My Papa's Waltz

Rating: K+

Warning: Cuteness, fluff, minor cursing, minor hints

Info Line: There's nothing Matthew loves more than when his papa comes home. *FACE family AU*

The poem that inspired me is "My Papa's Waltz" by Theodore Roethke. It's a really nice father-son poem that I first heard last school year. My birthday was two days ago, so this is like a late birthday present to myself. ^^ P.S. I don't own the freaking adorable series that is Hetalia.

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

Matthew sat on the couch in his nightgown, holding Kumajirou close to his chest, violet eyes trained on the front door expectedly. It was late, and the stars seemed to twinkle like the single diamond in his fathers' wedding rings.

"When will Papa be home?" He asked Arthur, who looked up from his novel on Elizabeth I.

"I don't know Matthew. He told me that he was drinking with some friends from work, but all he is now is late." his dad's articulate British accent always gave the young boy the impression that he was a man of knowledge, which he had to be, considering the fact that he was a college English literature professor.

Matthew bounced on the sofa, eagerly turning his eyes back to the door. Alfred would've been waiting with him, but then in the afternoon there had been the situation of his brother on the roof of the house wearing Arthur's old pirate outfit, and Alfred was promptly banished to their shared bedroom for the night.

He heard the soft squeak of the tires as they rolled into the driveway and perked up at once. "He's home Kuma," he whispered to his cuddly polar bear.

"What Matthew?"

"Papa's home." The child's eyes lit up with affection as they stared at the door.

Arthur looked at the door and huffed. "About bloody time; your papa's always late, although he calls it 'fashionably late'." He gave a derisive snort. "Doesn't matter what you call it, late is late. It's a wonder he made it to our wedding on time."

His dad's mini-tirade was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the doorknob and a merry whistle rang through the house as the door opened, revealing a slightly ruffled Francis with a grin on his face and swaying back and forth.

"Arthur, mon cher!" he called out joyfully, "I'm hoooooommeeee…!"

"You're late," Arthur snapped irritably, continuing to read his novel.

"Ahhh~ But Arthur, it was such a fun time with Gil and Toniiii that I just couldn't leave." His papa laughed brightly, like he was in the middle of a fairy dance, his wavy blond hair sashaying along with it.

Matthew called out to him softly before Arthur could start in on him, "Papa, welcome home."

Pausing in his laughter, his papa turned and deep cerulean eyes met his own violet orbs, "Maaathieeeuu!" His French accent was soothing to the little boy. Rushing over at once, he lifted his son onto his feet and enveloped his small hands with his own, placing his bear on the sofa. "Come my little Mathieu," he cooed.

"Francis!" Arthur hissed, looking up from his book with a warning look.

Francis gave Arthur a wink and grinned down at Matthew. "Let Papa show you a dance he learned in his youth."

The smell of wine issued from his breath, swirling around Matthew like heady clouds as he slipped his hands inside Francis's, "Ok."

Francis threw back his head and let out the same bright laugh as before. "Perfect! And awaaaay we gooo~"

And then they were off, Francis leading the way in a lively dance. At first Matthew pouted. He had never danced this kind of dance, and the steps were proving to be very complicated for his young mind. But he had faith in his papa; after all, he knew that Francis would never let anything bad happen to him.

Well, there was that one time when Francis had taken him grocery shopping and left him in the parking lot because he had been too busy arguing with Arthur, but only a few minutes later, he had come back for him and swept him into his arms, bestowing many French kisses upon his cheeks to clear away the tears.

So Matthew held on tight, face level to the bottom half of Francis's shirt, which was wrinkled despite having been ironed by Arthur that morning.

Francis smiled down upon him approvingly. "That's it my little one," he crooned, "you're getting the hang of it, and much better than Alfred at that."

"Don't bring Alfred into this you bloody tool," Arthur turned a page in his book like he wanted to slap it. "It's not his fault he can't sit still for five seconds."

"Always so protective of him, hm?" Francis tipped back his head and laughed, still stepping forward and back in time with the song he was playing in his mind.

A twinkle entered his papa's eyes and he quickened the pace. "I learned this dance when I was young back home in Paris, and I think you have my natural talent!"

Matthew's face heated up in a blush. His papa thought that he had natural talent—him, the little boy who was always overshadowed by his twin brother. He treasured this time alone with his parents, when it was just the three of them.

"Your natural talent?" his dad's voice cut across them like one of Gordon Ramsey's knives. "Don't be daft. You have about as much talent as a teaspoon."

"The things we judge others on are things we see in ourselves," Francis said lightly while Arthur cursed under his breath.

"Pay your dad no mind Mathieu," Francis twirled him around the room in a circle, watching his nightgown flare out and swirl about him, a cloud of creamy white, "he doesn't understand the marvelous dancing skills of moi."

And then he stopped talking and started singing, belting out melody lines in a strong voice, moving faster and faster through the music.

His dark brown loafers stomped around the living room, making it shake and stir like a tribal folk dance. Francis looked down at his son and a light entered his eyes that had nothing to do with the wine he drank.

Sparkles danced in violet orbs as the little boy tried his best to keep up with the tempo, letting the vibrant emotions fill up inside of him like a warm cup of hot chocolate. Francis swung him out and then brought him back in, making Matthew accidentally graze his ear against the shiny belt buckle.

His papa's laugh was husky, warm, and infectious, and his own laughter soon joined in. Pots and pans could be heard sliding off their places and clattering to the floors with a metal clang that vibrated through the walls, and Matthew didn't care about any of it.

His dad looked up from his novel at the sound and the frown on his face seemed permanently fixed on his face. "Francis," he growled warningly, "if you don't stop that maniacal dancing right now, I'll be forced to call the police for unnecessary frivolity."

But the two dancers didn't care about what he thought, and they continued their energetic romp around the living room.

"There's nothing wrong with having a little fun in your life, mon cher!" Francis called while spinning himself around, holding onto Matthew's hands as his son's face gleamed with glee. "There was nothing wrong with what we did last niiiight!"

Arthur's face flushed the same color of a red rose as he glared at Francis, a silent don't you dare mention that around Matthew, you foppish twit. When he realized that Francis paid no attention to him, he gave them a sour look and went back to his book.

A few minutes later, his eyes peeked up to watch his husband and son as they danced, and a little smile traced his lips while he did so.

The fluid movements were hypnotic in their execution—1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3—as they continued their waltz. They swirled as if they were at a ball surrounded by other dancers, gown skirts flaring out and coattails flapping.

An image came to Matthew's mind, one that reminded him of one of Alfred's many Disney movies.

His papa was a king; he, the prince. And papa wasn't wearing the rumpled clothes he wore now, no; he was wearing a regal suit made of deep cerulean that made his eyes sparkle, with white brocade and a white puffed ascot tie and shining black loafers. His hair was tied back in a ponytail with a glimmering cerulean ribbon, looking down with fatherly affection at his little prince.

A joyful light appeared in Matthew's eyes. He was no longer wearing his nightgown. Instead, he was wearing a blue-violet suit that brought out the shade of his eyes, and his ascot tie, black in comparison, was smooth and accentuated by a single diamond broach while white loafers danced the steps Francis was leading him in.

They neared the final notes of the song, and Francis's eyes sparked. Suddenly releasing Matthew's hands he held his son's waist and lifted him into the air, twirling him around in a circle.

Gasping at the surprise, Matthew dared to do something new. Throwing his head back to emulate his papa, he let out a laugh that sounded nothing like him. He sounded like Alfred—unafraid, adventurous, and so sure of himself that he was a little afraid. But that fear gave way to something much more worth it—exhilaration.

As the imaginary song slowed in tempo, his papa's humming slowed as well, twirling Matthew in slower, spiraling circles until he landed on the floor as the last notes of the melody faded away.

No words were needed as Matthew and Francis looked at each other, beaming with bright smiles and sparkling eyes.

A large, warm hand patted Matthew's head, "Mathieu, mon cher, it's time for bed."

"N-non, papa, I-I want to s-stay up with…" a huge yawn broke his sentence, "…y-you…"

Francis chuckled and scooped his son into his arms, feeling little hands fist his rumpled shirt. "Come Mathieu, say good night to your dad." He walked over to Arthur, who handed Matthew his bear without looking up.

"Good…night dad." Matthew's head drooped against Francis's chest and his eyes slowly closed.

Arthur looked at him with a soft smile, "Good night Matthew." He glared at Francis, "You'll be picking up the fallen pans when you get back."

"Oui, Arthur." Giving his husband a quick peck on the cheek (receiving a squeak of surprise in turn), he swept through the living room (a little disoriented since he was still tipsy) and started up the stairs. Matthew's hands still clung to his shirt, and the gleaming ballroom twinkled behind them.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Ain't that adorable? It's about time that I posted something; it's been forever! Reviews are love, so if you press that little button over there, Puss In Boots will present you with a round of whole leche. :D

Translations

Mon cher – my dear (masculine)

Moi - me

Non – no

Oui – yes