Goggle-Face
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The winter wind was one of Arthur’s arch enemies. Well, not exactly enemies, but it was far too cold, always made him freeze, and it defiantly wasn’t helpful at all that he was out in a field, trying to enjoy the last of the flowers of fall - which, by this time, were all wilting and turning into dried up, wilted plants. He bit down on his bottom lip, pulling the coat around him tightly against his body, trying to keep as much heat as he could in, kneeling down in the wilted grass. The scene around him looked serene enough, with light snow covering the top of the wilted grass, a layer of frost over the plants. But the noticeable thing was the bitter expression that always seemed to be on the Brit’s face, even though this time he had an excuse.
“Bonjour, mon cheri.”
That.
Arthur turned his head, glaring towards at the pathetic person he called a neighbour walking up to him, who was dressed in thin, fancy clothing. Figures that the frog decided to look pretty while freezing his a`se off.
“What do you want, you bloody frog?” Arthur snapped towards the Frenchman.
“Mon cheri, why are you so hostile?” Francis asked, batting his eyelashes. “I’m just saying hello-”
“No, you’re here to ‘say hello’ and then obviously harass me, sexually or not,” the Englishman snapped again. “Now just get lost.”
“Tsk, tsk. So rude for a gentleman.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Why the bloody hell are you here, anyways? And what’s with the getup? You’ll freeze.”
“I’m allowed to look pretty, am I not?”
“You’re wearing a cape in late fall!”
“It’s a cloak, non?”
Arthur got up, right when it looked like Francis was about to take a seat behind him. “Just get lost, ya’ bloody frog. I’m not interested in getting harassed by you today.”
“Angleterre, what makes you think I was going to harass you?” Francis asked, with a genuinely hurt expression. Tch, the bastard was lying through his teeth. “I just wanted to say hi. We always meet up here, anyways. Well, we‘re always here, in a nutshell.”
“Shut up,” Arthur spat out, “Just shut up already, I made it clear I’m not interested.”
“I got the message, mon cheri,” Francis gave a little ‘tsk’ sound, waving his hand dismissively, fuelling Arthur’s anger. “You can stop that, I get your petty little message.”
He frowned again. “Enough with your insults, frog. If you have nothing to say to me, fine, but if you’re here to just sit here for the hell of it, fine. Just stop trying to deliberately tick me off,” he said dryly.
“I’m not.”
“I know your tricks, you bastard. I’m not an idiot.” he was biting down on his tongue, as if the pain would distract him from saying or doing anything he regretted.
“You’re not?”
He was biting down on his tongue harder. “I’m not.”
“All this time I was wrong then~ Here I though Arthur was a petty little idiot~! I was wrong~!”
“Enough.”
“What will you do, mon cheri?” Francis asked, patting his shoulder. “I’m just teasing, get the bee out of your a`s and maybe we could have a real conversation.”
“How could one have a normal conversation with you?” He swatted Francis’ hand away. “You’re just a general a`shole. You love to see people riled up.”
“It’s not that I like it, Arthur,” Francis replied, “It’s that it’s too easy to annoy you. I never see anyone else get mad as me as much as you. I feel that we argue more than we talk civilized.” He rubbed Arthur on the arm, almost coaxing him to move forward.
“Get your disgusting hands off me, for one.” Arthur shoved Francis’ hand off him, not letting the other man move instead. “And second, it wouldn’t be so bitter between us if you didn’t always decided to make an a`s of yourself.”
Francis let out a huff of frustration. For once, Arthur didn’t see an irritating a`shole, but a troubled man. That feeling quickly left and quickly as it came, though. “You’re so mean, Angleterre.”
“I’m not mean,” Arthur said dryly, “I’m just bitter.”
“Ahh, and that’s because you have no excitement in your life, Arthur~” Francis laughed, “Do you even have anyone to call your own? No lovers? How long has it been?”
“Shut up, you prat!” Arthur shouted, “My love life is none of your business!”
“But I am concerned for my dear friend~!” The Frenchman laughed, “Do you want me to hook you up? Is that what you want? I’ll ask a pretty girl if she’s interested in an English gentleman! Or do you not swing that way? Is that why you're so bitter~?”
Arthur couldn’t hold back anything else; he clenched his right hand into a fist, and took a swing at the prissy, cocky Frenchman’s ‘precious’ little face. Said man grabbed his wrist and pulled it down to the side, yanking him by the arm a bit. Arthur was beginning to panic.
“Let go!”
“Calm down, Arthur.”
“I said let go you bastard!”
“Arthur, I said calm down.”
“Let go of me or else I’ll snap your arm off!”
“Arthur, I honestly doubt that. You can’t even break this simple hold I have of your hand.”
“I’m counting to three and you better let go!”
“Arthur, please just calm down.”
“One…”
“Mon cheri, I’ll let go if you calm down.”
“Two…”
“Arthur, I don’t want to fight…”
“Three!”
He swung his other fist at Francis, cracking him right across the jaw. Francis let go of him, stumbling back, and then Arthur took another swing at him, with the already clenched fist, that the Frenchman had a grip on, now hitting him straight across the face. Francis fell back, landing down on the ground, and the Englishman’s eyes widened when he hard a crunching sound, noticing that, where the Frenchman had landed on the rock, his neck had taken full force on the impact, and made, more or less, a snap sound.
Arthur stared at the limp Frenchman in front of him, waiting for something to move, his eyes growing wider and his head panicking with each moment of silence that dragged on by. The Englishman’s mind slurred into almost every fitting emotion he thought possible. Confusion (“What just happened?!”), denial (“Th-The frog is just joking! R-Right?!”), rage (“This better not be some kind of sick joke!”), agony (“…What if he is dead?”), despair (“…Everyone is going to hate me.”), and finally guilt (“But I never wanted to kill him! Just give him a black eye!”). The silence continued to cause panic to swell in every inch of his body. It had been at least five minutes now, and the body hadn't moved at all, not even the rise and fall of his chest. That's when everything that was floating around in the Englishman's head stabbed him in his stomach.
Francis was dead. And it was all his fault.
“Bonjour, mon cheri.”
That.
Arthur turned his head, glaring towards at the pathetic person he called a neighbour walking up to him, who was dressed in thin, fancy clothing. Figures that the frog decided to look pretty while freezing his a`se off.
“What do you want, you bloody frog?” Arthur snapped towards the Frenchman.
“Mon cheri, why are you so hostile?” Francis asked, batting his eyelashes. “I’m just saying hello-”
“No, you’re here to ‘say hello’ and then obviously harass me, sexually or not,” the Englishman snapped again. “Now just get lost.”
“Tsk, tsk. So rude for a gentleman.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Why the bloody hell are you here, anyways? And what’s with the getup? You’ll freeze.”
“I’m allowed to look pretty, am I not?”
“You’re wearing a cape in late fall!”
“It’s a cloak, non?”
Arthur got up, right when it looked like Francis was about to take a seat behind him. “Just get lost, ya’ bloody frog. I’m not interested in getting harassed by you today.”
“Angleterre, what makes you think I was going to harass you?” Francis asked, with a genuinely hurt expression. Tch, the bastard was lying through his teeth. “I just wanted to say hi. We always meet up here, anyways. Well, we‘re always here, in a nutshell.”
“Shut up,” Arthur spat out, “Just shut up already, I made it clear I’m not interested.”
“I got the message, mon cheri,” Francis gave a little ‘tsk’ sound, waving his hand dismissively, fuelling Arthur’s anger. “You can stop that, I get your petty little message.”
He frowned again. “Enough with your insults, frog. If you have nothing to say to me, fine, but if you’re here to just sit here for the hell of it, fine. Just stop trying to deliberately tick me off,” he said dryly.
“I’m not.”
“I know your tricks, you bastard. I’m not an idiot.” he was biting down on his tongue, as if the pain would distract him from saying or doing anything he regretted.
“You’re not?”
He was biting down on his tongue harder. “I’m not.”
“All this time I was wrong then~ Here I though Arthur was a petty little idiot~! I was wrong~!”
“Enough.”
“What will you do, mon cheri?” Francis asked, patting his shoulder. “I’m just teasing, get the bee out of your a`s and maybe we could have a real conversation.”
“How could one have a normal conversation with you?” He swatted Francis’ hand away. “You’re just a general a`shole. You love to see people riled up.”
“It’s not that I like it, Arthur,” Francis replied, “It’s that it’s too easy to annoy you. I never see anyone else get mad as me as much as you. I feel that we argue more than we talk civilized.” He rubbed Arthur on the arm, almost coaxing him to move forward.
“Get your disgusting hands off me, for one.” Arthur shoved Francis’ hand off him, not letting the other man move instead. “And second, it wouldn’t be so bitter between us if you didn’t always decided to make an a`s of yourself.”
Francis let out a huff of frustration. For once, Arthur didn’t see an irritating a`shole, but a troubled man. That feeling quickly left and quickly as it came, though. “You’re so mean, Angleterre.”
“I’m not mean,” Arthur said dryly, “I’m just bitter.”
“Ahh, and that’s because you have no excitement in your life, Arthur~” Francis laughed, “Do you even have anyone to call your own? No lovers? How long has it been?”
“Shut up, you prat!” Arthur shouted, “My love life is none of your business!”
“But I am concerned for my dear friend~!” The Frenchman laughed, “Do you want me to hook you up? Is that what you want? I’ll ask a pretty girl if she’s interested in an English gentleman! Or do you not swing that way? Is that why you're so bitter~?”
Arthur couldn’t hold back anything else; he clenched his right hand into a fist, and took a swing at the prissy, cocky Frenchman’s ‘precious’ little face. Said man grabbed his wrist and pulled it down to the side, yanking him by the arm a bit. Arthur was beginning to panic.
“Let go!”
“Calm down, Arthur.”
“I said let go you bastard!”
“Arthur, I said calm down.”
“Let go of me or else I’ll snap your arm off!”
“Arthur, I honestly doubt that. You can’t even break this simple hold I have of your hand.”
“I’m counting to three and you better let go!”
“Arthur, please just calm down.”
“One…”
“Mon cheri, I’ll let go if you calm down.”
“Two…”
“Arthur, I don’t want to fight…”
“Three!”
He swung his other fist at Francis, cracking him right across the jaw. Francis let go of him, stumbling back, and then Arthur took another swing at him, with the already clenched fist, that the Frenchman had a grip on, now hitting him straight across the face. Francis fell back, landing down on the ground, and the Englishman’s eyes widened when he hard a crunching sound, noticing that, where the Frenchman had landed on the rock, his neck had taken full force on the impact, and made, more or less, a snap sound.
Arthur stared at the limp Frenchman in front of him, waiting for something to move, his eyes growing wider and his head panicking with each moment of silence that dragged on by. The Englishman’s mind slurred into almost every fitting emotion he thought possible. Confusion (“What just happened?!”), denial (“Th-The frog is just joking! R-Right?!”), rage (“This better not be some kind of sick joke!”), agony (“…What if he is dead?”), despair (“…Everyone is going to hate me.”), and finally guilt (“But I never wanted to kill him! Just give him a black eye!”). The silence continued to cause panic to swell in every inch of his body. It had been at least five minutes now, and the body hadn't moved at all, not even the rise and fall of his chest. That's when everything that was floating around in the Englishman's head stabbed him in his stomach.
Francis was dead. And it was all his fault.
