Narroch – It has been far too long since I uploaded anything on here… Senior thesis will do that to you, I suppose. At least I am not alone, this fic was co-written with my talented partner-in-crime RobinRocks. She finally got to me even after I swore up and down that I would never write fic for Hetalia.
RobinRocks – Yeah, I got her. Like Hetalia got the both of us.We were both so up-in-arms about it and swore we'd never like it and… ahahaha, look at that, Hetalia fanfic. This is Narroch's first one – it's my… sixth, I think. I have a horrible feeling it's somewhere around that number, anyway. O.o
Soooo, this fic deals with what is known as the "FACE" foursome – France, America, Canada and England. Not that it's an actual foursome, per se (XD), but it deals with those four characters. It's split into four sections, each from the perspective of one of the four. Ironically, though we didn't plan it out this way, I, being British, dealt with the England and France segments (the European countries) and Narroch, being American, dealt with the America and Canada sections (the North American countries). Not that it necessarily benefits from this little coincidence…
Actually, nothing benefits from anything in this fic. Or no-one. Not even Canada.
(Especially not Canada. XD)
Narroch- Well, we won't clog this AN up anymore than it already is. More "announcements" on the bottom. Please enjoy~
-
It was half past three in the morning and the bar was nearly empty but England was still clinging to the counter, trying desperately to stay on his stool. It was the unfortunate attempt at double-fisting his shots that sent him over the edge as his jilted sense of gravity overcompensated and landed him on the sticky floor with rum drizzling down his chin and neck. He barely felt the impact, cushioned by both his inebriation and America, who had unsuccessfully tried to catch him. The pair of them tangled in a haphazard pile, England dissolved into a giggling slush on top of him.
"You know," America grumbled, "I've had more rewarding friendships than this one."
England didn't even reply, instead slipping into a nursery rhyme sung off-key and with inaccurate lyrics.
"Here's a quack, there's a quack, everyone's a quack quack! Oweeoweeoh!"
"It's E-I-E-I-O, dumbass…" America groaned, sitting up and pushing England off; the inebriated former-Empire rolled to the side and simply continued mumbling blearily to himself. America retrieved his glasses with a disgusted sigh, analyzing the shoddy smears before picking himself up off the floor; he glanced down in irritation as England entwined his arms around his ankles and began to rub his face across his boots.
"Mmmh, 'Merica… You need to take these offff…" England slurred with a little giggle. America completely deadpanned and didn't react to the invitation except to raise a single eyebrow. It was only when England began to lick the leather tops of his boots, dragging his tongue up them, biting at the laces and pulling insistently with a blurry smirk, that America finally decided that he had had enough and half-stepped, half-kicked his way out of England's grasp.
"You're such a useless horny drunk, you know that, right?" America grumbled, glowering down his nose at England.
"But you still… you still love meeee…" The island nation had rolled over and was staring up from the floor with a sappy grin, putting visible effort into keeping his eyes on a straight track; they kept wavering in and out of focus and the blinks were slow and uncoordinated.
"Hey… America… Let's go home, eh? It's too hot in here…" England slurred, pulling awkwardly at his crumpled tie.
America's frown deepened; he knew where the obvious sentence led and he was in no mood to deal with a clingy drunk demanding sex. It always ended this way – they would go out for a friendly drink that would transform into several competitive rounds of hard liquor and a stumbling England who had inevitably drank himself blind. America would then drag the both of them home where England would do one of two things: Either bury his head in the toilet while America held his forehead and rubbed his back or he would sprawl on the bed and whine and bitch and beg until America indulged him and ended up fucking him to sleep.
The first time it had happened, America had been shocked by the wanton behavior and all too eager to do exactly what the former-Empire demanded. It wasn't often that he saw England on his back, spreading his legs and begging for stimulation he couldn't give to himself. Generally he was so prim and proper that the only way he would ever consent to sexual conquest of any sort was if he was on top. Apparently he was still dealing with the continent-sized chip on his shoulder – the fact that America had gotten away from him could only be rectified by invading him in a different sense.
America didn't mind. England was so skillful and domineering that he never regretted bottoming with his former possessor. As long as he was free to leave at the end – free being the most important part – he would allow England to enter him, claim him and force his release.
However, that didn't mean he wouldn't take advantage of the invitation to switch roles when it arose, (America was first and foremost an opportunist) and on so many levels the reversal just felt too good. Once he knew how alcohol changed England's chemistry, he became his inseparable drinking partner simply for possibility (or probability) of the off-chance that he could plow England into the bed that night.
But it was beginning to lose its charm. England, even when bottoming, was still self-centered and bossy, insulting America even as he screamed his name. Not to mention all of the maintenance that came with the territory – paying off their tab, carrying England home, undressing them both, cleaning up their combined mess and even making breakfast for them the next morning whilst England bemoaned his hangover and swore to never drink again.
It was getting old.
America was honestly sick of it and didn't feel like dealing with England's insufferable mood swings. The country was still lounging pathetically on the floor, no doubt soaking up all the evening's spilled drinks into his coat, no doubt expecting America to clean it for him later, no doubt not getting up simply because he expected America to pull him up in the end.
"Come on, England… At least try to stand up," America said irritably as he nudge-kicked at his head.
England just swiped ineffectually at the offending boot and huffed at him, "I'm too drunk to walk… Carry me to my room." He finished the demand with a snippy nod, closing his eyes and waiting to be obediently lifted up.
America felt his eye twitch as the strain proved too much. England, that ingrate, expected to be treated like a princess, pitied and picked up even as he puked and yelled and generally behaved like an ass.
America wasn't having it. Not tonight. Hero's night off or whatever – not that it was unheroic (or so he felt) to leave England sprawled on the floor when it was his own fault that he couldn't get up. It wasn't like anyone, save for England himself, had forced those however-many-it-had-even-been gin and tonics down his throat.
"America!" England's tone cleared enough to be perfectly demanding. "Don't just… just stand there, you idiot!" He lifted one of his arms as though reaching for America's hand.
For a moment, America was almost tempted to just give in and haul him to his feet; the sight of his outstretched hand, as though he really did need America's help, was almost enough to make his barely-birthed vow to leave England to his own devices crumble as he began to lift his arm from his side—
But then England promptly let his hand drop again, laughing.
"Come and get me," he sang, the words bubbling over the giggle in his voice. "I'll make it worth your while, hm…?"
America threw his arms up in disgust, completely losing his patience.
"Look, whatever, okay?" he bit out. "I'm not up for it tonight, England. I'm going the hell home." He gave a sharp, somewhat-sarcastic wave. "Take care."
He promptly turned on his heel, not even bothering to pay off his own tab before storming out of the bar.
Let England see how it felt to stumble around by himself for one night.
—
France was never one to turn down an opportunity; but he was also slightly more cautious than people gave him credit for.
Or crafty.
Either way, he saw that this was a very good opportunity. In fact, it was too good. Too convenient. Too perfect.
He sat nestled in the shadowy crook of his booth with his wine (it wasn't French. Italian, perhaps?) and watched the entire charade play out through the rich film of his cigarette smoke. It was interesting, to say the least. Who'd have thought that even America had it in him to lose his patience? He was usually so good-tempered, particularly with England.
(Well, really, though France wouldn't have minded having his way with either one of them – or both. At once, preferably – he really thought that irritable, grouchy England and silly, annoying America were actually a fairly good match. Dealing with either one of them required the patience of a saint and although the pair of them thought that they were very clever and secretive and good at hiding the fact that they were sleeping together from everyone else, the fact was that everyone else knew that they were sleeping together – whether it was because they practically undressed each other with their eyes across the table at UN meetings or because of that time Germany had opened a closet in the hallway to locate a mop (to clear up the spaghetti Italy had rather promptly spilt all over the floor) and suddenly found England and America tangled up together at his feet – and wished them the joy of each other.)
Tonight, however, it seemed that America wasn't in the mood for any kind of joy that England might be able to offer him (which probably wasn't much, given that he couldn't even stand) and had stomped out like a five year old child.
England, who was still on the floor, didn't appear to have even noticed that America was gone.
It really was the perfect opportunity to slink over there, pull England up and lead him somewhere a bit more private... Or public. France wasn't all that picky. The fact stood that England was so damned smashed that he couldn't see straight and would probably mistake France for America anyway.
However... America. He was the problem. He wasn't nearly as drunk and, sure, he wasn't here right now, but he might come back after his hero-complex kicked in and he started angsting in the corner over how he had left poor defenceless drunk England all by himself; and, really, France liked the arrangement of his facial features too much to risk have them displaced by America's fist if said "hero" found poor defenceless drunk England draped defencelessly and drunkenly over France's lap. Or in France's lap. Or wherever.
Oh, the possibilities. The temptation was almost too much. He watched England finally roll over and grasp at the bar stool and begin to shakily haul himself upwards again and France very nearly got up and stole over there to "help" him (out of the door, down the street and into France's bed—).
However, he gave a nervous twitch as the door to the bar opened, his gaze snapping to it. It wasn't America, but the jolt of... not guilt, and not fear, really, but just... caution, made him realize that he wouldn't be able to enjoy himself if he was constantly looking over his shoulder for America.
He watched England for a little while longer – he still hadn't managed to get up, but at least he was propped against the stool now, laughing again even though he was completely alone. France frowned, almost feeling sorry for him. Almost.
Ah, shame on you, Amérique. He dragged on the corpse of his cigarette. Leaving poor Angleterre all by himself. How unkind you are, you foolish little boy.
He smiled dryly. Perhaps it would serve America right – teach him a lesson in guarding his "property" with a little more care. Ah, but the face thing again. France winced at the thought of it. America was very strong and he had his mood swings, just like everyone else. Look at the hissy fit he had just thrown.
And, well, since France was France, there was no telling what America would do to him – especially since France often felt that America was a little bit jealous of the odd bond the older nation had with England.
(It was hardly an agreeable bond – when England was sober he couldn't be in the same room as France for more than thirty seconds without starting some kind of argument with him – but it was there
nonetheless. It had come from history, from the centuries and centuries before America had even existed and England and France had been at each others' throats as devotedly as always.)
No, if he was going to take full advantage of this opportunity and make America realize that he couldn't go around so carelessly leaving things he cared about in such opportune places where such opportune things might happen to them, he needed a proxy.
Someone America wouldn't get mad at.
Someone it would be easy to mistake for America even if England was stone-cold sober.
France slipped his phone from his pocket and stubbed out his cigarette as he searched for the number he needed; and, he reasoned, even if nothing else came of this, it would be nice to have a conversation in
fluent French for once.
-
The outrageous three digit tab hadn't bothered him (too much), being woken up in the middle of the night by a cryptic phone call from France saying America had left something very important at the bar and to "leave the bear at home" with a small heart tagged onto the end of the conversation hadn't upset him (too much), and being so obviously tricked into babysitting a loud swayingly-drunk island hadn't left him flustered (too much) either.
No, those things hadn't concerned him; he was far too nice for his own good. What had really bothered him, or, more appropriately, made him nervous, was England himself. Or more specifically, the way he was acting. He'd had his chin propped on a shot glass when Canada had first walked in, face falling to the side into a puddle when he cracked both a smile and the glass itself (another addition to the tab). With surprising quickness, England had stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet and flopping into Canada's arms, not missing a beat before snuggling against his chest.
And it was that unabashed forwardness that had made Canada nervous. Made him blush and stutter and curl up into himself with all sorts of swirling anxieties.
"America…" England had mumbled into his jacket.
"B-but England… I'm not…"
England had pulled his face back, flushed and dilated and smelling strongly of juniper, and Canada had trailed off.
"No more talking, take me home now, I can't wait any longer!" England had squeezed tightly, tighter than Canada would have believed him capable of in his state; and Canada had actually let out something of a squeal when England's bad hands shifted down and grabbed his butt, squeezing it equally as hard.
England had broken into a maniacal laugh when he'd heard the reaction, responding appropriately, "No inhibition for meeee! Now you have to take me home or else I will do it right here, right now!"
Canada had had no clue what England was talking about but when he had stolen a look at the bartender – who was glowering dangerously at his last and loudest patron – he'd thought maybe it was best to do as he said and take him home. England didn't live very far away from this pub – one of his favorite haunts – and it was obvious from the UN meetings that the drooling England was America's "important thing". He had better confirmation for their "Special Relationship" than most other countries (though it certainly wasn't the carefully-guarded secret that either involved party thought it was); at one point when he was leaving after a meeting, they had started pulling at each other's clothes and kissing with him still in the room. Apparently they hadn't noticed he was still there. As usual.
Now he knew he was right to have been nervous.
The second the door closed behind them at England's apartment, the island-nation's arm slung over Canada's shoulder, hanging precariously off of the larger country, England began to giggle low in his throat. It actually made Canada jump and look warily down at him. He was thoroughly spooked by the uncharacteristic noise; it seemed to come from nowhere at all, England not even lifting his head as his shoulders jerked, though the sound still filled and echoed around the room like a dark curse.
"England…?" Canada questioned, treading bravely through his trepidation, fighting the urge to drop his creepily-chuckling charge and go right back out the door, drunk or not.
He didn't get an answer – nor a chance to escape – as England suddenly reared up and turned on him, pinning him with surprising strength to the back of the closed door. Canada couldn't help but yelp and cringe at the sudden movement, trying to make himself as small as possible. He hadn't thought England was capable of moving so fast after practically carrying the staggering mess of a country home. But the moment didn't last; England was pressed harshly against him for one second before reeling backwards in a fit of vertigo as it became apparent that sustained balance was no longer a part of his muscular vocabulary.
"England!" Canada cried out, just barely catching him as his knees buckled. England slumped into Canada's arms and nuzzled closer to the warmth as they both sank carefully to the floor, England apparently not even aware he had almost ended up on his back yet again.
"America… I don't want to wait any longer…" England murmured against the material of Canada's jacket, curling his fingers into it.
"England, I told you… I'm not America…"
Canada trailed off quietly, uncertainly. He had just about given up on convincing England of his true identity. Even after explaining who he was to England several times, with him even nodding in agreement, he would inevitably be cut off by England demanding "Shut up, America!" or "America, give me your jacket!", or "America, hurry!" in the very next sentence, completely ignoring anything and everything Canada said. England's ears were obviously stumbling over phonetics just as the rest of his body was stumbling over air (although Canada's characteristic stuttering certainly didn't help either).
"England… W-what are you doing?" Canada asked softly, trying to inject a tense little laugh into his voice, but it only made the question tremble. They were in an awkward position, England folded up between his legs, pressing them both against the door.
It made him nervous.
So did England's slender, warm hands fumbling at the fabric of his jacket, pulling insistently at the buttons with his head pressed against Canada's chest; his panting and squirming, his attempts at pressing their crotches together despite the impossible angle. All of it together, completely unexpected and unasked for, made all the propriety in Canada gather itself up and manifest into a blush reaching from ear-tip to ear-tip.
"E-England!" he gasped, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say. He pushed at England's head, trying to shove him away, but the island-nation clung on tenaciously with a stubbornness born of inebriation. Canada felt England burrow his head deeper, as if trying to bury himself in Canada's warmth; and without warning he also felt the sharp nip of teeth as England bit him through his clothes. Canada yelped and twisted frantically, finally dislodging England and pulling his head up, holding him firmly at arms length.
"Wh-wh-what do you think you are doing?!" Canada shrieked, blushing, flustered, his stomach twisted up into a Jacob's Ladder of knots. Canada pulled his knees up between them, trying to create another barrier as England simply tilted his head; with his half-closed eyes and ruffled hair, he looked as if he had only just been woken up by Canada's shrieking.
"What?" England deadpanned.
The question seemed to throw Canada off more than the actions.
"Well, well… It's just, this isn't… I don't… y-you and I, I mean, I-I…. I'm not who you think I am!" Canada finished in an urgent flustered whisper. England simply stared back, blinking once very slowly before bringing his arms up and placing them on Canada's shoulders, mimicking the hands on his own.
"America," he said with an air of great, almost-exaggerated patience, "I am perfectly aware that I am somewhat sloshed, but, you know, you mustn't play these stupid games with me." He gave another silvery, hiccupping little laugh. "Do you really think you can trick me, you idiot? I raised you, remember? You think I don't know what you look like?!"
"B-but…!" Canada was on the verge of panicking. "England, really, I-I'm not trying to trick you, I-I know you think I'm Amer—"
"Shut your damn mouth, America, for God's sake!" England snapped, growing impatient. "Always have something to say for yourself, don't you? Bleeding brat, fine job I did…"
Canada simply ogled, not quite knowing how to come back at that. It was less the "I raised you" thing (true, in fact – at least, he had partially raised him after wrestling him away from France) and less the "I know what you look like" thing (true – Canada and America did look very alike, being brothers and all) and really just the whole "Not taking "I'M NOT AMERICA" for an answer" thing. What did you say to that?
However, he wasn't even given the chance to counter as England's hands slid up around his neck, drawing him closer.
"Here, let me help you with that last one," England murmured, leaning in past the suddenly-slack outstretched arms and shouldering through the somewhat-feeble defenses until he was pressing his lips softly against Canada's.
The shocked country hadn't expected it and instinctively twitched backwards in surprise; he didn't get very far as his head clunked against the solid door behind him. His eyes widened into white-rimmed panic as England continued to push forward into the contact, strengthening the kiss. It was sloppy, crude, and bordering on painful, but it was the closeness that truly stunned Canada.
Used to being ignored and overlooked, never before had Canada been so close to another country, with their bodies flush against each other, their mouths locked firmly, wetly, in place; he didn't even think to pull away. If not for the rancid taste of alcohol and the alarm bells clanging in his head, a small part of Canada thought he might be able to get used to the alien sensation, relax into the feel of it… Slicked lips, a rough searching swipe of tongue, a small adorable moan plied against his mouth. He returned it with a whimper as England crammed his thigh between Canada's trembling legs.
"America, you're so shy today…" England giggled breathlessly as he pulled back, licking his lips surreptitiously. Canada simply slumped, flushed and dizzy, against the door. He couldn't think straight – a suddenly-awakened libido was clicking across his skull and gleefully pulling at the wires; his body felt hot, his mouth was going dry, and blood was pooling to certain embarrassing unspeakable places.
England didn't pause to scrutinize Canada's blushing face before he dipped down for another clumsy kiss. Canada screwed his eyes shut, tightening the line of his mouth, though it didn't matter since it wasn't England's target anyway. Instead, he felt a long slow swipe of tongue up the side of his cheek, causing goosebumps to bloom over every limb and send a shiver shimmying down his spine.
"Ah! England… This isn't… this isn't right, I'm not…" Canada protested weakly, pushing ineffectually at England's shoulders. The older country just giggled creepily again, pushing harder and laying a harsh bite over Canada's jugular, causing him to whine.
England scrambled on top of him, pinning Canada's squirming form down with his drunken dead weight as his struggles became weaker. Then slower. Then non-existent. England's uninhibited hands had found their target, and he grinned sappily as Canada's muscles jumped embarrassedly in response.
"Issat the Empire State Building, or are you just happy to see me?" England slurred, grinding his hips down onto Canada's. The younger country gasped, eyes going wide as his hips unintentionally rose to meet the stimulation. He felt England's hands moving between them, tugging at their clothes until he was able to dip down beneath the waistline and grip Canada's erection with sticky fingers.
"Hnn… England…" Canada moaned, grabbing at England's wrists; stopping, however, once he had hold of them. He didn't know whether he wanted to fling England's hands off or shove them down deeper, but England took Canada's hesitation as an opportunity to sit up and scoot back enough to pull his pants down. Canada's member suddenly bobbed upright in the air and he honestly felt that he might die from mortification on the spot. He could feel the heat from his blush crawling down his neck and he couldn't help releasing England's wrists in order to cover his own eyes.
"A-America… I want you inside me…" England murmured. He knelt up and began to wriggle out of his pants as Canada continued to shiver in humiliation. He didn't dare pull his hands down, afraid of what he might see, although he could still feel England moving over top of him. He felt the bare thighs brush against either side of his hips, the sudden matching hardness pressed against his own with England's warm hands encircling them both.
He moaned softly, wanting everything to stop but unable to give up the hands that were sending pleasurable sparks down his shaft. They jerked clumsily, England having no better hand-eye coordination in this than anything else, and Canada pressed his hands over his mouth to stop the small cries from falling out as England pinched and pulled. It was far from skilled – it hurt, even – but somehow it was still perversely pleasurable to feel another cock straining against his own. England was also moaning loudly, wantonly, completely making up for Canada's subdued and repressed response.
Until he suddenly stopped.
Canada slowly pulled his hands down to peek up at England and immediately wished he hadn't. It was better not knowing that England was positioning himself over Canada's erection – that, as he sank down onto it, completely dry, Canada could have kept the excuse that he hadn't seen it coming and couldn't have gotten away. As it was, he did see: England's flushed face, mouth hung open in drunken ecstasy as he impaled himself, and Canada simply lay there and allowed it to happen. More than allowed, his loneliness dissolving into a desire that enveloped him, causing his hips to actually buck up and complete the union as a strangled moan was dragged out of him.
It was hot, tight, almost biting into him but still unbelievably better than his own hand. He felt England rocking and gasping, felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes, from the pain or the pleasure or the fact that he knew he wasn't really there in England's drunken mind.
It was too much; for both him and England.
Without warning England began to sway precariously, as though attacked by a sudden spell of dizziness, and Canada was able to tense up just as the still-drunk former-Empire fell over backwards. He winced as his cock was jerked awkwardly down and out of England, who flopped bonelessly to the floor.
Finally free of his oppressive weight, Canada immediately scuttled backwards (even though his cock still felt a twinge at the loss of the tight heat).
England groaned, then whispered breathlessly, "America, I-I need you to… I need you…" And England raised his arms just slightly, as if waiting for an embrace, his face smudged and eyes half-hooded, the expression both pathetic and inviting.
Despite being the one undoubtedly being used, Canada still felt a pang of baseless guilt. It felt like he was intruding on something private, intimate and inappropriate for an outsider. This was between America and England – he had nothing to do with it, though he couldn't just leave England as he was with him thinking he was America. If he simply fled as his instincts were screaming at him to do, England would think America had walked out on him (not that he thought that America didn't deserve a good telling-off for actually – presumably – walking out on England in the first place and landing Canada in this… predicament).
Canada looked down. England's arms were still extended, albeit visibly wavering, his hips writhing in small beseeching motions; panting softly, his ass spread invitingly. Every inch of him seemed to be calling to Canada, begging him to finish what he had so stupidly started.
"America, please, I need you, please… I can't… I can't do it by myself!" England was almost sobbing in frustration, spreading his legs wide enough that Canada could see the glistening ring of muscle.
It was wrong, completely wrong, but Canada still felt his own cock twitch eagerly, felt the abandonment tug guiltily at his attention, and he finally leaned over England.
He heard England breathe a happy sigh of relief as he returned to him.
"Sorry, England… America…" Canada murmured, pressing back into the welcoming warmth with a small broken gasp; breathing his brother's name as a wasted apology, a vocalization of his usual "Don't be angry, don't be angry at me, I'm sorry I'm not who you want me to be, I'm sorry I'm not good enough" behavior. America, I'm sorry. England, I'm sorry I'm not him—
England pulled him close and licked away his tears and whispered in his ear, his voice suddenly gentle and calm and strangely sober ("America, my America, I love you") and Canada buried himself deeper within him as far as he could go and tried his best to stay there.
I'm sorry I'm not him.
-
He hadn't drawn the curtains properly.
Well. Barely at all. Which wasn't altogether unsurprising, given the headache that threatened to rent his skull in twain when he tried to sit up, woken rather rudely by the altogether-too-large slant of morning light streaming in through the gap in the curtains he had no doubt wrenched at drunkenly at three-thirty in the morning.
Hangover. Less of an old friend than a persistent devotee – if 'devotee' was even the right word, especially if he was going to make the jump from the recurrent behavior of his feeling-like-a-train-hit-him symptoms after yet another night of convincing himself that he could hold his alcohol far better than he actually could to America's recurrent behaviour of always being an idiot and yet always being... there.
And, of course, as much as he could credit himself with the patience to put up with America's antics, he had to (grudgingly) give America credit for much the same thing: Putting up with him when he got a little too drunk and couldn't walk straight and had to be carried home while singing some old folk song from the 1550s.
Shielding his aching eyes from the sun with his forearm, he looked to the source of the warmth next to him; mostly submerged under the covers, but he could see the gold hair and the glint of the glasses on the nightstand.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough of a smile to ensure that America would never see it for as long as he lived.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning across and draping himself over his sleeping bed-mate, carding his fingers through what he could see of the blonde locks on the pillow. "I always spoil it for you, don't I?"
No reply. England was somewhat relieved, closing his eyes and allowing the sharp sediment of his headache to settle again as he stilled. He wasn't in the mood for America crowing about having told him so at this time of the morning. It was nicer to just curl up around him and forget that he'd have to admit that the twat had been right – again – soon enough.
He was almost asleep again, matching the rhythm of his breathing evenly to that of the sleeping bundle half-beneath him, when his cellphone went off obnoxiously, making the glasses rattle on the wood. He reached for it blindly, flipping it open and bringing it to his ear without checking the caller ID, still half-asleep.
"Hello?" he mumbled, wedging it between his shoulder and his ear so that he could drape more comfortably over America – who still hadn't woken up. Well, either that, or he was pretending to have not woken up despite the trill of Vivaldi only moments before.
"Oh!" The caller sounded somewhat surprised that he'd answered and was silent for a long moment before collecting themselves. "England! Hey! Honestly, I... didn't expect you to pick up, so... I guess I was just gonna leave you a message or something..."
"Mm?" England was far too sleepy and hung-over to process who was calling him at ridiculous o' clock in the morning to express their shock that he'd deigned to answer their call in the first place and decided not to pretend otherwise. "Why would that be?"
"Because... because, well, I figured you'd be mad at me." There was a pause. "You are mad at me, right?"
England frowned, nuzzling closer to America.
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"Uh..." Another pause, this one decidedly more uncomfortable. "W-well, because..." There was a distracted (fake) cough. "Look, really, I was just calling to make sure you got home alright. You did, right? I mean, you're at home?"
"Of course I'm at home." England was beginning to think that these were all rather personal questions. "It's seven in the bloody morning."
"Okay, okay, don't yell at me. I'm just checking on you because... well, you know, after I went home, I felt kind of guilty, so... um, I guess I figured someone would take pity on you and drag your drunk ass home, but I just thought I'd check that you weren't dead in a gutter or something, because..." There was a nervous little laugh. "Huh, that would kind of suck."
"Mmmh, that would, ah, suck..." England trailed off lamely, unsure how to finish the sentence.
There was a niggling thought in the back of his mind, some suspicion that struggled against the headache to find words and point out the screamingly-obvious discrepancy that his hung-over common sense refused to acknowledge. Instead all he could manage was to get annoyed and confrontational.
"Look, I don't know why this is any of your business to begin with... Why were... Were you following me last night or something?"
There was a confused pause; even England could sense it through the residual fog of alcohol.
"I, uh... We went out together, remember?"
England sat up, finally giving proper attention to the conversation as the suspicion prodded him into action.
"Who is this?" he asked, still struggling with his equilibrium and the epiphany that refused to be drawn out.
"A-America... Who did you think it was?" The incredulity was audible.
"America? But... you're here with me..." England glanced at the flash of gold, the glasses, as though to assert himself more clearly – to be perfectly sure that he wasn't hallucinating.
"What are you talking about? I... left you at the bar last night, remember?" There was a sliver of guilt in the voice, but it was mostly overridden by indignity.
England balked, vaguely remembering something about yelling and doors slamming. It was enough to turn the suspicion into full-out apprehension.
"Wait... If you didn't take me home last night..." England snapped his head over to stare at the guilty patch of gold sprouting from the covers.
Gold. And the glasses. Two of America's most prominent characteristics.
"England?" America – the America on the other end of the phone and not the "America" who'd been on the other end of his drunken advances (and conquest) last night – sounded both uneasy and a tad annoyed. "What's... Do you... have someone there with you? In bed, I mean?"
France? Oh, god, please... The hair's about the right length... No, no, the glasses...
Ignoring America twittering irritably in his ear, England hesitantly reached towards the covers shielding his unknown bed-mate from view and, after a long moment's dreaded deliberation, snapped them back.
"If you didn't take me home last night," he repeated, speaking over America rather than to him as he looked at the sleeping face of someone he felt he should recognise because he knew him but at the moment only recognised because he really, really did look almost identical to America (so England knew he couldn't blame the alcohol entirely for this fuck-up), "then who...?"
-
Narroch – I totally stole three lines from three movies in here. Find them? XD
RobinRocks – This took far too long to write. Like, srsly.
Narroch – It's true… What started out as a one-page-shenanigan turned into a week-long-fic with potentially-damaging character development! Byah! And what else is funny (at least to me) is that the last thing we wrote together, actually in person, physically flesh-and-blood together, was the final chapter of Small Print. Holy cow, I can't believe we got through PA with nothing but spacky emails… Anyway, this was planned as a humorous one-shot but it turned out to be quite unintentionally angsty. Automatically lends itself to a continuation, so expect a chapter two at some point in the future.
Anyone going to AnimePunch? We will both be there hosting the Hetalia History panel. It is on Friday at 8pm, come by and see us!
Guess that is it! Thankyou for reading! We hope you enjoyed… ~
Narroch & RobinRocks
xXx