fic: Seven Minutes In Heaven
Nov. 1st, 2012 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Seven Minutes In Heaven
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/Canada with Netherlands & Canada friendship (background BFT & England, America)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1787
Author's note:
Diedrik = Netherlands.
–
They were standing outside the party on the dewy lawn after one survey of the party. They each had a beer in hand, and Gilbert had pulled them out for a little talk.
"This party is pathetic. Why are we here again?" Gilbert said.
"Because Francis needs to get laid?" Antonio offered.
"Francis is always getting laid. Why can't he get laid at a party which isn't utterly pathetic?"
"Because this is where I will finally get him," Francis said. He punched his palm for emphasis. "In a round of Spin the bottle, I will finally make him mine."
"Spin the bottle? Spin the bottle?! Mein Gott, what are we, twelve?"
"He's a gentle boy and I need to do this delicately," Francis answered. "I can't just grind with him on the dance floor, or invite him upstairs with me."
Gilbert shook his head. "Fucking hell, the lengths you go to get laid."
"This one is special," Francis said dreamily. Gilbert didn't look convinced.
"There's grannies knitting that are having a more banging time than us," he muttered.
"My grandmother, she would get drunk and go dance the flamenco, and then throw her shirt off," Antonio said cheerily.
"Maybe it'll be more like Antonio's grandmother, hmm?" Francis said.
"Maybe you should be banging Antonio's grandmother," Gilbert said. "I bet she'd be a better lay."
Antonio gave him a look as if he was considering throwing his beer at his head.
"Don't bother, mon ami. It will change nothing about him," Francis said.
Antonio seemed to calm at that, and simply sipped his beer.
"Fucking pussy," Gilbert muttered. "That's what I should be getting, by the way."
Antonio had that wild look in his eyes again.
"Stop it, Gilbert. I need you to be my wingmen tonight, and I can't have you trying to kill each other. Not when I'm so close."
"Fine," Gilbert muttered sulkily. He never turned down a good drunken brawl, at least not when he didn't have wingman duty.
They weren't invited and probably were spectacularly not invited, not that it mattered considering this party might as well have had straw bales and apple bobbing contests and maybe even a hayride considering how utterly pastoral this party was.
"Let's hope your newest boytoy comes soon, otherwise I'm going over to that punch bowl and chugging the whole thing," Gilbert said.
"If he doesn't show, then I'll help you," Francis replied.
*
Matthew had spent most of the party texting Diedrik. Al had, for some reason known only to himself, dragged him along, only to ditch him about ten minutes in to...do something. He didn't know, and probably didn't want to know as he could do without the image of his brother in nothing but boxers with flags on them and a lampshade on his head. ...Not that he didn't see that most every day, much to his chagrin. Still, he could do without it. It was a fairly typical party so far: people dancing while drunk, a group of stoners hanging out in corners, the guys who were desperately looking to get laid and creeping on all the drunk girls.
Diedrik kept asking things like how was the JB at this party? Is anyone sharing their stashes and Matthew wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. Unlike Diedrik, he wasn't a connoisseur of uh, such things. He mostly found Diedrik's comments and wry, sarcastic wit hilarious, though.
He'd taken to sitting in a corner in the kitchen because there was a cooler nearby. It mostly contained beer, but he'd found a coke can after some fumbling in the ice. His hand came out numbed, but it was worth it. Matthew knew it pretty much missing the point to be drinking coke at a party–and not rum and coke, just coke, but he was good at missing the point when it came to being anything interesting or cool. He was a bonafide loser whose only claims to popularity would be on Al's coattails. Not that he was that interested in the popular crowd in general. Well, most of them, at least. Or maybe just one...
There was another cooler out in the front room where most of the drunk dancing was going on, when they just weren't mingling, because of this the kitchen was pretty much deserted.
Matthew was snickering at the latest tale of Diedrik's last trip on acid, where dancing rainbow lions did the mambo to a sky full of condom balloon clouds when Francis Bonnefoy came in the kitchen and he nearly dropped his phone.
"There you are," Francis said, sounding relieved.
"Eh? W-what?" Matthew said. He was blushing like a schoolgirl, but it was Francis Bonnefoy in the flesh, talking to him.
"Spin the bottle, cher," Francis said with a little half-smile.
"M-me? I um. Wasn't actually playing–"
"You are now." Francis pointed the half-empty bottle at him. "Oh look, it's time for Seven Minutes In Heaven."
He gripped Matthew's wrist and all but dragged him towards the closet. Said closet was kind of cramped, even more so with two people in it. A row of jam and other things in glass bottles clanked together as they fitted in.
"Um," Matthew said.
"Yes, Matthieu?"
He was honestly surprised someone like Francis even knew his name, and even more surprised that he was really here. He was pretty sure he'd had this fantasy before, where Francis came right up to him and picked him out, even over easy cheerleaders and then confessed he'd always had this thing for quiet nerds in hoodies who read a lot, but he never in his wildest dreams thought it'd come true.
He'd been carrying a torch for Francis ever since he was a middle schooler. Back when other boys were more interested in video games and baseball cards, he was dreaming of walking hand-in-hand with Francis Bonnefoy...and doing other, far less innocent things.
That didn't however, make him particularly eloquent. In fact, it tended towards the opposite.
"Er..."
"Do you want to leave? I'll let you go if you wish, though I'll be heartbroken forever," Francis said. Matthew couldn't see in the dark, but he expected Francis had an ironic smile at that. He was always saying things like that and never meaning it.
On one hand, he could leave and have a bizarre tale to tell to Diedrik and assume he had gotten high on the pot smoke wafting out. But pot didn't cause hallucinations like this, right? He'd have to ask Diedrik when he came out. On the other, he'd get to make out with Francis Bonnefoy. The downside would be he might catch mono, and he'd probably never see Francis again, but it would be so, so worth it.
"Ah...no," Matthew said. "I d-don't want to go."
"Good," Francis said. "Now come on, heaven awaits us."
The shelves dug into his back as Francis pushed him against it. Matthew had never been kissed before, let alone kissed by Francis Bonnefoy in a kitchen cupboard. His lips – hell every part of him was tingling. He tangled his fingers in Francis' hair and it felt even softer than he had imagined.
He had his hand under Francis' shirt. Matthew honestly, never in a million years would've thought he would ever be this daring – but it was the daring of the single shot, Matthew figured he'd never see Francis again in a closet or have him remember this, so he might as well feel him up, right? Francis chuckled, pleased and began to take this as a sign to let his hands start to wander. Francis' wandering wasn't the desperate, ADD-filled sort most teenagers in closets do, but a slow, meticulous, mature way.
They were grinding together as they kissed — French kissing which Francis had downright mastered. Francis was rubbing against the bulge in his jeans with an arch smile.
"Francis—"
"You want this, Matthieu?" Francis said, husky and low and fuck, it was better than his damn fantasies. Matthieu could barely form coherent words, but he nodded, and then thought you idiot, he can't see you like this.
But Francis took the moan that came from his lips as yes. Francis leaned in, channel and cigarettes scent caught in his nose.
The door swung open. They blinked into the light, and the glares of one very angry brother and one very angry Englishman.
"Bonnefoy," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "What do you think you're doing?" He pronounced it Bonnie-foy instead of the proper Bon-fwah. Knowing Arthur, this was probably intentional.
"Why, Angleterre, what does it look like I am doing? Don't tell me you're so uncultured as to never have played this game before," Francis said.
"Time's up," Alfred said. He punched into his other hand, with a grin more like a warning.
"Hell–"
Arthur was tackled by Francis' friends-slash-wingmen
"Sorry, man! I tried to keep him back, but he fights dirty!" Gilbert said.
" je suis desolé, mon cher but it seems I must leave. He winked and blew a kiss. "Call me?" He made the universal call me sign, before running off into the night.
Gilbert and Antonio launched themselves at Alfred and Arthur respectively, just long enough for Francis to sneak out between them.
"Remember you own my heart~ Until next time, mon chéri!"
*
Matthew stumbled off into the night, filled with post-makeout daze. Arthur was using every swear word he knew, while blaming Alfred for all of this. Matthew was feeling so high, he probably would have walked into trees or signposts if Alfred wasn't there to tap him on the shoulder and pull him away.
Arthur was gritting his teeth and muttering about stupid perverted Frenchmen trying to touch his family (even if they weren't technically related) but Matthew barely even heard it.
Francis had remembered his name. There had been a promise of next time. He was probably not technically a virgin anymore. He'd have to ask Diedrik what the virginity scale was with guys and guys sometime. He had flowcharts and everything from a time when he'd been really stoned. It was surprisingly coherent, considering.
Suddenly, he couldn't wait for the weekend to end so he could go back to school. So what if he was the lowest on the totem pole of popularity and no one could remember his name? Francis could, and that was all that really mattered to him.
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/Canada with Netherlands & Canada friendship (background BFT & England, America)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1787
Author's note:
Diedrik = Netherlands.
–
They were standing outside the party on the dewy lawn after one survey of the party. They each had a beer in hand, and Gilbert had pulled them out for a little talk.
"This party is pathetic. Why are we here again?" Gilbert said.
"Because Francis needs to get laid?" Antonio offered.
"Francis is always getting laid. Why can't he get laid at a party which isn't utterly pathetic?"
"Because this is where I will finally get him," Francis said. He punched his palm for emphasis. "In a round of Spin the bottle, I will finally make him mine."
"Spin the bottle? Spin the bottle?! Mein Gott, what are we, twelve?"
"He's a gentle boy and I need to do this delicately," Francis answered. "I can't just grind with him on the dance floor, or invite him upstairs with me."
Gilbert shook his head. "Fucking hell, the lengths you go to get laid."
"This one is special," Francis said dreamily. Gilbert didn't look convinced.
"There's grannies knitting that are having a more banging time than us," he muttered.
"My grandmother, she would get drunk and go dance the flamenco, and then throw her shirt off," Antonio said cheerily.
"Maybe it'll be more like Antonio's grandmother, hmm?" Francis said.
"Maybe you should be banging Antonio's grandmother," Gilbert said. "I bet she'd be a better lay."
Antonio gave him a look as if he was considering throwing his beer at his head.
"Don't bother, mon ami. It will change nothing about him," Francis said.
Antonio seemed to calm at that, and simply sipped his beer.
"Fucking pussy," Gilbert muttered. "That's what I should be getting, by the way."
Antonio had that wild look in his eyes again.
"Stop it, Gilbert. I need you to be my wingmen tonight, and I can't have you trying to kill each other. Not when I'm so close."
"Fine," Gilbert muttered sulkily. He never turned down a good drunken brawl, at least not when he didn't have wingman duty.
They weren't invited and probably were spectacularly not invited, not that it mattered considering this party might as well have had straw bales and apple bobbing contests and maybe even a hayride considering how utterly pastoral this party was.
"Let's hope your newest boytoy comes soon, otherwise I'm going over to that punch bowl and chugging the whole thing," Gilbert said.
"If he doesn't show, then I'll help you," Francis replied.
*
Matthew had spent most of the party texting Diedrik. Al had, for some reason known only to himself, dragged him along, only to ditch him about ten minutes in to...do something. He didn't know, and probably didn't want to know as he could do without the image of his brother in nothing but boxers with flags on them and a lampshade on his head. ...Not that he didn't see that most every day, much to his chagrin. Still, he could do without it. It was a fairly typical party so far: people dancing while drunk, a group of stoners hanging out in corners, the guys who were desperately looking to get laid and creeping on all the drunk girls.
Diedrik kept asking things like how was the JB at this party? Is anyone sharing their stashes and Matthew wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. Unlike Diedrik, he wasn't a connoisseur of uh, such things. He mostly found Diedrik's comments and wry, sarcastic wit hilarious, though.
He'd taken to sitting in a corner in the kitchen because there was a cooler nearby. It mostly contained beer, but he'd found a coke can after some fumbling in the ice. His hand came out numbed, but it was worth it. Matthew knew it pretty much missing the point to be drinking coke at a party–and not rum and coke, just coke, but he was good at missing the point when it came to being anything interesting or cool. He was a bonafide loser whose only claims to popularity would be on Al's coattails. Not that he was that interested in the popular crowd in general. Well, most of them, at least. Or maybe just one...
There was another cooler out in the front room where most of the drunk dancing was going on, when they just weren't mingling, because of this the kitchen was pretty much deserted.
Matthew was snickering at the latest tale of Diedrik's last trip on acid, where dancing rainbow lions did the mambo to a sky full of condom balloon clouds when Francis Bonnefoy came in the kitchen and he nearly dropped his phone.
"There you are," Francis said, sounding relieved.
"Eh? W-what?" Matthew said. He was blushing like a schoolgirl, but it was Francis Bonnefoy in the flesh, talking to him.
"Spin the bottle, cher," Francis said with a little half-smile.
"M-me? I um. Wasn't actually playing–"
"You are now." Francis pointed the half-empty bottle at him. "Oh look, it's time for Seven Minutes In Heaven."
He gripped Matthew's wrist and all but dragged him towards the closet. Said closet was kind of cramped, even more so with two people in it. A row of jam and other things in glass bottles clanked together as they fitted in.
"Um," Matthew said.
"Yes, Matthieu?"
He was honestly surprised someone like Francis even knew his name, and even more surprised that he was really here. He was pretty sure he'd had this fantasy before, where Francis came right up to him and picked him out, even over easy cheerleaders and then confessed he'd always had this thing for quiet nerds in hoodies who read a lot, but he never in his wildest dreams thought it'd come true.
He'd been carrying a torch for Francis ever since he was a middle schooler. Back when other boys were more interested in video games and baseball cards, he was dreaming of walking hand-in-hand with Francis Bonnefoy...and doing other, far less innocent things.
That didn't however, make him particularly eloquent. In fact, it tended towards the opposite.
"Er..."
"Do you want to leave? I'll let you go if you wish, though I'll be heartbroken forever," Francis said. Matthew couldn't see in the dark, but he expected Francis had an ironic smile at that. He was always saying things like that and never meaning it.
On one hand, he could leave and have a bizarre tale to tell to Diedrik and assume he had gotten high on the pot smoke wafting out. But pot didn't cause hallucinations like this, right? He'd have to ask Diedrik when he came out. On the other, he'd get to make out with Francis Bonnefoy. The downside would be he might catch mono, and he'd probably never see Francis again, but it would be so, so worth it.
"Ah...no," Matthew said. "I d-don't want to go."
"Good," Francis said. "Now come on, heaven awaits us."
The shelves dug into his back as Francis pushed him against it. Matthew had never been kissed before, let alone kissed by Francis Bonnefoy in a kitchen cupboard. His lips – hell every part of him was tingling. He tangled his fingers in Francis' hair and it felt even softer than he had imagined.
He had his hand under Francis' shirt. Matthew honestly, never in a million years would've thought he would ever be this daring – but it was the daring of the single shot, Matthew figured he'd never see Francis again in a closet or have him remember this, so he might as well feel him up, right? Francis chuckled, pleased and began to take this as a sign to let his hands start to wander. Francis' wandering wasn't the desperate, ADD-filled sort most teenagers in closets do, but a slow, meticulous, mature way.
They were grinding together as they kissed — French kissing which Francis had downright mastered. Francis was rubbing against the bulge in his jeans with an arch smile.
"Francis—"
"You want this, Matthieu?" Francis said, husky and low and fuck, it was better than his damn fantasies. Matthieu could barely form coherent words, but he nodded, and then thought you idiot, he can't see you like this.
But Francis took the moan that came from his lips as yes. Francis leaned in, channel and cigarettes scent caught in his nose.
The door swung open. They blinked into the light, and the glares of one very angry brother and one very angry Englishman.
"Bonnefoy," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "What do you think you're doing?" He pronounced it Bonnie-foy instead of the proper Bon-fwah. Knowing Arthur, this was probably intentional.
"Why, Angleterre, what does it look like I am doing? Don't tell me you're so uncultured as to never have played this game before," Francis said.
"Time's up," Alfred said. He punched into his other hand, with a grin more like a warning.
"Hell–"
Arthur was tackled by Francis' friends-slash-wingmen
"Sorry, man! I tried to keep him back, but he fights dirty!" Gilbert said.
" je suis desolé, mon cher but it seems I must leave. He winked and blew a kiss. "Call me?" He made the universal call me sign, before running off into the night.
Gilbert and Antonio launched themselves at Alfred and Arthur respectively, just long enough for Francis to sneak out between them.
"Remember you own my heart~ Until next time, mon chéri!"
*
Matthew stumbled off into the night, filled with post-makeout daze. Arthur was using every swear word he knew, while blaming Alfred for all of this. Matthew was feeling so high, he probably would have walked into trees or signposts if Alfred wasn't there to tap him on the shoulder and pull him away.
Arthur was gritting his teeth and muttering about stupid perverted Frenchmen trying to touch his family (even if they weren't technically related) but Matthew barely even heard it.
Francis had remembered his name. There had been a promise of next time. He was probably not technically a virgin anymore. He'd have to ask Diedrik what the virginity scale was with guys and guys sometime. He had flowcharts and everything from a time when he'd been really stoned. It was surprisingly coherent, considering.
Suddenly, he couldn't wait for the weekend to end so he could go back to school. So what if he was the lowest on the totem pole of popularity and no one could remember his name? Francis could, and that was all that really mattered to him.
