Author's note:

Well, so my mind has been all hyper on Hetalia fics, and now another abomination has been born out of it. This one's takes place during dear Arthur's pirate-days. Um, yeah, I use their human names at most times. Enjoy! Or don't. Do what you want to. Except for flaming; this is a no-flame zone.

Hoist the colours

Arthur Kirkland; feared pirate, well-versed dark magician, the living personification of England. I am all those things. I'm ruthless, and is seldom the loosing party of a battle. My ship; Destiny, is one of the finest ships to have sailed the seas. Many pleasures await a privateer like myself, only waiting to be conquered; and yet, I'm bored. Rum and easy women can only amuse you for so long. In time, the rum looses its influence, and the women stop being interesting to me. My years are adding up; without a chance of ending anytime soon. I'm stuck in a never-ending circle; a circle that is threatening to drive me insane.I take a sip of tea, slowly letting it swirl over my taste buds before I let it down my throat. This procedure takes much longer than it needs to; in this rate, the tea will be cold before I'm done with it. However; it takes my mind off things, allows me to feel like a mortal for a while. I shouldn't long to be merely an ordinary human being, shouldn't think I'd be content with a life as short as theirs. One life passes by in the blink of an eye. I've spent time among them; lost many dear friends to the hands of faith. I have loved them; but those I loved was snatched away by disease and time. Time and time again, I have lost what's been dear to me. Even my woman seized to be. She was beautiful. For her; I'd given my life, as long as I could wait for her beyond death. That's not how it works...

I bury my head in my hands, almost knocking over the tea in the process. Small droplets splash onto my sleeves, a problem I decide to ignore for now. Someone is headed towards my cabin; the sound of boots against wood is one that I've gotten used to during my days of commanding this ship. I expect the visitor to knock; they always do, and is therefore taken aback when my door is bluntly opened and one of my men stumbles in.

"What is the meaning of this, Davies?" I growl, removing my hands so I can watch the nervous man.

"T-terribly s-sorry captain." Davies' a sweet young man, it's a pity that his voice doesn't go with the rest of him. His skin is dark as the night, as his hair, but his eyes sparkle like gems in the sun. Those who doesn't know him are often frightened; something that changes as soon as he speak a word. The unfortunate voice is high-pitched, I think he's mentioned something about a eunuch being part of it, and he stutters when he's nervous or exited.

"We've f-found a m-man, s-sir."

"A man?" I repeat, swiftly fighting down the flare of interest that nearly overwhelms me.

"I-in the ocean." Davies clarifies. "I think you should see him, captain." he adds, boldly. A thing I've noticed about Davies is this habit his stutter has; it disappears at own will, and returns just as easily.

"I understand that, Davies." I snarl. I'll admit it, I can have an awful temper at times, often much to my own dismay. "Where is he?"

"Up on deck. You might find him… interesting." there is a tone in Davies voice that I don't really like. A man pulled out of the ocean is interesting without doubt. They must have ended up in the ocean in some way, and the stories vary.

I allow Davies to lead the way through the narrow paths that are just wide enough for an average built man to move through without problem. The only light comes from the lantern Davies is carrying, and we have to tread carefully; not seldom someone's fallen asleep on the way to his bed, and his friends' left him. No one's there this time, so we make our way quite swiftly, save for the sticky thing that is now stuck on my left boot. The sunlight hits me; it's like staring straight into a bright fire, and I immediately wish I wasn't wearing such heavy clothes. I instinctively cover my eyes to ease the burning pain. They need a few minutes to calm down, a side-effect of my habit of staying indoors most of the time. I should probably get out more often. As soon as the light doesn't send jolts of pain through my eyes, I remove my hands and study the man lying on 's ghastly pale, with dark shadows underneath his eyes, as if he hasn't gotten any sleep in a month of nights. Despite this; there is no denying that he's a very handsome man. He looks no older than twenty, but it's hard to tell when he's unconscious. Some of his hair; blonde, but wet, is tumbled about over his face; and I'm overwhelmed by the urge to push it away, or to touch his smooth skin. What is the matter with me? Someone has covered him with a blanket, a tattered thing that's probably not helping at all.

"Has he said anything?" I ask no one In particular, mesmerised by this stranger.

"No sir." one of my men answers; I don't even bother to take notice who it is. "He was like this when we found him."

"Is there any shore nearby?"

"No, captain. We're three days from land."

"Has any ships been sighted?"

"No, sir."

I sit down next to the stranger, tipping my hat before speaking; "Where are you from?" I wince at my hoarse voice.

Faintly, just loud enough for me to hear, he answers, his eyelids fluttering but not opening his eyes fully. "Victoire." he whispers. The word is unfamiliar, foreign, to me. It almost sounds like…

"Pierre." I bark. "You're French. Come over here." The boy scramble to my side and glances nervously at me. "Don't worry, I don't bite. Just ask who he is."

"Bonjour monsieur. Je m'appelle Pierre, et vous êtes ?" Pierre speak in rapid French.

"Je suis Francis Bonnefoy."I may not speak French, but I can make out that this is his name. Francis… It sounds kind of nice, smooth in my brain, there's no better way to explain it. Would it feel as nice if I say it?

"Ask Francis-" It does feel smooth rolling over my tongue. Like tea with honey and a hint of rum. "Ask Francis if he speaks English."

"I speak it." Francis tries to sit up, pulling a face when he moves. "Who are you?"

"Arthur Kirkland, captain of this ship."

To my amazement, Francis chuckles weakly, finally opening his eyes, revealing the colour of the ocean in them. "I have heard of you, Artur. Or should I say England?"

"How did you know what I am?" I ask, pacing back and forth over the floor of my cabin.

"Hon hon hon hon." Francis laughs, a simply ridiculous laugh for that man. "I'm like you, Artur. You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"

I don't realise he's asked me a question at first, I'm to busy trying to decipher his curious accent. "So…" I manage to say. "You're the personification of-"

"France." a tingling sensation spread over my entire being when he speaks with me. I knew there were others like me; I've battled several. But this man is the first not to try and defeat me and my crew. None has taken the time to talk to me before.

"How come I hadn't heard of you?" I sit down opposite of him, staring at the blonde French.

"Je ne sais pas. Perhaps you didn't listen properly." Francis smirks at me, almost seductively, leaning towards me over the table. "Tell me, Angleterre. Are you sure you don't remember hearing my name before?"

The sails are ripped and dirty, the crew pale and frightfully thin. It seems a sudden gust of wind would rip them apart. Their leader is just as horrid-looking, a tall man in a cloak as red as blood.

"Surrender now; and your crew will be spared." I call to him, allowing a smirk to dart across my lips. They wouldn't stand a chance to my forces.

"Never!" the man yell back at me; eyes ablaze.

After the battle, the deck is tinged red with blood. The cloaked man lies tossed at the wooden boards, the cloak dark with wet blood. I inspect those of his men that have fallen, to see if anyone's still alive. It seems they weren't so lucky. There's only one man still breathing, his long hair soaked with his own blood. He shouldn't have survived such damage. Somehow, he manage to get to his feet, licking blood from his own lips.

"Who are you?" I gasp.

"Francis Bonnefoy." he grins with bloodstained teeth. "Don't forget me, Arthur Kirkland. Never forget." then he catch me by surprise, jumping over the railing and into the stirring ocean. I'm left staring into the waves, squinting at his sinking form.

"So you do remember?" Francis smiles, closer now than I recall him being.

"I do." I whisper, pulling back from him. "I never understood what you were back then."

Francis extends an hand, latching onto my arm. "Not many would." he roughly pulls me back to where I was before. "Not even you, Angleterre." We're dangerously close to each other now, our noses almost touching at this point.

"Francis…" I mumble; his eyes staring into mine making me dizzy. "What are-"

"I asked you not to forget me, didn't I?" Francis' voice is light as a butterfly.

"You did." I admit. Those beautiful blue eyes are making my heart beat rapidly, and I'm strangely taken by a stroke of guilt. I did forget him. "I'm sorry."

"It was quite some time ago. Maybe this will help you remember me this time." his lips brush awkwardly against mine with every word. Leaning ever so slightly closer, they're pressed against my lips with a force I hadn't expected. Not that I have anything against it. He slips his tongue over my lower lip before pulling away from me. When he does so; a low, disappointed sound escape me.

"Don't forget me this time, mon Angleterre." he winks flirtatiously before exiting my cabin.

Author's note:

So? Hate it? Like it? Tell me please. But don't say something about it not being historically correct; because I haven't tried writing it according to history at all. I'm quite new at writing Hetalia, and especially FrUK. I would love tips on how to improve my writing.