France's Daughter // Hetalia

Chapter Twenty-One- Fool Me Thrice

France (Francis)

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"Are we going to talk about what happened last night!?"

"What happened last night?", I ask, flipping the omelet in the pan gracefully. I don't want it to burn.

"Y-You know! Bloody imbecile, Lottie walked in and-"

"Angleterre, what would you like on your omelet?"

"Stop it with the omelet!", He snaps, taking the pan from me and turning off the stove. 

I look at him with more offense than interest. "I was cooking."

He doesn't look amused. There's a commotion upstairs- Italy and Charlie must be awake. I wonder if I should go check on them. Non- Then I'd have to face her... and I can not face her. At least, not right now. Not after last night. I shiver at the memory of her frightened and disgusted face. Doing it in the kitchen wasn't my best call of judgement.

"What does this mean?", He asks, and I guess I should've expected his serious tone, but it still throws me off guard. "I mean.. between us?"

I pause for a moment, and turn back to the stove, turning it on and fiddling with the omelet. "Whatever you want it to mean."

He doesn't respond right away. I admit, it is a bit of a confusing answer for someone as dense as him- but I mean it. If he wants me, fine. But he'll have to tell me. How does he expect to get more of this perfect body? 

"Feli! Get out!!", Charlie screams from the staircase, Feliciano flying downstairs shortly afterwards. 

His clothes and hair is wet, so I can only assume what he was trying to do. Oh, Italy- sweet, sweet Italy. Charlie likes her privacy. He rubs the top of his head, before spotting me and England in the kitchen.

"Ciao!", He grins, scrambling towards us. "Are you cooking? Can I help?"

I nod, handing him a bowl. "I'm making omelets. Crack three eggs into here, mon ami", I wink, and he nods in response, getting straight to work. 

"I need to.. do something..", England mutters, and before I can ask, he's making his way upstairs.

I sigh as Feli looks at me for clarification. "Men, y'know?"

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Charlotte (Charlie, Lottie)

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I hop out of the shower, partially drying my hair with a towel before checking my phone. Still nothing from Bryce. He's probably still sleeping. I heard that sex tires men out more than women. He'll be awake soon.. maybe mid-afternoon. 

A knock on the door turns my attention away from the screen, and to the thick British accent following the intrusion.

"Lottie, dear, may I speak to you for a moment?"

I look around for something to help me- anything will do. I don't want to talk to him- I don't want to look at him! I guess it's not his fault I'm traumatized, he was just caught in Papa's perverted trap! Poor guy. Still... Talking to him would be unbearable awkward.

"Uhm.. C-Can this wait, mon ami? I need to blow dry my hair!", I call out, clanging the blowdryer and straightener together to make the story somehow more realistic.

There's a slight pause before he answers, I can tell he's upset. "Alright.."

I wait a moment before opening the door, towel wrapped delicately around my shoulders, and look back and forth in the hallway. Gone, just like that.

 His footsteps are so light when he's sad.

---------------------- Thirty Minutes Later --------------------

"Bonjour, Charlie", Papa says quietly, placing an omelet in front of me. "Eat up, I heard you and Feli were going out?"

I watch him as he turns back around, finishing off another omelet for the energetic Italian cracking eggs in a bowl. Letting out a soft hum as a response, I slyly push the omelet in the trash. I don't want to eat here. I don't want to be sitting at this counter. I know Papa is just as tense- I can tell by his shoulders. When he's upset, or stressed, or embarrassed, they stiffen- and right now, he looks like he has scoliosis. 

"Feli, let's go.", I mumble, grabbing his arm before he can even get his breakfast.

I don't turn to see if Papa notices our disappearance. Instead, I walk straight out of the house, Feli tailing close behind. He won't care if I'm out all night with him. He won't mind at all, because that means we won't have to speak to each other... And if we don't speak to each other, we don't have to mention what happened last night.

Mon dieu, I'm traumatized.