Lost Letters (Hetalia: FrUk)

1. Dear, France

Arthur, a young Brit who happened to be the personification of the Country of England, waited impatiently outside the British Museum, his date for the evening late for their correspondence. Date may be a strong word for who was attending the museum with Arthur, though. Maybe something akin to the slimy creatures that lived under a rock. A frog, perhaps.

The annoyed Englishman tapped his foot impatiently, his arms crossed over his chest and leaving creases in his fresh pressed shirt. He waited for a few moments more before letting out an irritated huff and retrieving his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it and opened it up to his messages.

Frog:

Be there in 5

Received: 7:50 pm

"Bloody Frog," He muttered as he locked his phone and tucked it back into the pocket of his black trousers. He was twenty-five minutes late. After another ten minutes of waiting, Arthur's grimace had turned into a frown. He sighed before climbing the stairs to the grand museum, reaching for his wallet in his pocket. As he was to enter, a voice began calling his name.

"Arthur! Arthur! Please wait, cher!" Arthur's mood shifted from dejected, to relieved, to annoyed, and to embarrassed, all within the few seconds it took his companion for the evening to reach him.

Once he stood in front of Arthur, bent over slightly and gasping, Arthur crossed his arms in anger.

"Any particular reason you're thirty-five minutes late?" He said crossly. Francis stood and composed himself, quickly fixing his disheveled appearance.

"Well, my cab was on its way here when it broke down," He explained, "I called another, but by the time it reached me and drove me here, it would have been much later than it is now." Arthur furrowed his large eyebrows in confusion.

"Well, if you didn't call a cab, how did yu-"

"I ran," He said simply. Arthur met his eyes in surprise, "Well, I couldn't just leave you waiting here all alone, non? I would never hear the end of it." Arthur turned away, walking towards the doors without a word. The effort that his French companion had put into seeing Arthur touched him a bit, but Hell if he would actually admit that.

"Why didn't you call me and tell me?" He turned to look at the other, who dug into his pockets at the question.

"My phone died," He held out the black device, "Right after I made my call to the cab company."

"Oh."

"Well, I would have stayed home, but my boss would have not let me off the hook until I came," He continued. Arthur grimaced. That's right. This was a plot by their bosses to get their Countries to get along. They weren't there of there own free will. Well, The Frenchman wasn't.

They continued on into the building in silence, not that it was out of place in the museum. They walked along the familiar halls, looking at relics that they themselves remembered using at one point or another.

"Arthur, isn't that your old clock?" He was drawn from looking at an old collection of gold works. It was a tall grandfather clock, that was indeed very old.

"Yes," He nodded as he walked over to his friend for the evening, "I donated a few things to this museum." He watched as the old clock ticked away. He glanced at Francis briefly before returning his gaze to the ebony wooded clock, "I'm surprised you recognized it."

"Huh? Oh. Ah, well-" Arthur held up his hand.

"Whatever, let's just keep going," The sooner the night ended, the sooner he could just go home and forget about it.

"Lead the way, Angleterre." Arthur elbowed him in the stomach.

"We're in public," He warned, "My name is Arthur."

There was actually a new exhibit opened up recently, which was the reason why Arthur, who had been forced to spend some time with Francis, had suggested going to a museum. That, and the fact that if they were in a museum, Francis would keep is annoying mouth shut.

He lead the way to the new exhibit, and joined the crowd of onlookers behind the velvet rope. It was nothing to amazing, simply an old carrier of letters had been found, and the curriers uniform, the bag, as well as the letters were set up on display. Arthur looked over them half-interested, when his heart seized.

Among the old letters, laid a scroll with a red string tying it closed. And on the scarlet string was a wax seal, baring the crest of England. And, written in familiar looping writing, across the outside of the scroll, was a single, simple word. France. A small smile of irony made it's way to his face.

"You have to be bloody kidding me," He whispered. In an instant, he was walking away, his hand already reaching for his phone.

"Ah, Arthur, where are you going?" Arthur waved him off.

"Not now, Frog. I have something to do." Since phones weren't allowed in the museum he walked back to the front and stood outside, quickly dialing up his boss.

"Hello?" He straightened himself up.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"England? Has something happened with France? Any new developments?" He looked behind him where Francis was chatting with two young ladies, and frowned.

"No, I don't believe so," He then got straight to the point of why he had called, "I have a favor."

~

"Here you are, sir," the scroll was passed into his hands, and he was amazed at it's condition. Aside from yellowing in age, and a few tears towards the edge, it was in pristine condition. The paper was still flexible, and he knew unfurling it wouldn't be a problem. The only question then, was if the ink had held up over all of these years. Not that he had any plans of reading it. No. He planned to lock it away in his attic so it could never be read.

"I'm going to have to end our night early, Francis," He said as he held the parchment, so the name atop it wasn't visible. "I have important matters to attend to." His associate looked a bit crest fallen.

"I see," He sighed quietly before giving his signature, flirtatious smirk, "Well, maybe next time you can make it up to me in a different way." Arthur glared as he hailed a cab. He opened the door to the black vehicle and turned back around to face his long time enemy.

"Drop dead, France."

He climbed into the vehicle and slammed the door, not looking back once as he was driven off. And not noticing the regretful, and painful, expression on his abandoned companion's face.