Lost Letters (Hetalia: FrUk)

8. The Truth Is

After America was gone, England's house, once again, fell under an intense silence. One he would do anything to break. Something he always noticed after he had guests was just how lonely he truly was. He sighed as he dropped into his favorite armchair and turned on the telly. He flipped through the channels until a rerun of Doctor Who came on. England's mistake, because it was already partway through the episode and a weeping angel popped up on the screen.

"Aaah!" He screamed as he jumped in his seat and then placed a hand over his heart, "Bloody hell! Damn angel!" None-the-less, he refused to blink until the angel was gone. He spent his night watching Doctor Who reruns and, after a long week of virtually no sleep, he inevitably fell asleep on the couch.

~

The next morning, he woke to his door slamming open.

"ARTHUR KIRKLAND!" He jumped to his feet as that voice echoed through the house.

"M-Madame Prime Minister," He said fearfully as she stalked into the living room.

"Do you care to tell me why the bloody hell France is leaving the Country?" She asked when she was less than a foot away, staring up into his eyes with a glare that made him avert his eyes.

"I- I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about," He answered honestly.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Arthur," She said, "He boards his plane in forty-five minutes!" Arthur felt his heart stutter.

"He-what?" Was all he managed.

"He's leaving," She all but growled, "And the relation between our Countries has not improved."

Arthur remained silent, his eyes staring down at his boss, but seeing nothing.

If France was leaving the Country it shouldn't have been such a big deal. They could attempt to improve relations at another time. Hell, they'd most certainly see each other at World Meetings. Yet, England felt that if France were to leave now, things would never be the same again.

"Arthur! Where are you going?" He was out the door and into yet another storm (it was the rainy season), in only his clothes from yesterday and his good shoes.

"I'm going to the airport!" He called over his shoulder.

"You won't make it!" She yelled as he tried hailing a taxi, an impossible feat in this storm.

"Then call the airport and delay his flight!" He began running off down the sidewalk.

"How?"

"You're the bloody Prime Minister!" He shouted over the downpour as he ran on, "Figure it out!"

~

England burst into the airport out of breath, water dripping from his figure, and startling a few bystanders. He paid them no mind. He didn't have time to spare. It was an hour later, and he prayed his boss had managed to delay the flight.

He darted off through the crowd, annoying more than a few persons with his rain-soaked body accidentally brushing against them. He ran towards security and brushed past everyone in line.

"Sir, you have to come back!" A young man called after him.

"The Hell I do," He said as he sped walked through the airport. "I'm the United bloody Kingdom!"

Somehow, he made it past security. He stopped briefly to check over a message board, checking for outgoing flights heading to France. There were two, but only one heading to Paris.

"Got it," He took off in a sprint again. He felt desperate as he ran further through the airport. The plane had been delayed, but it was being loaded now. Passengers were boarding.

"If you leave," He panted as he found the correct corridor, "I'll kick your- France!" The instant he saw the blond head of hair, he felt relief. He was boarding now.

"Francis Bonnefoy if you board that plane I swear to God!" His voice was heard. Francis turned around, rather startled, and his eyes widened as he saw Arthur running towards him. Reflexively, his first instinct was to run. But, his second instinct forced him to stand there and brace for impact.

The instant Arthur was close enough, he threw his arms around the others waist and, in his long moment of relief and panic, brought their lips together in a long overdue kiss.

~

France's Pov

~

After the week that had been thrown upon France, he didn't think he could last any longer in the country of England. After receiving that letter, he had been so positive his feelings were reciprocated. And then, America had happened. Whenever the American was around, a side of England opened up that never showed. France doubted the Englishman even noticed this. However, this just concluded things. It proved that France had been wrong, and that old scroll was simply another relic. The meaning behind it no longer true.

The world meeting was over, nothing was truly keeping him in the Country anymore. He would face his boss' consequences of leaving when the time came. He simply couldn't bare it in the foreign Country any longer. So, he had packed his bags and booked his flight, planning to leave for a very long time.

Now he knew he was the world's largest idiot, and he couldn't deny it.

When he heard his name called the first time in the airport, he assumed it was his mind being cruel. Playing with the sounds happening around him and turning it into what he so desperately wanted to hear. But when he heard it the second time, with an unfinished threat no less, he knew it wasn't his imagination.

~

His eyes, which had been shut in worry, flew open when he felt the arms around his waist, and then widened when Arthur pressed his lips to his. He felt himself shiver, due to the circumstances or the fact that Arthur was soaked and pressed against him he wasn't sure, but his heart rate raced and his mind went blank. His stomach flipped and his legs felt shaky. All in all, this was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

His hands reached up, finally, and rested on the back of Arthur's neck, tilting his head so the kiss would deepen.

How long had he waited for this? How many Centuries had this been on his mind? How many times had he worked up the nerve to make the first move, only to back out in fear? How many more until he got over the shame of the Brit acting first?

England pulled away with a small smile, his eyes opening to stare at the other.

"Francis Bonnefoy," He panted slightly, "If you get on that plane, I swear I will bomb your ruddy Country." Francis smirked.

"Is that a threat?" He challenged.

"En guarde, France," England smiled before leaning in to capture his lips once more.

"Um, sirs? We're boarding the plane now..."

It was pointless. There was no way anyone, let alone a random stranger, was stopping this centuries over-do kiss.

It was about time.