Characters/Pairing: France, America, Canada and England; FrUK, AmeCan
Warnings: Drunk, swears, allusions to sex and lots of kissing.
Summary: France, America, England and Canada get together before a weekend of meetings, get drunk, pair off, and deal with the aftermath of years of sexual tension.
Notes: My second prompt for the 2011 aph_fluffathon . The full prompt was: FACE. All four of them get smashingly drunk and have to deal with morning-after hangovers and realizing that they seem to have paired off during the night. Misunderstandings and confessions follow. (no preference for which FACE pairings). I avoided my natural inclinations of going the USUK/Franada route and did this instead. I hope you enjoy!
By the time France had returned back to his house with Canada and America in tow, England was already half way to being completely smashed. France unlocked his front door and shoved his way through, talking to the two younger nations animatedly.
“...we really should do this more often, boys, I’m so glad you could both come early—“
“Of course, France,” Canada said softly, smiling gently. America had his hands shoved in his pockets with a backpack on his back. He gave more of a grin at France and hipped the door shut as the three of them crossed the threshold.
“So every time there’s a world meeting in Europe, we should all get together earlier on and hang out,” America added as he dropped his bag beside Canada’s in the front hall. The World Summit of Nations didn’t begin until Friday night with opening ceremonies, but the two North American nations had already arrived in Europe by Thursday afternoon. Since the summit was being held in France, France himself had encouraged them to come early for a visit.
As France walked them through the kitchen, he noticed one of his bottles of gin suspiciously missing from the top cabinet. They walked into the living room and realized why—England had it on a table, already one-third of the way empty, with flushed cheeks and a happy smile.
“Welcome!” he said exuberantly, throwing his arms wide and hugging both America and Canada. America shoved him off and Canada just blushed at the affection.
“Jesus Christ, England, the ride from the airport was like, fifteen minutes tops,” America commented as he flopped down on the couch beside England. He stole the glass from his hand and sipped from the cup, much to England’s protests. America immediately spit it back out and put the glass on the table, wiping his lips. “That is straight up gin.”
“What? No mixer at all?” Canada asked, sitting in a rather large plush chair beside the living room table. (It was his favorite chair.) France stood before England, hands on his hips, staring down at him. One blonde eyebrow was cocked and he seemed somewhat irritated.
“Really, England, how is it when I left you were happily reading and now you’re—you’re this,” he said, and he waved his hands to frame England’s drunken state. England scoffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, turning away and pointedly looking out the far window.
“What does that mean?” he asked, licking his parched lips as he waited for an answer. America rolled his eyes and took the gin bottle, pouring it into another glass. He then grabbed the bottle of tonic from the floor (where England had knocked it) and poured some into the glass, sloshing it around to dilute the strong taste of the gin. He took a sip, winced, shrugged, and then took a hearty gulp. He stuck out his tongue at the taste and set the glass down as England thumped him on the back.
“That’s my boy,” he said happily, and attempted to pour more gin into the glass.
“England, you should really put that down, and America, since when do you drink gin?” Canada asked as France returned to the kitchen for more glasses and alcohol. America wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“I don’t, but the only way to handle England drunk is to be drunk yourself,” he said, coughing a bit into his hand. “As a matter of fact...” he got up and crossed the room to the kitchen where he bustled by France. Moments later a loud click was heard as he locked and dead bolted the front door. There was a tingling sound and some protests from France, and then America came walking back in with a half-full bottle of wine and four wine glasses in his hands.
“I locked the door and hid France’s keys,” he announced to the room. “So we can all get drunk with absolutely zero consequence.” Canada sighed.
“Famous last words, Al.”
Two tequila shots and a mimosa later, the four of them were sitting on the floor around the oak coffee table, the table littered with glasses and bottle caps and remnants of cork as drinks were passed around and poured haphazardly. England was completely smashed, America was nearly there, Canada had a happy buzz on his way to being drunk and France needed twice the amount of alcohol as the rest of them to be that drunk. It didn’t mean he wasn’t trying. This summit promised to be long, tiring and filled with endless fighting as someone’s boss was blamed for someone else’s problems all around the room.
“Hey, I just had a thought,” America said suddenly. “If we’re all hung over at the meeting, we can say we’re sick.”
“Our hangovers won’t last until six p.m.,” Canada commented, leaning on the table as he held a glass of wine in his hand. “We’d have to be drunk tomorrow morning, too, at least.”
“I see no issue with this,” England said, and downed the rest of his gin in an easy gulp. The other three watched in disgust and awe at the spectacle.
“How the hell do you drink that stuff?”America asked. “You’re drinking it like it’s water or something.” England smacked his lips and reached for the now half-empty bottle.
“Lots of practice,” he said. “Before anesthetics, if you wanted to numb the pain, you better be ready to swallow some hard liquor.” France grinned and raised his glass and the two clinked them together and then threw back the remnants of their glasses. Canada grimaced and took a hearty gulp from his wine.
“That stuff’s so bitter,” he commented.
“That stuff is really strong,” England pointed out to Canada. “And you’re like, not even close to me-drunk right now and let me tell you,” England was now pointing at Canada with his free hand, “being me-drunk is awesome.”
“I have a high tolerance,” Canada said simply. He pointed to himself and followed up with “second largest land mass doesn’t mean nothing, you know.”
“Pssh,” France said. “You inherited your tastes from me.”
“No, no, he’s totes drunk right now,” America said, leaning back and nodding to Canada. “He’s just like, really really happy at first, and it’s so irritating, and then he gets all weird later.” Canada blushed and turned away, pouring some tequila into his now empty wine glass.
“Oh, you do,” America said. “Remember 420?”
“We weren’t drunk then, Al, we were high, there’s a difference,” Canada said sternly. England sniggered.
“What? When was this? You two got high?” he asked. “Oh Lord. I thought I taught you better.”
“If you did, they’d be drunkards. Like you,” France said sweetly. America shrugged and Canada laughed. Suddenly America sat straight up, rolling over and scurrying across the room to where his backpack lay.
“I have an idea!” he exclaimed. He came back with a stack of tattered cards. “We can play a drinking game. It’ll get our minds off of how sad we think each other are, and we’ll get drunker.”
“Oh? What is it?” France asked as Canada and England both leaned forward in interest. America began shuffling the deck (clumsily) and then placed the pile on the table.
“It’s a game my college kids play. You draw a card, and then based on the card, either you or everyone drinks. It’s called ‘Kings’ and it’s the best game ever,” America insisted. “C’mon, I’ll show ya. Everyone fill up your cups—England you better go get a bucket at the rate you drink—“ England groped around, found Canada’s shoe, and flung it at him, “—and I’ll draw a card. See.... there. Four of hearts. Everyone touch the floor!” and America slammed his hand into the carpet. Canada followed soon after, as did France, who was amused by how silly they looked. That left England, looking confused and angry.
“Four is ‘floor’, so when a four is drawn everyone touches the floor as fast as possible,” America said. “The last person to touch the floor drinks.”
“I don’t see how you lose this game,” England said as he gulped from his cup.
“The point isn’t just to drink; England, it’s to get drunk doing dumb things,” America explained, as if it made all the sense in the world. “Come on, let’s go clockwise and every time someone draws a card, I’ll explain it ‘til you all get it. England, it’s your turn.” England drew a card; eight of spades.
“Now what?” England asked. America grinned.
“Eight is ‘pick a date’,” he crooned. “Pick someone in the circle. Anyone will do.”
“Uh...” England glanced at them as his eyes settled on the man directly across from him. “France.”
“Okay, France, every time England has to drink because the game tells him to, so do you,” America explained. “Now drink.” England did so, and France followed, leaving a wry smile behind on his face as he removed the glass from his lips. Canada drew the next card. The king of hearts.
“What’s the king mean?” Canada wondered. America lifted his eyes devilishly from the table and smiled at Canada.
“That means you’re the king, You have to pick a rule, and every time someone drinks, they have to follow that rule.” Canada looked down at his cup, then looked up at France, turned to England, and then allowed his eyes to fall on America, who was still smiling at him. Canada looked down again, and then started giggling to himself.
“Every time the game says you have to drink,” Canada began, holding his cup in his hand, “you have to sing the first two lines of your national anthem.” France raised both his eyebrows this time, America looked surprised and England seemed suddenly very smug.
“And now,” America said, raising his cup, “since the king was just drawn, it’s a social. Everyone drinks!”
“Whoever sings the loudest has to drink twice as much!” Canada suddenly added, and the room filled with loud, out-of-tune, slightly pathetic snatches of song.
“Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé—“
“God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen—“
“O Canada! Our home and native land—“
“Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light—“
The sound was soon replaced by forced gulps, contented sighs and a giggling Canada.
“Fuck this game,” England murmured, and he shot a glare at France. “Draw a damn card already; I want to be drunker by the time it comes around to me again.”
“England, cut that out.”
“Cut what out?”
“That thing with your foot. Under the table. I feel like I’m watching my parents flirt. And it’s freaky. Please, for the sake of my sanity, stop.”
“Oh shut up, Canada.”
“Will you stop yelling?” America butted in finally from his spot, lying on the floor. “Jesus Christ just shut up.” Somewhere deep in the house, the grandfather clock that France so treasured struck a resounding twelve strokes, signaling midnight. “It’s only midnight? Jesus.” America rolled onto his side on the floor, his eyes trailing to England, who was leaning back against the couch, his legs stretched out beneath the table, poking at France’s foot with his toe. He had a bottle clasped in his hand (it was empty) and looked like he was in a trance.
“Englaaaaaand,” America whined. “Englaaaaaaaaaand.”
“What, America?” England said, rolling his head to the side and clamping his eyes shut.
“Everyone is so fucking loud, England.”
“You’re one to talk,” Canada blurted out suddenly. He was leaning forward on the table, his glasses were missing, his hair was in his face and he was so red he resembled a cherry. He continually pushed his bangs out of his face, his gaze drifting across the table lazily. France noticed his gaze and leaned back, observing his former charge. He’d noticed the slight glances, the little flushes, everything that Canada did in relation to America. As much as it bothered him that England was playing with his feet, he knew Canada wanted to do the same with America.
Canada, on the other hand, had been focused on the slowly growing sexual tension between his two former parental figures. It was nothing new, of course; they fought, they fucked, they moved on. It was like a routine to them, just as normal as brushing their teeth or combing their hair. But this time it seemed kind of different; for example, why was England in France’s house to begin with? He had no idea England was even going to be there until they stepped off the plane. And England was being so openly affectionate... in his very England way.
“I think we drew all the cards,” France said finally, breaking the silence. “At least from what I can see.”
“Yeah,” Canada agreed.
“Blaaaaaaaaaaah,” America whined from across the table. “Augh, my mouth is so dry. How much did we drink?”
“We drank me out of a third of my liquor cabinet,” France commented. “And I have a big liquor cabinet.”
“You would,” England said, tapping his fingers on the bottle. The sounds of music wafted through the open window across the room, coming from what sounded like a small house party down the lane.
“Is there water in this place?” America asked. France rolled his eyes and stood, much to England’s chagrin, and stumbled into the kitchen, his head spinning wildly. He pulled a bottle from his refrigerator and half threw, half tossed it to America, who missed it completely and watched it roll away. He languidly reached out for the bottle and sat up with it, popping it open and drinking from it deeply. He sighed in content as he quelled his thirst, and offered it to England, who frowned at it.
“C’mon, England, drink some fluids before you puke and pass out,” America said, shaking the bottle in his face.
“Fuck you,” England said, snatching the bottle.
“That’s what France is for,” Canada said suddenly. The room went quiet, and then Canada started snickering, leaning forward, his head connecting to the table and spreading his arms wide. His snickers broke into full-blown laughter, and he laughed into the table, his shoulders shaking. France grinned and England looked annoyed and America studied Canada intensely.
If the grandfather clock had struck at half-pasts, it would have gone off with a bang.
“Canada, that didn’t even make sense,” England muttered as he gulped from the bottle. Canada’s head lolled to one side and he grinned up at England.
“It did. To me.”
“What the hell have you done to him?” England said suddenly, his eyes reverting back to America. “He didn’t used to be like this.”
“You’ve never met drunk Canada, have you?” America said, closing his eyes and cracking his neck. “Welcome.” Canada closed his eyes as well, his head still down on the table.
“Come now, boys, it’s only midnight, no time for sleeping yet,” France said, although he made no motion to do anything else.
“We hafta be up so earllllyyy tomorrow,” America whined.
“We’re not meeting until six p.m., you dope,” Canada said from the table. England placed a hand over his face; his patience was growing thin with the North Americans. France was staring at England, eyes half-lidded, getting that look on his face when he had a sudden appetite for a certain Englishman. America pouted and Canada giggled.
“Hey Al,” Canada said suddenly, jumping to his feet, “c’mere.”
“What?” America said from the carpet. “Fuck, I don’t wanna get up, Mattie.”
“Just do it,” Canada ordered. England raised an eyebrow.
“You’re rather fierce when you’re drunk,” England noted to Canada. He tossed his gaze towards America as he reluctantly stood and trudged over to where Canada was half-standing, half-slouching against the couch. “And you’re rather pathetic.”
“I learned from the best,” America said, and he winked at England, who just groaned in return. Canada grabbed America’s wrist and pulled them both down onto the couch, which cushioned their fall lightly.
“This couch,” Canada stated, “is really, really comfy when you’re smashed.”
“Holy—it is,” America commented, and he lay back into the cushions, eyes closed, Canada’s hand still holding his wrist. That left France and England sitting on the floor across from one another, France stroking England’s foot under the table, and England growing redder and redder as time went on. France gave a small smile to England and England frowned.
“Just go already,” America said, waving a hand, eyes still closed. “But bring me more tequila first.”
France jumped to his feet and said “Certainly!” just as England was saying “You’re not drinking any more tonight.” France beamed at England, who slid to his feet. Walking was difficult, for the whole world was spinning and he was getting his France Tunnel Vision; the only thing that was stable and certain was France, and his stupid hair and his stupidly handsome face and his stupidly sexy body. France tripped into the kitchen, grabbing a half-full bottle of tequila (courtesy of America) and brought it to America, who immediately brought the bottle to his lips with a smug smile.
“England, what’re you doing?” Canada asked as he took the bottle from America and gave it to France, who wanted one last gulp before America drank it all. England was kind of wavering between the kitchen and the hallway.
“I can’t—I can’t really stand,” England admitted, “nor can I walk. So I’m just going to stand here until he comes back for me.”
“You are beyond pathetic,” America said from the bowels of the couch. He held up the bottle high in the air. “Tequila?”
“Oh shove off,” England muttered darkly, and was willingly dragged down the hallway by a wayward France.
The next time anyone paid any attention to a clock, it was England, at three o’clock in the morning. The clock was just beside France’s bedroom door, at the end of a long hallway, looking elegant and grandiose. England had been busy sucking on France’s shoulder with all he had, eliciting sweet moans from the other man, getting ready for a possible round two, when the boom of the clock distracted him. He jerked his head up, looking out the door, narrowing his eyes at the clock looming in the distance.
“Has that always been there?” England asked. France sat up and looked from the clock to England, then back to the clock.
“Uh... yes, yes it has,” he said, and he leaned forward in the bed and put his chin on England’s shoulder, laying his lips to England’s cheek. He used his right hand to gently caress the back of England’s head, trying to entice him back to bed.
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” France purred and England closed his eyes and took France’s lips in his own again, feeling the familiar sensation of arousal pooling in his gut, wanting to just exist with France in a bed forever and ever. France easily overpowered him, pushing him down into the mattress, the sheets falling away, his body glistening with sweat from earlier.
“If you’re not going to take the helm then I will,” he said, and England gave him a wide, slightly crazy smile that seemed almost sane in his drunkenness and laid back, pulling France down by the chin and kissing him again.
“I wonder,” England murmured as France licked and sucked at his neck, “if we should close the door.”
“Why? It’s just us,” France whispered. England laughed.
“Weren’t there other people with us before?”
“...you know, I think you’re right.”
“I think so. Those other guys.”
“As long as they don’t come down this hallway, they’ll be fine,” France said, slipping his hand down between England’s thighs, who gave a shudder in response. “There’s food in the kitchen and blankets out there. Did I mention my liquor cabinet is mostly full?”
Meanwhile, down the hall and in the living room, America suddenly noticed the three booms that resonated throughout the house. He frowned into the dim light of the room, Canada frowning at him.
“What?” Canada said, irritated. “What is it?”
“What time is it?” America wondered. He moved, trying to untangle his legs from Canada’s, and dug his hand into his pocket where his cellphone was nestled. He pulled it out and the screen lit up (fuck that light, it hurt his eyes) and three a.m. was practically yelling at him.
“It’s three a.m.,” America commented. Canada still had his arms around his neck, feeling more and more annoyed that a clock was cockblocking him.
“Okay, and your point?” Canada said. America blinked.
“Don’t we gotta be somewhere tomorrow?”
“Yeah, at seven at night.”
“But—“ and then America was silenced as Canada pushed their faces together once more, silencing the only conversation they’d had in the last half-hour they’d been intensely kissing on the couch. Canada laid down, pulling America on top of him, tightening his hold on America’s neck and kissed him soundly, wanting to get every bit of his taste. America complied, turning his head, nearly grinding into Canada’s slim hips. Canada made sure to make use of his tongue to engage America’s so America would stop talking and just kiss him Jesus America, will you shut up for five seconds?
“Mmm this is makin’ me so sleepy,” America murmured, but he continued kissing with the same amount of fervor. Canada tasted like leaves and sugar and peppermint and it sent a chill down America’s spine. He wanted all that flavor for himself.
“Shut it, America,” Canada mumbled into his mouth. “You’re just sayin’ things.”
“Naw, Canada, y’know what we should do? We should—we should leave the meeting tomorrow,” America began, pulling away and looking excitedly into those violet eyes, “and totally like, have sex in a car.”
“What, are you Poland all of a sudden? Shut the hell up and kiss me,” Canada commanded, and America leaned in and ran his hands up and down Canada’s arms, humming and moaning into his lips, enjoying their own personal vacation.
“Whatever happened to France and England?”
“Pretty sure they’re fucking down the hall.”
“ ‘Kay. Just checkin’.”
The grandfather clock, like a watchful parent, somehow chimed louder when nine a.m. rolled around than before. All four occupants of the house woke with a start, some groaning from the fact they slept half on a couch, half on a person, some sighing heavily as they realized they had yet again had drunken sex. Twice.
The kitchen light had been left on and America trudged into the room, running a hand through his hair and groaning at the sunlight. He stalked over to the kitchen window and drew the blinds, bending over the sink and slapping water on his face and into his hair. He was beyond tired, hungover as hell with a headache to match, and reliving his night over and over again in his head. What he could remember of it, anyway.
“Oh, fuck,” America muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. “Augh. Where are the others? Meh.” He fumbled around in the kitchen and searched for coffee grinds of any kind, but was unable to navigate France’s kitchen. So he put on a pot of water, shoved abandoned liquor bottles aside, and stood at the sink, staring out the kitchen window. His brain was tumbling with the knowledge of what happened the night before; the drinking, the games, the kissing, the touching. He groaned and wiped at his glasses as Canada wandered into the kitchen, plopping down at the small kitchen table and avoiding America’s gaze. America swallowed awkwardly and scratched his head.
“Morning,” Canada murmured, rubbing his temples. “I feel like shit.”
“Join the club,” America said as the water in the pot began to boil. “I couldn’t find coffee, so I’m making tea. Want some?”
“What kind? Caffeinated?” Canada wondered and he looked up at America. America turned and held up a blue box.
“Oh God yes,” Canada said, and gladly accepted the mug America handed to him (while still avoiding touching America outright, regardless of how much he wanted to.) The water was hot and the tea hadn’t even begun to sit but Canada drank it anyway, the burning liquid awaking his senses.
“That’s hot,” America commented lamely, trying to stir the uncomfortable air between them. “Careful.”
“Thanks,” Canada responded, and he blew on the mug and closed his eyes and took another sip, a longer one, filled with flavor. America sat down on the other side of the small kitchen table, mug in hand, and watched Canada over the rim of his mug. The cup was on the warmer side, and the tips of his fingers were hurting, but he didn’t care.
“Um, so,” America started, but his voice was small and weak. Canada opened his eyes and their gazes connected, just across their mugs, and America stared into those bright, violet orbs that captivated him, where the true spirit of Canada was hidden behind a façade of sweet and quiet. Surprisingly, it was America who broke their gaze, looking down at the table, and he missed Canada frown at the loss of the baby blues he’d grown to love.
“Our opening ceremonies aren’t until seven,” Canada murmured. “And we’re not meeting until six.”
“So, why are we awake now?” America asked. Canada shrugged and set his mug on the table, staring down into the steam clouding the air.
“That stupid clock?” he said finally. America nodded. “I’m tired.”
“Me, too,” America said. Neither of them looked at the other, looking everywhere else in the kitchen, although America wanted nothing more than to lock eyes with Canada again and never, ever look in a different direction.
“America,” Canada said finally, voice stern. “Last night, it was—“ but America never heard what last night was, because in that instant he practically threw himself over the table, knocking his mug over onto the floor and grabbed Canada’s face, pulling it to his own and kissing him. Canada’s eyes popped and he made to stand but when his shock passed he found himself enjoying the kiss and the taste, the scent that filled him up and the warmth that seared his soul. It was much, much sweeter than the night before.
Canada closed his eyes and turned his head slightly, hands clasping the edge of the table, allowing his glasses to be shoved up his face and over his eyebrows. He took them off and placed them on the table, laying a hand on America’s neck and parting his lips for him, enjoying the soft sounds of pleasure America was making because of him.
They kissed until their lungs burned and America pulled away, smiling, his eyes slowly opening and practically glowing. Canada sank back into his seat, staring at America, who was still leaning over the table, his hands planted firmly on either side of Canada’s mug.
“Last night was amazing,” America murmured into his ear. “Last night was just what I’d always wanted.”
“Me, too,” Canada admitted, and he felt his face heat up as America kissed his cheek gently. “Except, maybe without the drinking and the hangover.”
“We can try again,” America whispered, and he placed a hand on Canada’s arm and Canada buried his nose in America’s shoulder. In that moment, with Canada’s heart beating against his ribcage, he slid his arms around America’s abdomen and squeezed him into a warm hug, with America wrapping his shoulders up in his strong arms and kissing the side of his head. They just stood and breathed for a moment, until America sat back down in his seat, cheeks flushed, and looked down at the discarded mug.
“Oops,” he said simply. Canada smiled broadly and handed him the mug he’d been using.
“Here,” he said, offering the warm drink. America took the mug from his hand with both hands, except he drew only one hand away, and the other laid on the table, just barely brushing the tips of Canada’s fingers. Canada looked down at their hands and then up at America, who was looking out the window, drinking from the mug.
He didn’t turn around again until he felt Canada’s fingers curl into his own.
“We can’t keep doing this.” France groaned inwardly at the sound of the other man’s voice while buttoning his shirt. This was the part of sleeping with England that drove him crazy; England’s bizarre moral dilemmas the morning after. They had woken up nestled together, as always, with England’s fingers tangled into France’s long blonde hair from where he had been stroking his head the night before. For a moment it felt natural and wonderful, but then it had become strained and awkward as England sat up bolt right, looking equally pained and unnerved.
“You always say that,” France said from the dresser. England was still lying completely nude in the bed, blankets to his chest, nursing his hangover. (You’d think after centuries of drinking he’d get used to massive hangovers.)
“I mean it this time,” England protested. France sighed and turned around, pulling his hair back into a ponytail.
“You always say that, too,” France murmured. He hated the England Morning Afters, no matter how pleasurable the night before had been. France walked back over to his queen-sized bed, one hand on a hip, staring down at England. Bedraggled England, who was pallid and squinting into the sunlight, who was also lecturing him. As always. (Damnit why did he love him so much it was beyond any measure.)
England shifted uncomfortably underneath the duvet. France rolled up his sleeves.
“You should get dressed so we can make sure America and Canada are still alive,” France said as he walked over to his side of the bed. (The left side was always England’s. And it always would be.) He sat down on the duvet and leaned against the headboard, stealing glances at the brooding England. England fumbled with a stray thread in the duvet.
“We can’t keep doing this,” England repeated, softer this time. France closed his eyes in annoyance. “I really mean it, France. I don’t want this anymore.” That was something that took France by surprise. He opened his eyes and furrowed his brow, the air between them suddenly becoming even tenser.
“What?” France said incredulously. This was the only bit of a romantic relationship France could get out of England; saying no to their trysts was like cutting off an addict from his vice cold-turkey. “England, what do you—“
“I don’t want this anymore,” England said again, “because I don’t want... only this.” England stared at the window to his left. The tree just outside the window was waving in a gentle morning breeze. France’s heart tripled in pace. “...I don’t want to just be a booty call, France.”
“You’re not,” France suddenly blurted. He didn’t blush but he felt his face grow hot in embarrassment. “I mean, I think much more of you.”
“Oh really?” England said, and he turned back to France. His face was pink as well.
“Yes. What is it that you want, then?” France asked. He was half-afraid, half-excited for the answer. England wrung his hands in his lap, the duvet screaming back at him.
“I want... to be the only one,” England muttered. “I want you to only sleep with me. I want you to only have eyes for me. I want you to, to think about me when I’m not there.” France’s jaw dropped slightly. Was England trying to be romantic?
“...b-because that’s already what you are to me,” England finished, his voice dying as he spoke. France just stared at England as England looked away, eyes closed, clearly embarrassed and tired and maybe even still a little bit drunk because, did England just confess to him? France just stared at the side of England’s face, his eyes narrowed and practically glaring at the wall. France leaned in closer to England until his breath tickled England’s neck, and he gently leaned his head against England’s, eyes closed. England’s body tensed but he didn’t move away.
Then, after a few moments, England relented and allowed his body to lean into France’s, and he closed his eyes as well, dropping his arms from their crossed stance the smallest bit. France turned his head and nuzzled the top of England’s head, laying petite kisses in his sandy-colored hair. England smelled of spices and roses and chamomile, as he always did. They remained this way, and even though he was dressed France found himself tumbling closer and closer to sleep, lulled by England’s scent and his warmth. France curled his fingers around the crook of England’s elbow and trailed his hand down England’s arm to his hand, which lay limp on the duvet. He snaked his fingers between England’s and gave a gentle squeeze.
“I do only have eyes for you,” France murmured finally, while teetering on the cusp of sleep. “You’re all I think of when you’re not there. You light up every room you step in.” He leaned into England’s ear. “You were always the only one.” England gave a sharp intake of breath through his nose, eyes downcast, and France could feel him trembling under his grasp. England turned his torso towards France, and France shifted so his other arm fell around England’s slim waist, and they nuzzled into the multitudes of down pillows and the warm sheets. England finally trailed his eyes upwards, straight into France’s, who was giving him a tired smile. France leaned forward and pressed a closed-lip kiss to England’s forehead, then kissing his eyebrow, his nose, his cheek, his eyelid, and finally, his lips. Softly, soundly, resolutely.
It wouldn’t be until about seven thirty-four that anyone realized that neither America, nor France, nor England nor Canada had made it to the opening ceremonies of their weekend conference.
And everyone was alright with that.