Disclaimer: DON'T OWE HETALIA. SERIOUSLY.

Prennant Abus

A man stood before the kitchen sink, his golden waves pulled back in a ponytail and his arms deep in filthy water. A few loose strands of blonde fell about his face. He wore an apron, tied tightly just above his hips, over a pale button-down shirt and faded jeans. Fiercely, he scrubbed pots and pans clean, rinsed them, and set them aside. A menial task, but it grabbed his attention and forced him to avoid trecherous thoughts.

He worked with such a single-mindedness and was so intent on his work that he didn't hear the door open, nor the heavy boots on the tile. As two arms wrapped around his waist, his handsome face changed briefly into an expression of shock. Then he composed himself and relaxed. The Frenchman turned his head and let the other man capture his lips in a brief kiss.

"Salut, Arthur," he mumbled, setting the plate he was scrubbing down into the tinted water.

"Mm... Hello, Francis," Arthur replied, smiling warmly. A perfect picture. But yet the man named Francis looked apprehensive, worried, and when the other man released him, his shoulders slumped slightly as if he had been restraining himself.

"How was your day?" Francis asked softly, picking up the crusty plate again and resuming his washing. Arthur began a detailed account of how awful it was, how tough it was, and Francis listened politely, nodding carefully and in appropriate places.

"But now I'm home," the man concluded with a warm smile, "Have you started supper?"

"Not yet," Francis said, and his back stiffened slightly as the other man's brow furrowed, "I was going to begin it after I finished with these dishes, love..."

"Ah, it doesn't matter," Arthur said, and Francis visibly relaxed.

"I'm almost done," Francis added encouragingly, "I wanted to clear away this mess first-"

"I really don't care," Arthur said shortly, and Francis fell silent. He turned. "I'll be in the parlor when supper is prepared," he said, and he walked away. Francis listened to his footfalls as they disappeared, and he relaxed. He finished scrubbing the plate and set it aside, before draining the sink and washing his hands. Then he went to the refrigerator and fetched an armful of supplies. A styrofoam pan of bloody meat, vibrant peppers, a plump eggplant, a vine of tomatoes. He set these down beside the stove and hurried about the kitchen, finding pots and pans and utensils. The oven was turned on, tomatoes chopped coarsely and tossed into a small pot on a burner. Basil was sliced into small bits and tossed in as well, and minced garlic. It was stirred hastily, and the package of red meat was opened. A pan screamed as oil was poured in. Then a wide steak was seasoned, tossed against the hot steel. It screamed against the heat. A pot was fillled with water and set to room was filled with the loud sizzle and aroma of the cooking meat.

With one almost clean hand, the blonde man brushed his hair from his face and hastened to chop the colorful bells of the peppers. It seemed as though he had perfect mastery over everything in the kitchen. One hand stirred the cooking tomatoes, olive oil was added into the mixture, and it was stirred again. Salt was added to the water, and ziti as well. The meat was flipped so the firm, browned side was facing up and releasing its warm fragrances. His nimble hands, so expert, worked their magic on each aspect of the cooking meal. Yet nothing could disguise the faint trace of a tear as it trickled down his pale cheek. He didn't try to brush it away; he was too busy trying to finish his lover's meal. And the tomatoes turned to paste, and the meat sang its song of finale. It was relieved of its duty in the pan, placed quickly on a platter and sliced into small chunks, and the vibrant strips of peppers took its place in the skillet. They sizzled and popped as they hit the small amount of leftover greases. The tomato sauce was stirred, as was the pasta. Then a small hollow noodle was caught with the wooden spoon. It was tested, deemed al dente, and the pot was whisked to the sink, where a sieve rested in the drain. The man's face was calm, but nothing could disguise the look of worry and anguish in his eyes. A great cloud of steam rose to the lights as he emptied the pot's contents into the strainer. The sauce was stirred again, the peppers were sauteed.

His hands worked quickly, and soon a pasta dish was laid out on a plate, garnished with a small leaf of basil. He sighed, his head tilting back to bare his pale throat for just a moment. Then he washed his hands, disposed of the rubbish left over, and wiped his eyes. Putting on a serene smile, the young blonde entered the parlor. His lover was stretched out on the couch, his boots kicked off carelessly at the foot of the furniture. Francis set the plate down on the coffee table, and the man looked up.

"Oh, you've finished. Excellent," he said simply.

Francis nodded. "I hope you like it." He collected the heavy boots and set them against the wall neatly before turning to leave.

"Where are you going? Why don't you sit here with me?" Arthur asked.

"I was going to prepare my own supper," Francis began, but he turned and sat down in a chair, across from the other man.

Arthur began to eat, glancing up every so often at the slender man.

"Well, you don't need to look so distressed," he said coldly, "If you really don't want to be in my presence, you might as well leave."

"It's not that, Arthur, really-" Francis began.

"Will you stop it!" he snapped, making the slighter man cringe, "I know how you work, damnit! Don't think I don't see those disdainful looks you give me when you think I'm not looking!"

"Please, Arthur, it's not like that-!"

"Damnit, Francis, why?" he snapped, slamming the plate down. The other man shrunk back in his chair fearfully as the man stood and approached him.

"Please, don't, Arthur-"

"After all I've done for you, you ungrateful bitch!" he roared. He loomed over his lover threateningly, his hand raised. The slender blonde looked so pitiful now, his cheeks damp with frightened tears, his hair messy and wild about his face, arms raised as if that alone would save him.

Arthur lowered his arm. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "I lost control of my temper." His blonde lover slowly straightened out.

"I... I'm sorry. This was my fault..." Francis whimpered.

"Don't always blame yourself," Arthur said bitterly. His face was unreadable. Then he turned. "I'm going to take a shower. Clean this up." Francis nodded and brushed his hair behind his ear with trembling fingers before hurrying to the kitchen to fetch a towel. He heard Arthur tramp up the stairs. When he reached the top, he turned and entered their room. Francis sunk to his knees, and his shoulders seized violently as he sobbed. He clutched himself tightly and drew his body into a smaller shape. He looked so pitable, curled up on kitchen tile. How, or rather, why, had such a beautiful being been so ruined by another's hand?

He walked into the parlor and cleaned up the mess from Arthur's fit, trying to hide the evidence of his breakdown and restoring the peaceful tranquility of the house. Soon, everything was in order again, as if nothing happened. It was a natural thing now, reoccuring.

"Francis!" His shout echoed through the house, and the slender blonde hurried to the stairs.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Come join me," he instructed.

"Coming," Francis said, feeling his vulnerability more keenly now. Up the stairs, around the corner, down the hall... His eyes never left the carpet until he saw tile, and he looked up. Arthur was undressed, waiting patiently.

"Come over here, Francis," he whispered softly. It was a complete change from before, and it was not without suspicion that the young man approach his partner. Nimble fingers released him from his apron and shirt, and soon, his worn-out jeans joined them. The smaller man stripped his lover entirely, before leaning up for a gentle kiss. Francis returned his affections, his lips trembling slightly.

"You don't need to be afraid anymore, Francis," Arthur whispered, pressing a hand to the other's stomach gently, "I promise it won't happen again." But Francis couldn't quell his shaking, despite what he tried. Arthur offered a tight-lipped smile and led his blonde lover into the shower. Warm water cascaded down their backs and chest. Tentative lips met strong, sure ones, and strong hands drew a lean body to a muscled one.

"You know I love you, Francis," Arthur whispered, cupping his cheek with one broad hand, "I never mean it when I get angry, I promise."

"I know," Francis whispered, letting the lies fall from his mouth with practiced ease, "I know you don't, Arthur." Arthur smiled.

"Good boy," he murmured before kissing him again. Then Francis began to wash his back, his shoulders, his chest. His hand with the bar of soap strayed to the other man's firm, toned stomach. Arthur smiled softly.

"You're such a good boyfriend, Francis," he murmured, reaching up. His hand ghosted over the blonde's cheek.

"Not nearly as good as you, Arthur," the other man whispered mechanically, moving to wash his back.

"... Am I?" the shorter man asked softly.

"Mm hm," Francis replied, massaging his taut back. The man relaxed and did not argue any longer. The lean fingers danced across Arthur's back, still, working reflexively. How many times had he been in this predicament before? He had lost count.

"You're the best I could ask for," Francis said softly, rubbing his shoulders gently. Arthur sighed faintly, his body relaxing in his lover's grip.

"You're so sweet, Francis," he murmured, "I love you for that."

"I... I love you too," Francis faltered. The skin beneath his fingertips became taut as the man's muscles contracted.

"... You don't need to say it if you don't mean it," he said, his voice becoming colder. Francis shivered, and his body tensed up.

"I do mean it, Arthur, I swear. I love you. I love you alot." The man didn't reply, and his lover bit his lip nervously. "Arthur-"

"Shut up." Francis flinched. The water had soaked his hair, making the long strands stick to his face and his throat. It poured down his lithe body uselessly and dribbled onto the floor. He knew he was only getting wet, so he would need a shower when Arthur left for work the next day. His narrow fingers moved up to the man's hairline, and he began to scrub that gently. If he worked quickly and silently, maybe no more words would be exchanged.

"Do you really love me-?" Arthur asked suddenly.

"Oui, of course," Francis replied, controlling his voice.

"-Or are you just saying that?" The blonde bit his lip nervously.

"Of course not. I love you quite a lot." The other man said nothing. Francis massaged his scalp with practiced fingers, afraid to speak, afraid to look at his lover's face. Hands reached up and took him by the wrist's gently. The slimmer man cringed in fear, but recovered as the smaller man turned. "I'm sorry... I don't mean to scare you, Francis, really... I just..." he sighed, flustered. Then he looked up, and green locked on blue. His lips barely moved. "Kiss me."

The broken angel thought of his brothers, his friends, and his lips descended upon the other man's in a tender touch. Lips pressed upward, wanting, dominant. Strong, broad hands took hips in a bruising grip, narrow arms curled about a tanned neck. Tender butterfly kissses creeping down a throat. Francis moaned; or was it a whimper? A tongue pressed flatly against a thick, pulsing vein at the base.

"I'm not going to do it right now," he breathed huskily, "I'm going to wait until we're in bed..."

"Please..." Francis pleaded. But he didn't know what he was asking for. He felt the lips curl against his skin.

"I'll bathe you first... I guess I'll just dirty you again later," he purred, reaching up. His fingers tangled in messy blonde waves. Soap was added, and Arthur stared into the man's face as he washed his hair.

"You're so beautiful, Francis... but you seem so tired lately," he said softly, "Are you sick?"

"... Oui," the man mumbled, closing his eyes. The shower couldn't mask his unwarranted tears when he wasn't under the tepid spray, "I've been feeling under the weather lately... I'm getting better though."

Arthur smiled. "I'm glad," he whispered. Francis forced a weak smile. The fingers left his hair, and he was turned around. The hands returned, and he forced himself to relax.

"Do you want to go to bed after this?" This wasn't a question; it was a command.

"Yes," Francis replied. The hands slid from his shoulders to the small of his back. Then they circled his body and rested beneath his belly button.

"I just... feel so insecure around you... Afraid that you don't feel the same. It would destroy me if I learned that you've been lying to me." Francis felt a tremor run throughout his body. The hands began their work again, rough fingerpads skittering across a pale canvas. The dirt was removed; the warm water washed away the soap and the grime, and the cascade stopped. Arthur led the other man out of the shower carefully. He handed the taller man a towel and began to dry himself with a second. With a tight-lipped smile, Francis dried his hair and tied the towel around his hips. Arthur looked up.

"Being modest in your own home?" he chuckled, "That's so unlike you." Francis smiled softly but did not speak. Arthur cast his towel onto the floor and left the room, glancing over his shoulder. The taller man followed his lover into their room silently. Arthur suddenly turned around and raised a brow suggestively. Carefully, Francis approached on silent feet, and let himself be pulled into another kiss. Arthur's hand went to the knot supporting the towel around his boyfriend's hips, and Francis' hand went to his. He realized his mistake too late. His eyes shot open, and he barely had time to flinch before he was shoved back. The palm of a hand connected with his cheek and he stumbled.

"You stupid slut! What the fuck-!" Arthur was red-faced, enraged. Francis cowered.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whimpered, putting his hands up.

"Get out! Get out, damnit!" Francis held a hand to his stinging cheek and hurried out, tripping down the stairs. Every emotion he had tried to bottle up surfaced. Crystal tears burst from a ruptured dam. Tremors paralyzed him, and he fell against the wall. He couldn't hold himself anymore, and slowly, he let himself touch the floor.

"Oh, God..." the blonde clutched himself in a tight hug. His breathing began ragged, forced. If he sees me, he won't stop-, The man thought, and he bit down on his lower lip in a feeble attempt to stop. His teeth broke skin and blood began to dribble down his chin. He bit harder, but the tears didn't stop. And he tried to take a deep breath, and in that moment of quiet, he heard footsteps on the stairs. His eyes widened, and although he tried to get to his feet, his legs were too weak to hold him. He looked up and steeled himself up. The other man stopped on the third step, looking down at his wretched lover.

"Francis..." He looked down. The blonde looked down at the floor, squeezing his eyes shut in a last ditch attempt to stifle the flow of tears.

"I'm sorry... again." He walked down the steps and crouched before the trembling blonde. He reached out, changed his mind, drew his hand back. He tried to make eye contact, but the other man wouldn't look up, couldn't open his eyes.

"I just... I can't ever control my temper, and it's never your fault... I know you should leave, you should find someone who treats you better... and I'm so glad you choose to stay with me... Don't cry, Francis, please don't..." He took the disheveled blonde gently under the chin, but his lover flinched and drew deeper into himself. His eyes were red and swollen when his gaze flickered up to meet the other man's. Then he looked away again. It wasn't blame in his eyes; it was terror, fear of being struck again, fear of being beaten, fear of upsetting the smaller man again.

"Come here, Francis," Arthur said softly, opening his arms. Slowly, as a bud opens and becomes a flower, Francis uncurled, and he fell into Arthur's arms, sobbing freely.

"I-I'm so s-s-sorry," he cried, "I don't mean t-to be like t-this... I d-didn't mean it, Arthur, it w-was j-just a r-r-reaction...!"

"Shh, it's alright now... It's not your fault, Francis, don't blame yourself... That's right, just let it out, love..." Lean fingers tightened around bare arms, blood and tears soaked a broad chest. A wide hand, once used for war, rubbed the skeletal back of a lithe man. The aflicted gasped, hiccuped, but nothing could stop the rush of water or the violent tremors that rocked his body. Arthur drew the frightened man into his lap and cradled him against his chest.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Francis... I didn't want to hit you," Arthur soothed.

"I just..." Francis began, and he looked up. He wore the most pitiable look a man could.

"Yes?"

"... Need a break... from all of this..." Francis was already cringing, "I just... I'm sorry." Arthur stopped.

"So you need a break?" he asked. Francis shrunk down even smaller, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself. "From what?" Arthur's voice had grown stony. "I didn't think I treated you so badly. Sure, I've struck you, but never more than once, correct? I lavish love on you afterward, I always apologize when I hit you, I gave you a roof over your head. I feed you-"

"Arthur, please, understand-"

"What I understand is that you're taking advantage of how easy your life is here-!"

"It's not easy!" Francis cried out, pushing away from his lover, "It's not easy to tiptoe around so I don't get beaten, to make sure everything is taken care of before you get home, to cook your dinner every night, just to clean it up when you get mad-" He put his arm up just as Arthur raised his hand.

"You're an ungrateful wretch, you know that!" Arthur snapped, getting to his feet. He took a deep breath."... I'm honestly debating whether to throw your selfish ass on the street or not."

"You don't understand, Arthur," Francis whispered, getting up, "You were never this cruel before. It's because you began drinking again! I loved you then, before. I loved the old Arthur." He looked up, and there were fresh tears. "He never would hit me, he never treated me like a servant or a whore... he loved me, truly loved me. Where did that Arthur go?" Arthur fell silent. Francis took a step forward, and his courage showed itself again. He took the smaller man under his jaw and turned his head up to look him in the eyes.

"Don't you remember when we were younger," he murmured, "And it was good just to be together? What happened to that, Arthur?" The man frowned and looked away.

"... You lied to me in the shower."

"I was afraid, Arthur-"

"You lied for my sake, as well as yours."

"Please, don't be upset-"

"You're right. I'm not the same man as then." He turned back to the blonde. "Did it really become so bad between us, Francis?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Am I really a monster?"

"Oui, but you're back now..." Francis smiled faintly.

"I can't believe I made you cry, Francis," he said softly, "I vowed never to hurt you again... and I beat you..."

"It's alright," the lean man soothed, "I knew you never meant it."

"How can you be so forgiving?" Arthur cried, staring into that serene, tear-soaked face.

"Because I love you," Francis whispered.

Arthur smiled weakly. "You're such a sweetheart, Francis... Let's get you dressed, and I'll get some ice for your cheek..."

"It doesn't sting anymore," Francis replied, "Will you just... lay with me?"

Arthur looked at him."...Do you really want me to?"

"Yes... you're back to your old self... and I want to spend as much time with that Arthur as I can... I'm afraid you'll go back to being him..." Arthur looked at his damaged lover, so like a butterfly with broken wings.

Afraid you'll go back to being him... Arthur nodded gently and did not say what he was thinking.

"Yes..." He touched Francis' swollen cheek and the other man winced. "At least let me get ice to stop the swelling," Arthur said softly.

"Okay," Francis said, "I'll wait here for you."

Arthur left, glancing back at the resilient blonde before disappearing."

You're back... for now," Francis whispered, "When are you going to lose yourself again?" When am I going to suffer again to fix you? Arthur returned with a bag of ice, wrapped in a towel.

"Here." Francis took it gingerly and held it to his swollen cheek."Let's get some clothes on you," Arthur chuckled, "Not that I mind seeing you naked."

"You're such a horny... ah, mon dieu, whatever..." Francis smiled softly and let himself be led into their bedroom. Arthur moved to the closet and began to shuffle through the hanging clothes.

"It's late. Shall it just be pajamas now?" "Please," Francis said. He dropped his towel. He was safe- for now. His lover turned to him and chuckled softly.

"You know, it's really hard to stay calm when your naked. You're fucking sexy, Francis, don't you know that?" He handed the blonde his boxers and watched him dress.

"Pardon if I'm not the most... eager lover," Francis said softly, setting the ice on the bed to pull the cotton clothing up his legs.

"I understand, love. Here." Arthur helped him put his shirt on. Francis looked back appreciatively. Then he eased the flannel pants up his thighs and laid down on the bed. He moved over and Arthur joined him. His arms curled around the man's abdomen.

"Je t'aime," Francis whispered, "J'aime les choses que nous fait, comme ça."

"I'm quitting alcohol. I can't bear to hurt you again, Francis. So I'm done with it." Francis smiled softly.

"I'm glad... I'm so glad..." And Arthur fell asleep first, holding his lover to his chest protectively. You say that every time, mon cher, Francis thought, feeling sorrow well up in his chest, This is your fourth time quitting. He buried his face in his lover's chest and inhaled his unique scent, preparing his nerves for another sleepless night.

I feel I can be honest with my readers since I've poured my heart out to you multiple times. I hate this story. It feels fake to me. It feels like one of those empty 4th grade stories, with adult themes strewn throughout it to seem mature. A mon avis, there is nothing salvageable about this wreck. But I had ma cherie, Julia, read it to decide, and she adored it. So I want your opinions, since it's not my opinion but yours that matters. Pour your souls out! Rant and rave and scream like you own me! I want to hear how much your feel for this! R&R, mes amis!