France Always Causes Sleepless Nights

[refinnej357.livejournal.com]

Title: French Tarts and Fairy Bodyguards
Characters and Pairings: America, England, Canada, France (possibility of more characters in the future), and usxuk
Author: refinnej357
Rating: PG-13? For cussing
Warning: intermixing “formal” and “informal” names, attempt at British slang, lots of silliness.
Summary: America slowly comes to realize a clever plot to win England over. But first he must face off with a new rival, France (who just sees it at a game), and some mysteriously invisible nonsense known as the Fairy Bodyguard.

MORE?!  Uh yes, there is more, because I wasn't allowed to post it all at once, being told that it was to big.  I tried to break it down into two parts but that didn't work for whatever reason.  Soo... this is a newly made part III.   IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CHILDHOOD GUARDIANS, YOU NEED TO DO SO BEFORE READING THIS.  Ugh, forgive me.  I know I'm doing something wrong, but I don't know how to fix it.  I'm a newbie, give me break.  Maybe one of you lovely MODs will correct me in my errors and I can do it right next time.  In the mean time, drama ensues.

If you need part I and II, here *hands over* :

The Tart and How it Starts
community.livejournal.com/usxuk/79313.html


Childhood Guardians
community.livejournal.com/usxuk/111229.html


One more thing, I may be harassing Chibi_sassou soon for French language check.  Thanks again Chibi_sassou!

 

When America finally joined the shocked Canadian on the sidewalk, he was smirking and blushing and cradling a bloody nose.  He didn’t care if he bled every time he hugged England, he wouldn’t take it back. 

Matthew was staring at him with an expression of awe.  “I can’t believe you did that.  Thanks to you, he may decide to cancel tea and there’ll be messages waiting for the each of us when we get home.”  He handed him a handkerchief. 

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.” 

“Yes it is and you’re an idiot.” 

“He looked fine to me.” 

“Only because that fairy hit you. They really do care for you, you know?” 

“It was just a hug.” 

“But you’re America, and England is England.”  The Canadian couldn’t simplify it any more than that.  Really he was just as nonplussed as England.  There would be no peace making between him and England by dropping him on the ground one moment and hugging and kissing him the next.  Utterly ridiculous.  “Take it slow with him, ok?  He needs slow.” 

“Ok.”  America huffed through his nose, regretted the new blood flow, and looked up into the sky, trying to decide what to do now that he possibly ruined everything.  He was so good at ruining things between him and England.  Take it slow.  He could laugh at that.  Patience was never one of his virtues. 

He spotted the first star to the east between the neighborhood houses.  No, it’s to bright, maybe it’s a planet?  He stopped to stare at it.  He thought about what he did, kissing Arthur like that.  Then he thought about what he said.  “Some impulse or something.”  Why did he say that?  It was implosive, but the way he said it made it sound as though his actions weren’t sincere.  He had been feeling a bit nostalgic recently, but the sincerity of emotions he had for England was always a constant.  He was genuinely–what?  In love? 

When he first met Arthur, it was of course a sort of brotherly love.  He looked up to Arthur and he needed him to survive.  Why then the revolution?  That was another love, and a harder one to put into words and that could only be explained by actions.  Every time England visited, there was more and more America to care for.  He no longer needed fairies, he no longer needed tucking in at night, he needed to be an adult.  And he needed to love England in a way that was on his own terms.  Still unconditionally, but also as one man to another.  He didn’t realize how just how much it would break England’s heart to turn on him like that, but there had to be a point in time when he would get a chance to fix it with a better love. 

America chuckled, thinking about what Canada said.  He was right; America was doing a bad job of it so far.  But damn it, how else was he going to be with Arthur?  And kissing him again would be...  And on the lips?  Hmm… 

“Alfred, did you hear what I said?”  Canada had his arms crossed and he was frowning at America. 

“What did you say?” 

His frown deepened, “I said Francis was supposed to go too.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You really weren’t listening?”  He huffed but continued, “Francis came to me after the meeting and asked if I would host a brunch or something at my house, and that I invite you and Arthur too.” 

“Why?” 

Canada shrugged, “I don’t know, he didn’t say, and I didn’t get a chance to ask.”  He dropped his arms at his sides and tilted his head a little, “It would be nice if everybody could just get along, and so I told him I’d try.  Then Arthur invited us and I didn’t mention Francis but I thought–” 

“You were just going to let Francis show up?” 

“No!  Yes. I don’t know.  I didn’t know how to ask Arthur if Francis could come.” 

America scowled at the ground and murmured to himself, “What is Francis planning…?”  The two began walking again, both momentarily lost in thought.  America’s nose had stopped bleeding but he barely took notice.  He was trying to remember what Francis said to Arthur that morning, before the meeting.  Something about a suggestion, and he kept calling Arthur “darling”.  And didn’t he say something about love?  America’s eyes widened and he put his hands on top his head in frustration.  He felt tired.  What was going on? 

“I think we should try to pull this off, even if it’s a bad idea.  I want to know what’s going on.” 

Canada gave him a doubtful look and shook his head.  “No, I’m going to stay out of this.  If Arthur calls, I’ll be happy to oblige him his request.  Besides, there are ways to go about this without upsetting Arthur.  Just ask Francis what’s going on.” 

America lowered his head to his chest and handed the handkerchief back before shoving his hands deep in his pockets.  “Yeah, you’re right.  I just wanted to see Arthur, I guess.” 

Canada smiled and tucked the bloodied wad away before putting his hand on America’s shoulder. 

The American grunted.  Then, “Why do you get the touch England?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Anytime I touch Arthur, those imaginary fairy friends of his try to beat me up.  But you can touch him.  Hell, you were practically laying on him earlier.” 

“Maybe you should try being a little more sensitive about it.  When you get near Arthur, you hurt him somehow, physically or emotionally.” 

“I just hugged him and gave him a kiss on his head for goodness sake.  I was purposely gentle, I didn’t hurt him.” 

“I think you did.” 

Canada waited for America to responded, but the man remained quiet. 

“Do you love him?”  He asked quietly.

“No!”  The American grumbled. 

“You are an idiot.” 

“Stop saying that.” 

 --------

            When Canada got home he checked his voice mail to make sure he didn’t have any missed long distance calls from England, canceling Friday’s tea time.  He figured England would call while he was on the way home so that he could leave a message instead of actually having to speak to him.  Guess he was wrong.  There was, however, a message from France, and Canada sat down before listening to it.             

            “Matthew, vous êtes un cher. Pourtant avez-vous reçu l'Angleterre pour y être d'accord ? Je sais que vous avez des adresses de négociations stupéfiantes, mais le recevoir pour l'accueillir ? Je suis impressionné avec vous! Je vous verrai vendredi au chéri de l'Angleterre.” 

(Translation: “Matthew, Matthew, tu es un amour. Comment as-tu fait pour qu'Angleterre accepte ? Je sais que tu as une habilité incroyable pour les négociations, mais pour le convaincre de nous recevoir ? Tu m'impressionnes ! Je te vois vendredi chez England’s chéri.”) 

Canada was flabbergasted.  What!?  Arthur was still going to have them over?  And Francis too? 

He text Alfred real quick before going to bed, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I guess we’re still doing dinner at Arthur’s next Friday.  Francis too.  See you there.”

 --------

America wouldn’t get it until morning.  He had fallen into bed fully dressed the moment he got home and was dreaming of an ocean full of evil fairies that were the expanse between him and England.  Each wave that crashed against his shore spewed insults from the lips of billions of tiny taunting fairy fuckers.  And from the other side of the ocean, America could hear the voices of two men, one was saying something inaudible in French, the other was yelling, “Get out of my garden!  Get out my garden!” 

            On the other side of the real Atlantic ocean, England was having dreams of a considerably more pleasant nature, and they involved America somehow, but he didn’t remember what exactly happened in them because he woke up too suddenly in the middle of the night.  He did however feel warm in more than one special spot. 

            Ugh!  How embarrassing.  Even when he was exhausted and deep in sleep, he still thought of Alfred.  In the late night, while he was alone in bed, he remembered the way Alfred leaned over him at the conference table, he was so close.  And oh, his expression when he sat up all surprised and rubbing the welts on his chest, with the fairies floating warningly about his head.  Classic America.  England couldn’t help smiling.  Very rarely did he have a chance to just stare at Alfred.  He grew up into a vain brat and he didn’t need the encouragement.           

            Pain, shame, and regret from old memories mixed with recent years’ taunts of longing and lust.  All attempts to maintain his appearance of a stoic relationship with his former colony went out the door this evening.  America was being a right sneaky git about it too.  England blushed and buried his face in his pillow, then fluffed it back up and dropped his head on it.  What America did was exactly why England didn’t call it off Friday.  But he would never admit it, even to himself.           

            Thank God for the fairies.  England would have to depend on their help to keep both Alfred and Francis at bay on Friday.  As though on cue, little lights turned on, dotting his room in pastel colors with various degrees of brightness.  They always sensed when he was thinking about them.  They were his Fairy Bodyguards.