thing.

 

***

 

Japan isn't his soulmate either, too different, distant and aloof. England's no expert, but he doesn't believe soulmates should have this cultural divide. It doesn't mean they cannot be good friends and enjoy each other company.

 

England reflects on it again on the ride home. London's jammed tonight, more jammed than usual, so he decided to take the metro. Other names pop up in his mind. Like America's. England discards it immediately after. But special relationship and anglosphere aside, America is far from being his other half. He's too young, too inexperienced. Nor are Denmark or Spain.

 

 

Arthur lists and discards names till he's left with one, the first he thought about and the one he refuses to accept.

 

He'd rather be alone

 

***

 

When he arrives home, the lights are already on and that's sure he's not a good sign. He does a quick memory check, in case he actually decided to invite someone home, but he's pretty positive he didn't. Certainly, he's not in the mood for unexpected visits, even more, when that certain someone entered without his permission.

 

Point is, he can count on his fingers those to whom he entrusted his house keys, and he knows for certain two-thirds of them are not in London at the moment. Which leaves him only with three options, one worse than the other.

One, thieves broke inside, but then they wouldn't bother turning on the light and the locket doesn't seem broken. Also, it's too quiet.

 

Two, Wales chose to pass by. With that, he could work.

Three ... the third option makes him shiver. Just the time to enter, discard his shoes and coat, it becomes painfully true. A soft hum is coming from the kitchen. Someone is singing. Someone is singing in French.

 

 

"The hell are you doing here?" he calls. Standing in the kitchen like it was his own, France turns only little, busy stirring vegetables in a pot. England's pretty sure he didn't have that many in his fridge this morning.

 

"Oh, you're back. Good evening. Isn't it obvious?" France greets, grinning like a housewife popped out from a Fifties commercial. That only makes England's irritation grow, the irritation of France breaking into his house without permission greater than the appreciation for the fit of not having to cook dinner.

"And why this?" he insists

"Well, I just happened to pass by the station and I thought, why not," Francis explains like it was a normal routine. Like hopping on a train to visit him is a no-brainer. 

"And you didn't think, at a certain point, that you could, maybe, call to warn?"

"Surprises are more fun."

 

***

 

They're not a soulmate. They certainly are not. Soulmates don't cut each other heads off. They don't elevate a centuries-long rivalry to the point of ridiculousness. Soulmates don't dream of slice up and torture. They don't parade each other in chains, drunk on victory and power.

They don't.

 

Right?

 

***

 

The dinner aftermath is a routine England knows well by now, with a domesticity that is almost disgusting, and still, it leaves him baffled, wondering how they ended up like this. Once they would bathe in each other blood, now they are cuddling on Arthur's couch while a lady on the telly explains how to make a casserole and Francis criticizes everything she says.

 

He doesn't stay focused on the program for long, though, seemingly unable to keep still and his hands for himself. With some adjustment, he wraps them around Arthur's chest, tracing idly paths. He presses his lips against England's nape, then another soft kiss on his cheek and another, till he's gently taking his jaw to make him turn.

The resistance Arthur puts on is mostly for show, and one France wins easily. He has a vague taste of wine on his lips, so stupidly familiar.

 

It's not long before they forget completely about the tv. Netflix and chill, America would say, except England's wouldn't call this they're having chilling. He rolls his hips a bit more down onto Francis'.

 

They have their first round on the couch before deciding it's not much comfortable and moving to the bedroom.

 

***

 

"I talked with Japan today," England says after they are done, as a conversation starter. He rolls on one side, toward France, his body sore but not in an unwelcomed way. Recently they have taken a habit to chat after sex, real chat, not the silly pillow-talk Francis feeds him. Once they didn't talk at all after sex, if not to renovate some threats. The fact they started, at a certain point, was a sign things were going to change. Things were already changing.

 

"You did?" Francis comments, sounding intrigued. Arthur hums, vaguely. "Yes, he had business in London, I invited him for tea. We talked about soulmates myth."

 

"The red-string?" Francis says, reminiscing.

"That and another. The one where once strange creatures with two bodies fused in one roamed the Earth till the gods got jealous and split them up."

"And since then everyone is looking for their own half," France concludes. Englands props himself a bit more on the pillow.

"Do you think they can exist?" he asks. He supposes France is the best person to whom ask, him with his centuries of supposed love expertise. He's the one who prides himself on being a fine connoisseur of love, after all. 

 

"Soulmates?" France wonders out loud, but as England is about to confirm, he continues. "Well, of course." He says it almost with absolute sureness like he can wield actual proof.

 

"And how can you be sure?"

There's bafflement in France's eyes, sincere bafflement like he cannot believe the question.

 

"Why? Because I'm looking at mine right now."

"I'll move the mirror," England jokes, out of habit, though he knows France wasn't looking at the mirror when he said that. He was looking at him. He had no right.

These were not the terms of their unsaid deal. They are not in love, not the romantic kind. They are what people nowadays call frenemies, colleagues, partners in crime if you wish, and sometimes friends (rivals?) with benefits. Nothing remotely romantic has ever had space in the equation

 

"It can't be. You don't love me:"

 

But Francis shakes his head and huffs a soft, a little irritating laugh. "Aside from the fact that I do love you, you and I have a very different concept of soulmates."

Like they have a very different concept of almost everything else and when they agree, it's still a strange sensation. Problem is, they agree more and more about things nowadays.

 

"You don't," he insists, stubbornly. "and we are not soulmates."

 

France loves him the same way he loves everyone else, for him loving as easy and natural as breathing. But when one loves everyone, love loses meaning. 

 

"England, what is a soulmate for you?"

 

France's question takes England by surprise. That is one of those questions to which he knows the answer until someone asks him to explain it. He doesn't like where this is going, but indulges in it, loathing himself for his weakness. Inside, he's so disgustingly desperate to have a soulmate too, he's willing to second France's ramblings.

 

 

"Your other half, I suppose," he tries, reminiscing of the Greek myth Japan told him. But it's stupid. People are whole, they don't have halves. Certainly, nations do not. 

 

"Someone who understands you," he thinks out loud, hoping that would help with some clarity. "Who shares your interests. Who understands you immediately, I guess ... Someone who fits with you."

 

When he looks at him, Francis is listening with intent. Strangely he has not the judging expression he so often wears. He's focused and England would dare to believe he's agreeing with him."So, nothing necessarily romantic."

 

"I guess," England mutters, not liking at all where this is going. "Even so, soulmates should make you happy. I don't."

 

And there's no arguing about that. Unless, of course, one doesn't count the thrill of victory, but that is only a perversion. Soulmates don't get happy for the other's suffering. They are meant to complete and elevate each other. He never did that. He made France suffer, aplenty, willingly, and he rejoiced for it. Making France suffer has been his objective. 

France did the same. They cut each other too many times and too deeply to even think about being soulmates.

"You do," France counters again, stubborn. "But even so, to reduce soulmates as someone who makes you happy would be limiting. Otherwise, we would have tons of soulmates."

"And we can't have that."

"It's like ..." France pursues his lips in concentration and it's a good look on him, so much that for a moment England finds himself zoning out, more focused on admiring the man before him than actually listening.

"Like?" he presses, biting the inside of his cheeks to stop fantasizing. Stupid pretty frog. France gestures with a hand to be patient. "Like the difference between a friend and a best friend!" he exclaims after a moment, triumphantly. "Do you see where I'm going?"

Arthur nods, slowly. He kinda does. "You don't tip-toe around a best friend."

"Precisely. Soulmates make you feel so much more than just happiness. They make you feel the most."

 

Arthur doesn't think he ever felt with anyone what he feels when France is involved, positive as much as negative; with a more burning intensity, with a determination so great it bordered on obsession; with hate so scorching its passion could only be matched with love.

 

For how much he claims he'll bless the day France will be out of his life for good, he actually cannot fathom an existence without the Frenchman. It works for some weeks, months, sometimes years, but they inevitably come back to each other. Inside, England fears that day. Of course, nobody is ever going to tear the admission from him and he'll continue to loudly proclaim the opposite till the end of days.

And this conversation is getting awkward. "Yes. For example, now I feel you are annoying."

France laughs the jab away, then scoots nearer. "You weren't saying that half an hour ago," he purrs, low and sultry, filled with intent.

"Half an hour ago there was more fucking, less talking."

"Is that an invitation?"

 

Not bothering with an answer, England grabs France's cheeks for a bruising kiss and rolls on top of him. In doing so, he brushes knuckles against France's side and the little, almost imperceptible, a pearl-like scar there. England gave him it, during their One hundred years. Right now, he can't remember exactly what battle. It's not the only scar on France's body and though England isn't responsible for all of them, he is for a good number. Just like his own skin carries France's marks in more than one way. 

 

France, in his usual sappiness, could even call it romantic. Maybe he is, reading England's mind this right moment, his eyes glinting. They're beautiful and they remind Arthur of stars, the many they saw in their long lives. Of quiet nights on some distant shore, laying on the sand in some truce they built, and with the sky so dark and yet so bright they could have drowned into it. 

France isn't the one who taught him his first constellations, but he is probably the one with whom England watched the night sky the most. 

 

"A penny for your thought," France is saying, now, relaxed and not at all impatient to rush things.

 

England shakes his head. "A penny is what you must pay for me to just consider the possibility of telling you," he says, before bending down to suck a new mark onto France's neck.

 

There will be time to think about soulmates and what France told him. A time to make order in the messy, bloody chaos that their relationship is. A time to find the courage to admit what often he doesn't dare to think.

 

Another. Not now.