The Chesapeake Campaign

So, um, yeah. Another fic for the Universitalia AUverse! :o And, this one might be the only multi-chaptered one so far (it's, like, just three or four chapters, and pretty short for my standards).

America/United Kingdoms woo! (And, France/UK, because I'd be a dirty lying whore if I said I didn't laugh on all those marriage offers)

DEDICATED TO: conspiredfate, because she kept wondering when I was going to write Hetalia again. :D Not knowing, of course, that I was ACTUALLY writing it the moment she asked the first time, because I am oddly epic like that.

Disclaimed.

Francis could most likely seduce anybody. He wasn't being cocky (but, one could always try him out) and he wasn't trying to be obnoxious either. That was just the pure, undiluted truth—in his opinion.

For instance, take a look at his record of successful seductions!

In the example of Ludwig, for whom all you need is a cute face and better food than his country can offer: "Adolf," Francis purred, sliding onto the steel bench next to the large German man. With a bit of a surprised jolt, Ludwig turned and looked at him like he was smoking some serious drugs. (He wasn't on drugs, though, as much as he was drunk—on love!) The Frenchman grinned, leaning in close to the younger man's face. "You never answered my calls—you're making me think that you don't love me."

Ludwig stared at him, mouth open just the slightest bit. "Um." He frowned. "I'm, uh, kind of busy." He coughed into his fist nervously, looking away from the stubble-brushed man.

Busy? "Busy?" Francis repeated, cocking a delicate eyebrow. "How can you be busy?"

The German motioned towards his lap, where he was apparently having quite a bit of fun with his Italian superstar football player of a boyfriend, whom of which was snuggled into his chest like that hard, muscular body was intensely comfortable.

Francis blinked. How could he have missed that?

"It's not what it looks like, though!" Ludwig said, waving a hand in a way that was supposed to ease the worries of Francis, but it failed because there was kind of a man on his lap. "He's taking a siesta nap thing—his midterms are tomorrow! He needs all the rest he can get." He huffed, trying to cross his arms on his chest but stopping because his boyfriend was, like, taking up all that available space.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Francis replied, trying to hold back his grimace. Ugh, he just tried to pick up a married man—oh, wait, that was his misadventure with Tino. His ribs are still healing from that Swedish brute's right hook and super-kick. "It's okay if you're into that public sex kind of thing—I mean, I didn't think that you were that kind of person, but your boyfriend is Italian and they do some weird stuff sometimes—"

(Needless to say, he got a black eye by the end of all that, and a threat from Ludwig including the police and some whip cream. He would not mind the whip cream as much as the police.)

But, anyway.

Perhaps that was not a good example—Francis has succeeded in many seduction attempts…but, just not in this uptight university.

"That is why I left the university," Ivan agreed with a small drunken nod, smiling serenely. "That campus is very unnecessarily uptight. Oh yeah, so I beat the man with a broken pipe? It was a joke—self-defense—something." He huffed, cheeks red with alcoholic influence. "I wasn't being serious, bah! It is his own fault that he has not gotten out of that coma."

Francis stared at the Russian man with wide eyes, not even finding the urge to blink. "Uh," he started weakly, rubbing his chin. "I thought you left because you completed your Bachelors degree. In…in whatever you studied." Damn him for accepting the psycho's invitation for a drink! (Which was really because he feared saying 'no' to Ivan Braginski's very direct invitation, for very obvious reasons.)

"Ha!" Ivan barked a laugh, clapping a hand roughly against the Frenchman's back. "Very funny, Bonnefoy. I left because I find this campus stifling and the structure much too constricting. But, I do come to visit," he trailed off, his smile weakening. "Yet, my Toris is never available to see me. Do I scare him?"

The Russian man was so lucky Francis was French, which meant he was good at lying for the sake of romantic endeavors. "Of, of course not," he answered shakily, and he nervously chuckled because there was seriously nothing scarier than Ivan Braginski. "In fact, I'm sure he loves you very much, but just can't find the right words to tell you!"

Ivan looked at him with wide violet eyes. "Really?" he asked with so much hope it tore at Francis's beating heart. "I mean, you really think he wants to see me?"

Hell no. "Oh, oh yes!" Francis insisted, a grin spreading on his face. Maybe he could work with this so he could leave this room alive. "I most definitely believe he would want to see you! Because, seriously, who wouldn't want to be with such a strong, gentle man like you?" Except for, like, the world. "Alcoholism is very sexy these days—just look at Ludwig, all the manly girls and Italian football superstars love him!"

"Toris, he wants to see me?" Ivan breathed, a smile spreading on his face. "That's great—but, wait," his eyes narrowed dangerously, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Do you know this for sure, Bonnefoy?"

Francis tried to gulp indiscreetly, but his Adam's apple betrayed his intentions. "Well, no," he answered honestly, and he held up his hands for protection at the frowning twitch of Ivan's lips. "But—I can find out!"

"Can you?" the platinum-haired man asked offhandedly, swishing his vodka within his flask. "How, Bonnefoy?"

Okay, the blond man inhaled and exhaled slowly, holding a hand to his heart. One crisis averted successfully! "Do you know an Alfred F. Jones?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, yes, we go alcohol binging on Second Thursdays," Ivan replied, smiling. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"Well," Francis looked down at his cuticles, trying to act nonchalant but he was really scared of out his wits. "According to my resources," See: the Gilbo Gossip—the best news column in the university newspaper. "Toris shares a flat with Alfred."

"I know." Ivan looked unimpressed, which meant Francis might die in seven days. "So. Okay?"

"And, uh," Oh God, oh God. The Frenchman raked his mind for a reasonable excuse on how he could find out Toris's feelings for Ivan. "Um, I know a guy who's pretty close to Alfred, so he could probably get me a way to find out stuff about Toris. Because Alfred takes care of that guy seriously—you can barely ask Toris a question because Alfred's always whisking him off to some American event."

Ivan sipped at his vodka. "Hmm." He hummed underneath his breath. Cocking an eyebrow, he cracked a sinister smile. "I think I'm getting where you are going here, Bonnefoy."

"You do?" Francis asked in amazement, but then he froze, shaking his head. "I mean—of course you do!"

"You're going to seduce Arthur Kirkland, because he's the closest person in Jones's life, right?" Ivan continued, nodding in agreement with this plan. "Right. And, when you seduce Kirkland, you're going to get close enough to Jones to ask Toris whether or not he would like to see me." He barked a high-pitched laugh. "Amazing, Bonnefoy! I never thought you had it in you!"

What kind of disturbingly messed up and inaccurate plan was that? Francis paused. Better yet—Arthur? "I have to seduce Arthur?" he asked, frowning. "Like, Psycho Unicorn Arthur? Arthur with the Eyebrows from Mars? My Arch-Nemesis Arthur? The Breakfast Club Two: Hey, it's My High School Bully, Arthur! Arthur and the Invisibles—"

"Yes. Yes, Arthur Kirkland," Ivan cut him off, furrowing his eyebrows in annoyance. "You'll be seducing Kirkland to get close to Jones to get close to Toris. Does that make any sense?"

"Um." Other than the fact that he was apparently supposed to seduce Arthur, not really. "…oui?"

"Good." The Russian man took another gulp from his flask, and this guy was the best drunk Francis had ever seen in his twenty-six years of life. "You'll start tomorrow."

"I'll start tomorrow—wait, what?" Francis demanded, cocking a thin eyebrow. "Tomorrow, I'll have to start seducing Arthur?"

Ivan looked like he wanted to smack his face with a broken water tap because of how much he was repeating himself. Francis reminded himself to never go against Ivan's words again. "Tomorrow," he agreed. "You've got to start as soon as possible—as I simply hate waiting." He smiled. "I'm a very impatient man."

"My schedule is completely empty," Francis said without missing a beat. "I'll start as soon as I finish combing my hair."

He was going to make sure that took an obscenely long amount of time, for the record.

"Thank you so much," Ivan said with a grin, and he looked so unnaturally kind at the moment that Francis was honestly to whomever in the sky scared. "And, by the way, Bonnefoy? I earned my Masters' in Psychology."

The English and the French have been at odds for so long, Francis almost forgot why.

"You want me," Arthur deadpanned over the phone. "To go on a date. With you? That, is, err, disgusting, Frank."

Oh, well, now he remembered why. "First off," Francis started, quelling down the urge to insult the hell out of Arthur of the Stupidest Race in the World. "You should be honored that anyone would want to go out on a date with you, Arty," he stated as he observed his nails nonchalantly. "Secondly, I'm not the disgusting one here. After all—I have my Bachelors' in Culinary Arts and I have so far received no less than five stars on any of the meals I serve in my own restaurant." He huffed. "Unlike yourself, where the only star you got was vomit in the shape on one after trying to serve me one of your scones."

"…" And, the line went dead.

Francis whistled lowly. Well, shit.

He pressed redial, because he was not going to let Arthur's little temper problems end his life at the hands of one Ivan Braginski.

"What the bloody hell do you want?" Arthur demanded, sniffing in offense. "Because, in case your intelligence falters when it comes to matters like this: I hung up on you."

"Look," the Frenchman started, sighing. He nibbled on his bottom lip, agitating the perfect skin there. "I know we got off on the wrong start—"

"You pushed me down the stairs when I was a toddler, twit," the British man said, and his annoyance was audible through the phone's earpiece. "And then you harassed me for, oh, I don't know—a hundred years?"

"It was actually sixteen years, but this is not the point, moron," Francis retorted. He smacked his forehead. "I meant, uh, ma Cherie!" French is the language of the romancé, of course. "That's French for my darling, in case you—"

"I know your bloody French language!" Arthur snapped, and he sighed in such an exasperated way that Francis was actually almost offended. "Now, could you please tell me what you are wasting my life calling me for—before I hang up on you, of course."

Francis looked at his clock. Dear lord, it was only 10:21, AM. "I was wondering," he began slowly, observing the classic Napoleanistic décor of his flat. Luckily—or, unluckily, he could suppose—he did not have a flat mate, even though the younger university students make it seem like it's the most fun anybody could possibly have. "If you wanted…to…" He coughed lowly in his throat.

"Enunciate," Arthur said mockingly, and the Frenchman was moments away from hanging up on him instead. "Any day now, Frank."

"If you wanted to, to meet me later today," Francis said, breathing heavily. "I need to tell you something very important. Like, extremely important."

"Ah." Arthur hung up. Again!

Francis, after getting over the initial shock of being hung up on not one as much as two times, pressed the Redial button. "Why won't you hear me out?!" he demanded as soon as he heard the familiar click of the other line's answer. "I mean, Arty, baby, we've known each other for, like, ever. Remember our childhood?" Also known as: The Good Ol' Days—Except Not Really.

"Oh, yes!" Arthur chuckled. "Remember the way you cut my hair when I was in second grade because apparently I cannot grow out hair like you?"

"You looked like a drag queen—I was doing you and the world a favor." Francis insisted, gesticulating wildly like an Italian (he picked that up from extended contact with Feliciano from his olden babysitting days—then he lost his job to Roderich Edelstein, the shame). He rolled his blue eyes, clicking his tongue in disdain. "Besides, you're really mature for holding like, twenty-year grudges on my part!" He pinched his arm tightly, causing a single tear to fall down his cheek—perfect. "Can't, can't we start anew, Arthur? That's all I ever truly wanted from you."

"What." It wasn't even a question.

"I mean," the long-haired man continued, wiping the tear from his eye and sniffling. "I wanted to be your friend, but you pushed me into a hole! Literally." He will never forget that day in seventh grade where the significantly younger Arthur Kirkland dug a hole in the ground and pushed him into it. "Why must you hate me so? Is it because I'm sexy? I think it's because I'm sexy."

Arthur was not audibly impressed. "Believe me when I say that it isn't because you're sexy," he replied blandly. "It's actually because you're a dirty French twat, and bugger all if I ever want to be generally associated with the likes of your bad beard."

Bad beard? Did Arthur Kirkland just make a disparaging comment about his facial hair? "Your words—they're so cruel!" Francis exclaimed, scowling. "I pour my heart out to you, and you talk about my extremely-attractive stubble?! You, you thickly browed English bastard! I can't believe yooou!" He sobbed a little for effect, falling off his loveseat onto his knees. It was really a shame that the English bastard himself wasn't there to watch all of these theatrics.

"…" the British man was silent for a moment. "Are you crying?"

"No!" Francis wailed, bawling especially hard just to be annoying. "All I wanted was, was to meet up with you for lunch for a date at the Montesquieu Café, but you break my heart so terribly—and why, Arty? Why?"

"Oh, oh dear," Arthur replied, obviously disturbed. "Um. If I go, will you stop crying? Because it's scaring the bloody hell out of me, to be honest."

Francis paused. "It varies," he replied in a sob, wiping at his eyes. "Are you a lying bastard like the rest of your country?"

"Actually, I think you have us mixed up, but no."

"Then I'll see you at one," the Frenchman said cheerfully, smiling. "Au revoir!" He hung up the phone on the first note of Arthur's offended tone of voice.

Part one—successful!

Well, part two—that might be a little more difficult.

Francis used his infamous 'Seductive Smirk V.3' the moment he caught sight of those damned eyebrows. Ugh, he tried not to shudder, but it was hard when the thick patches of facial hair just existed on Arthur's face—and it did not help that they were, like, a completely different color than his hair itself.

"Bonjour," he greeted, looking into the Englishman's clear green eyes instead. A much better choice. "I'm so glad you came to meet me, Arthur."

Arthur's Eyebrows—they were so distracting—furrowed in displeasure. "I didn't come here for you, twit," he replied haughtily, taking a seat opposite of Francis. "I came because I was bored—and Alfred apparently is much too busy to accompany me to the bloody picture show."

Picture show. This…this man still calls movie theaters 'picture shows,' and Ivan wanted Francis to somehow seduce him. Just, eww. "Um." Francis looked away, just so he could resist the urge to make an unnecessary comment. "Regardless of why you came here, I'm just happy you cared enough to glance upon my excessively sexy visage." Francis beamed, flashing his perfect teeth. "That makes me happy, Arty."

"…" Arthur's Eyebrows were unimpressed. "…You do realize that I'm extremely suspicious right now, correct?" he asked, holding up a hand to flag down a waiter. "Hello, Peter," he greeted the blond-haired boy that stopped. Arthur (excluding his Eyebrows) smiled, and Francis had to almost jump back in shock—he had never seen the Englishman smile so kindly in his life! "I was wondering if I could get a cup of Earl Gray Tea, with a small plate of crumpets, yes?"

Peter—the sole Sealander for, like, an infinite number of miles—scowled, almost breaking his pen within his palm. "It's, it's you!" he exclaimed, pointing the pen accusingly at Arthur. "You're the bloody jerkface that won't acknowledge me as a real student in this university! Jackarse!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, passionately. "Please, call me Arthur."

(Oh, now this was just unfair, Francis mused with a bit of a sneer. How come he couldn't get the nice pleasantries and name-offers? Arthur and him, they were just as good as best friends—albeit, best friends that fight all the time and actually have very little in common. But best friends all the same!)

"Oh, you would like that wouldn't you?" Peter replied haughtily, crossing his arms and sniffing. The Frenchman cocked an eyebrow, appraising the boy with his imagination's X-ray vision.

And, then he winced, pinching himself violently. This kid couldn't have been more than, like, thirteen or twelve—Francis only worked on almost legal, sorry. Oh, and speaking of working and legal, "How are you working here, kid?" he asked suddenly, tucking a loose lock of his luscious hair behind an ear. "Aren't you, well, beyond underage?"

The blond boy just about broke his neck to look at him. "Who told you?!" he hissed, thrusting out his pencil as though it were phallic and Francis were somehow a pedophile. If he grew up a few more years in, like, five seconds—then hell yes Francis would be interested like it's a soufflé.

"Peter," Arthur stated sternly, rapping his fingers against the wooden tabletop. "Could you please get my tea and my crumpets? Please?"

"You want your bloody tea and crumpets, eh?" the Sealander tipped his silly little hat up on his brow and stuck out his tongue. "I'll get you some tea and crumpets, wanker." He pivoted on his heel and stomped away, fuming all the while.

"Wow," Francis started, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "You associate with the weirdest people." i.e. Alfred F. Jones, the secondary point of this whole seduction mission. (He sees aliens, he says.)

"I actually do not know who the bloody hell that kid is," Arthur replied with a small shrug. "I just read his nametag."

"How do you not know who he is? He's the only Sealander on campus, even if he's not a student and really just hangs around for…for you, actually. Huh." Francis had never seen it that way before. Maybe the kid had a tasteless crush?

"Sealand is a country?"

"Yes!" Peter screamed from somewhere in the back, and Francis came to the conclusion that the Atlantic Ocean makes you have super hearing, because all those United Kingdom dwellers can hear a dog's bark cities away.

But, actually, this was unimportant.

"Arthur," Francis began with a sigh, looking down at the tabletop. "There is a reason that I brought you here—and it wasn't for lunch."

The British man cocked an eyebrow (and Francis almost killed himself), frowning. "I suspected as much, twit," he retorted, huffing. "In fact, I bet you brought me here so you could attempt to seduce me in a way to get close to Alfred which manages to get you close to Toris, wherein you would dump me as soon as your mission was completed—of which such an elaborate plan was not thought of by you as much as it was by the not-so-resident evil mastermind Ivan Braginksi. Am I right?"

What the hell. The long-haired man was frozen in motion, his words caught in his throat like a bad session of oral sex. Was Arthur a freaking psychic or something—or was it his invisible friends that were giving out all of this classified information?

"N-no," he managed to rasp out, smiling shakily. "I, I brought you here, because…because…" Oh God (and he was atheist too), there was only one way to solve this while still managing to throw off Arthur's incredibly accurate theory. "Because…I want you to go out with me!"

"What." Arthur sat there with wide eyes and a gape, hands stilling on the tabletop.

Francis smiled harder, grabbing the younger man's hand. "Yes!" he insisted, nodding. "I want to become your homosexual lover, so we can do homosexual things. Like, uh, make out and hang out with Alfred and Toris." Yes, Francis, very inconspicuous. He hated his big mouth sometimes.

"…" Arthur's Eyebrows rose to his hairline—even though they didn't have to make a lengthy trip—and he blinked. "You're bloody insane. I'd even say drugs, but even I think a little too highly of you for that."

Aww, he thinks highly of Francis. Or something. "I'm not insane—I'm in love!" he proclaimed, squeezing the surprisingly soft palm in his hand. "With you—so, please, be gay with me?"

"Ah." Arthur brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat in true British manner. "Security!" he exclaimed, snatching his hand away from his French associate. "Se-Security! I'm being verbally molested!"

Francis rolled his eyes, because obviously this guy was a newbie at false accusations. "It's not verbal molestation unless I talk about how much I'd like to rub whip cream down the depression of your hips and how I want to lick it all off from the top of your stomach to the tip of your co—" A hand clamped tightly on his shoulder, and he froze in motion. Maybe Arthur wasn't nearly as much of a newbie as he once suspected. "Hey…Officer."

"Evenin', Bonnefoy."

Why must his life be so full of obstacles? Can't anything go his way for once?

"You're bonkers, Frank," Arthur commented with a victorious (yet disgusted) expression. He stood up. "See you in a few days. That is—if someone posts bail."

Right. Francis gulped, looking into the shadowed eyes of the police officer that held his shoulder tightly.

If someone posts bail.

(It's going to be a long night.)

Well, it wasn't that long, to be truthful, as Francis fell asleep the moment he got bored of scratching the Roman numeral "XXVIII" into the wall and reading his favorite jail-time novel—Les Miserables. (It's his favorite because it's French, and everything French is great.) (Except for French Fries—false advertisement to the nth degree, he would say!)

One fact about Victor Hugo: It doesn't matter how interesting the book might be—there is still a high chance that you fall asleep after reading chapter five.

And so, Francis dreamt of a world where everyone is French, sexy (well, if they are French, then that was a given), and imminently bisexual. In his world, wine laced the clouds and nobody rejected his advances—not even Ludwig. (And that is how he knew it was a dream.)

"Hey, Bonnefoy," and there was a lovely grating bang on the prison bars, successfully interrupting the part where the Frenchman played Xylophone on Ludwig's twelve-pack abs. "Bonnefoy!"

"Yes, officer?" Francis asked tersely, his blue eyes snapping open. "You've interrupted my wet dream—and you weren't even in it yet! I hope you are happy."

The police officer, whom of which was much too used to these sort of things, rolled his shadowed eyes. "You're out," he replied with a shrug, poking a key through the keyhole on the barred slammer. "Guess the British aren't that bad, huh?"

"What?"

Arthur stepped from behind the police officer, flipping a jaunty wave. "Good day," he greeted sarcastically. "My name is Arthur Kirkland, and I'll be your waiter for the evening." He smiled. "Would you like to get the hell out of jail now or a raincheck on that?"

"I knew you loved me deep, deep, deep inside of your cold, unfeeling British bastardly soul!" Francis proclaimed with a grin, holding out his arms in the motions of a hug as he hopped out of his comfortable jail cell bed.

The English student sidestepped his attempted embrace, sneering. "I'll take that as a 'you'd like to get your oversexed arse out of jail now,' without the card?" His eyebrows moved a little as he chuckled, and Francis had the itching feeling that those unnecessarily thick patches of facial hair might be part of a big conspiracy.

(And, for the true, honest record: He kind of hated it when he was right.)

"Although," Arthur continued, eyeing his cell. "I'm sure it should be sad that you have a reserved cell in the county slammer."

Francis shrugged, fixing his blue shirt collar. Maybe he shouldn't've worn the red pants today—he felt rather tacky, to be honest. "I'm just a very popular person," he replied cockily. "You should already know this."

"Surely." Arthur rolled his green eyes, crossing his arms. "But, don't think I'm not on to you Frank. How could you want to suddenly date me when just last week you drugged my tea in an attempt to shave off my eyebrows?"

"Once again: I was doing the world a favor," Francis replied, flipping loose strands of wavy blond hair from the way of his eyes. "Do you look in the mirror with those things? Or, does the mirror break before you can actually get a good gander? Because, monsieur, those are not sexy." Anti-sexy, in fact. "And, besides, why can't you just believe that I might be in love with you and finally decided to act on it after all these years?"

Arthur looked at him one time, and Francis had all the answers to his questions. And, none of those answers were in his favor, surprisingly enough (that was sarcasm, as he picked up from overexposure to the stupide Anglais).

"I hate you, Arty."

"We'll discuss this further at my place, with tea."

"So, yeah, first off: Blame Ivan Braginski." Francis began, sipping his tea daintily. That was, quite possibly, the only thing Arthur was good for, because his cooking was disgusting, and he was no fashion designer—the least he could do is make a good cup of tea. He sipped it again. And damn good it was, too! "I swear to God, I had nothing to do with his nefarious plan of Russian-brand evil."

"Aren't you atheist?" Arthur asked, nursing his own small cup. "I mean, since you're calling on my Protestant Lord and such."

"Sometimes I believe in God," the older man replied. "It varies on whether or not I'm going to die. And, hey, look at me! I do believe I have about seven days remaining in this world." He sighed overdramatically, crossing his legs. "When I go to that beautiful honeymoon suite in the sky—I want you to take all of my belongings and burn them, because otherwise you are not good-looking enough to hold them. But, maybe you can give them to Matthew, since he's almost as beautiful as me, if he would ditch the glasses!" He was referring to his cutlery, by the way.

His old-time rival shrugged. "I'll just toss everything out the window, then," he replied with a terse smile. "French twat."

"English bastard." Francis swallowed down another gulp of tea. "Well, I'll tell you now, since the tension's killing me—but Braginski's already got dibs on my life, so let's get this over with." He sighed. "The Russian Monster Who Shall Not Be Named, also known as Ivan Braginski, put me up to this." His golden eyebrows furrowed, and he brought a hand to smooth out the forming wrinkles. "He told me to seduce you, so I can get close to Alfred, and so I can get close to Toris."

"…What." Arthur really needed to stop with those statement-questions that he's so fond of. "So I was actually right? That was the plan? That is why I wasted thirty minutes of my life bantering with you about love and how you suck at it?"

"Suck at love? I, I am French, you ignorant man!" Francis was very affronted. "French is the language of—"

"Romance, I know." Arthur deadpanned, snorting. Francis wondered where the crybaby of his childhood went, and when did this jaded asshole take his place? Oh, right, secondary school. "Why didn't you just go to Toris himself? The good Lord knows that he obviously does more than go to class, cook, clean, and play Monopoly with Alfred and Feliks."

"I, I," never thought of that, he wanted to say, but that would make him seem like an idiot. Which he is not. (But, now he is beginning to doubt himself.) "Ivan gave me specific instructions." A lame excuse, but effective all the same.

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. Francis resisted the urge to cower. "What I don't understand is why everyone is so bloody scared of Ivan Braginski—I mean, I did hear the rumors that he beat down a man with a broken water pipe, and that he attempted a coup d'état of the headmaster in the Dean of Education's office."

"Oh, ma Cherie," Francis murmured, reaching over and placing a hand on his associate's shoulder. "You are still so young, with very little knowledge despite your Political Theory major—the rumors get worst."

And, then his phone went off in his pocket, blaring the ever-popular La Marseillaise as it's ringing tone. He pulled it out with a flamboyant flick of the wrist and answered it. "Oui, oui?" he greeted in his seduction-voice.

"Hey, Bonnefoy!" Ivan replied cheerfully.

And, then Francis paled. "B-bonjour," he said quietly. "So. Um. How are you?"

"Just fine—heartbroken, but just fine." The unnaturally high voice of the man sounded rather down, and Francis quickly squashed the feeling of compassion that rose in his heart for the Russian demon. "So, have you seduced Arthur Kirkland, yet?"

"…About that," the French student replied slowly, blue eyes darting to the interested visage of Arthur. "Well, I mean, I don't think the plan—"

"Because if you haven't," Ivan continued with a tone of voice that just screamed he was smiling. "I feel sad that I will have to revisit that university campus so we can rework the plan so that it fits your wants more. Yes?"

It was very manly to cry, Francis decided as a tear threatened to leak from his eye. "Arthur and I could not be gayer," he finally said with a lump in his throat. Eww, him and Arthur—it still wasn't sexy, no matter how hard he tried to give it reason.

"What?" Arthur hissed, placing his tea on a saucer in outrage. "What are you saying, dimwit?!"

"That's great!" Ivan exclaimed jovially. "Now I'm closer to finding out if Toris still loves me—you're a great man, Bonnefoy."

"Merci," Francis said, letting the tear escape down his pale cheek.

"Oh, and, let me talk to Kirkland, would you please?" the Russian man asked kindly—but Francis knew that the kindness was but a façade meant to scare the living daylights out of him. Amazingly, it was working.

The long-haired man held out his phone to Arthur, rubbing his stubble nervously. "Ivan Braginski wants to talk to you, amoureux," he said.

"Ivan Braginski!" Arthur sniffed in offense, snatching the phone from him. "Mr. Braginski, a good day to you." He cleared his throat haughtily. "I'd like to begin with why are you going through with this arse-over-elbow plan? Why not just ask Toris yoursel—what? Kolkol-kol?" His eyes widened. "You're going to do what to my teacup collection? And my War of 1812 paraphernalia? Well, why don't you just go for my secret scones recipe as well!" He gaped. "What do you mean you don't really want my secret scones recipe? I dare say that they are delicious!"

"If you were dead," Francis couldn't help but comment. "And, like, not alive to actually taste them."

He was ignored, passionately. "Well, I—oh." Arthur quieted down immediately. "I understand." He looked like he wanted to crawl into his bed and never come out—a common effect of being on the end of a conversation with the deadliest weapon the Soviet Union could've ever invented, even without the nuclear rage. "Um. Okay. Goodbye?"

The phone was tossed back to Francis, who caught it with nimble fingers. "So…" he started, curious. "What'd he say to you?"

"Things that I never want to hear in my life ever again." Arthur pinched his nose, sighing heavily and picking back up his cup of tea. "For the record, I don't do PDA with Frenchmen."

End of the Hundred Years' War

I lovelovelove writing Francis. :D Lovelovelovelove. It's like all the extra gay that was plugged inside of me with no way to get out was channeled into my fingers and writing Francis was so much fun I feel sad that the next chapter is not in his POV. D:

History~ So much history, and it's my bedtime. D: Um, well, the Hundred Years' War, which was really a battle between the nobles of French society but then the British joined in and stuff and yeah. I can't name too much stuff because I'm getting sleepy at this point, so I'll just compile it all in the last chapter. :D Siesta is German for LAZY BASTARD WOO!

Thanks for all of your support, btw! :D You all make me love Universitalia moar than I really should. :D