The Forbidden Fruit (APH)

Beer sloshed about as two frothy mugs were slammed onto the table. A man with silver-white hair lurched for the nearest mug. A tan hand latched onto the man's pale wrist.

"Gilbert, wait till I get mine!" the tan man whined, his voice had a Spanish accent. "And Francis isn't even here yet."

The albino's lip jutted out in a visible pout. "So unawesome, Toni. I vant mein beer!" Gilbert said exasperatedly. Antonio glared at him before glancing around the bar in search of their French friend. Francis should have been at the bar by now, but it had been almost twenty minutes. Gilbert slouched in the booth and began drumming his fingers impatiently.

"Mien gott! Vhere is he?!"

"Vhere iz whom?" a melodic voice with a heavy French accent asked. Francis patted Gilbert's shoulder fondly before plopping down next to Antonio. "Neveh fear, Franciz iz here." The Frenchman's grin could've split his face in half it was so large.

"Hola ¿dónde has estado?" inquired Antonio. Impossibly so, Francis's grin seemed to grow wider. He flicked his blonde curls over his shoulder, his blue eyes twinkled.

"Oh no'er of importance," Francis said vaguely, his hand waving away an invisible fly, "just places." Gilbert growled and downed a whole mug of beer in one gulp. He fixed his eerie red eyes on the Frenchman.

"Shut up und buy a drink. You're giving me an unawesome headache." The Prussian rubbed his temples vigorously before downing the other beer.

"That is the alcohol, mi amigo."

Gilbert shot him a venomous glare. A waitress sashayed over to their table, and began passing out another round of drinks. The trio immediately began chugging their drinks and chatting until the table was entirely covered with empty mugs and wine glasses. By then it was dark out, and the night owls were beginning to meander into the bar.

Francis swirled his half emptied wine glass around with a flair of disinterest. Gilbert had pretty much drunk himself into unconsciousness while Antonio blabbered on and on about Romano, an Italian guy he lives with. The Frenchman watched the customers filter in and out of the bar, and occasionally flashed a smile at a pretty girl. Minutes seemed drag on into hours before Francis finally stood with a stretch and said goodbye to the others. Antonio followed behind as they left with a sleeping Gilbert latched to his back. The scene was almost humorous, but Francis just wasn't in the mood to laugh which was rather odd. He sighed and glanced at the moon. The wine was beginning to make him rather groggy.

Watching the Spaniard carry the sleeping Prussian away for a bit, Francis finally turned toward home. Another lonely night by himself where he can once again continue drinking, sleep, or waste away the hours with someone he barely knew and would never call back. His sigh was longer this time. Could this night get any better? he thought sarcastically. A cry of pain split the air. Apparently it could. Francis dashed toward the sound until he stumbled upon a battered blonde man. A very familiar blonde man.

"Arthur? Mon dieu, Arthur, are you alright?" Francis rushed over to the Englishman who was lying on his back and breaking down into hysterical sobs. "Angleterre?" Blood was oozing down the side of the man's head, his left eye was turning black, and blood trickled from his nose and mouth.

A weak smile came to Arthur's lips as he realized he was being rescued. "Francis?" He opened one green eye slowly, and looked at his savior. "Help….I was….mugged," he sputtered between coughing fits. Wasting no time, Francis quickly, but gently, lifted the wounded man, hailed a taxi, and sped to the hospital. Who would possibly hurt Arthur? The man was beyond boring, and to mention he acted like he had a stick up his ass. Ok, maybe he could see why, but still, who?

Arthur was quickly taken in and taken care of much to Francis's relief. Francis sat beside the wounded man's bed and refused to move until Arthur awakened. Many of the nurses found this to be simply adorable and/or romantic. Why such a silly thought would cross their minds was beyond Francis. Well truth be told, he was incredibly worried about Arthur, though he didn't exactly know why. I mean, his country waged several wars against England, and Arthur's pain always had given him an odd, twisted satisfaction. Had it not? Perhaps Francis still cared for the man he once took care of, his "adopted little brother". Eventually Francis's petty worries turned to silence as the effects of the alcohol finally took over and he collapsed into a deep slumber.