France vs England for third place you say...
It wasn't hard for Francis to find Arthur.
He just had to follow the ugly crying noises back to their source and there his dearest frenemy was. Head buried in his hands and ignoring the comforting sounds of his familiars, Arthur was a sorry sight.
It was also a sight Francis had seen many a time, and so with a dramatic sweep into the room, a blanket was pulled over Arthur's shoulders, some biscuits (sourced from Francis' lovely homeland of course) offered to all of Arthur's magical pets and the kettle was soon whistling away on the stove.
It didn't take long for the latter to pull Arthur out of his funk as he looked up in bewilderment. He'd only just seemed to have realised Francis was there at all. And that just wouldn't do! Francis would never allow Arthur to focus on anyone but the beautiful him!
"So dejected, mon ami. Not a problem, this will make for an easy third place victory for moi."
"Wha-" Arthur stood in indignation. "Absolutely not you bastard. That third place is mine."
"Ha! After the showing you and yours put on? Save yourself the embarassment and concede the match." Francis sneered, handing Arthur a cup of his favourite Earl Grey.
"Of course you'd say that, you know it's the only way you'd actually stand a chance against us! And take off your jacket, you're an embarassment to polite society."
Gently hanging Francis' jacket on the stand, the two sat back and enjoyed the pleasant atmosphere.
"Arguing over third place," Arthur said with a shake of his head. "How we've fallen."
"Ah, c'est la vie, no?" Said Francis, his smile deepening the attractive lines upon his face.
Arthur sort of wanted to kick him.
Enjoying the dramatic yelp Francis let out as Arthur's foot made contact with his shin, Arthur continued talking.
"Still... I really wanted to shove our win in that git's face."
"You'll have to be more specific then that, mon ami." Francis couldn't contain the fondness in his voice. Arthur eyed him in distrust.
"I'm sure I kicked you harder than that. Keep crying for me."
"Age has truly softed your blows, mon chéri! Now, which 'git' has your ire now?"
"Which one? Alfred, obviously! Oh, to have rubbed our victory right in his face, standing on American soil and knowing that in the end the final victory was mine!!"
Francis wondered if it was worth pointing out Arthur's clear historical trauma but shelved the thought for now. He was trying to stir Arthur up, not bring him down further.
"Like I say," Francis shrugged. "Such is life. But America is not the one in the finals. That we can leave to our dear Antonio. And we have our own little date to plan, do we not? For the third-place play-off."
"Only you'd call it a date, beardy. And that's exactly the attitude that going to push you to fourth place."
"No no no you're simply too serious! Maybe if you loosened those shoulders of yours you might have even stood a chance."
Arthur slammed his delicious cup of tea onto the table.
"My shoulders are plenty loose! Are you so wine-addled you can't even see what's in front of you?!"
"Only one way to find out just how loose those shoulders are," Francis purred. "Tonight at seven then?"
"Hmph! You've got it, stupid."
Francis beamed, and Arthur paused as he realised what happened.
"Would you look at that. Looks like in the end we truly do have our own date to prepare for! À plus tard Arthur, until tonight~!"
Arthur gaped as Francis swept out as dramatically as he'd arrived.
This goddamn conniving Frenchman! That was it, once they were on that damn field Francis was going down.
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