This is a de-anon and repost from the kink meme. Original request:
Marriage equality bill for England and Wales just received the royal assent! Someone write anything about it please! (And well done, Arthur, by the way, I am so happy!)
A/N: So, I found it really amusing that France passed marriage equality, then England quickly followed (pulling Wales along with him). Because, you know, keeping up appearances and such (no, but seriously, I'm so very proud of them all!). Sorry it turned out to be mostly PWP...so, uh, warnings for smut, heh.
Egalité/Equality (July 17, 2013) , a FrUK fic
by crashedtimemachine
"So, you finally did it, mon ami..."
England doesn't bother to raise his head from the papers he's scratch-scratching at with his trusty fountain pen (ballpoints are cheap and tacky, he insists). Instead, he keeps working and mumbles, "Go away." His tea is cold and his back hurts from remaining hunched over the desk for too many hours on end.
"Oh!" France places his hand over his heart and mimes a dramatic faint, falling gracefully into the chair across the desk from his rival/enemy (and sometimes, something else more enigmatic). "You wound me!" He drapes himself across the sensible brown fabric, leg dangling over the arm, completely at home in his office.
England can feel France staring at him, and it's annoying like an itch in the roof of his mouth (it's distracting), so he calmly lays the pen across the top of the page and sits back in his swivel chair. His vertebrae crack and pop in several places. He glowers at his ruined tea. "What are you doing here, frog?"
"I came to congratulate you, of course." France is grinning and England knows better than to think that's the end of it, a gut instinct immediately vindicated when France continues, "For joining the modern age and realizing that all people are sexual beings and they should be free to express-"
"What are you going on about?"
"Marriage, of course!" France gazes around the room, very obviously, as if to make a point. "Why, it was in this very room, do you not remember? You rejected me, of course, but, well, perhaps you weren't ready to accept that two men of our-"
"Is that why you're here?" England rolls his eyes. "Get out."
"But, Angleterre, today is a day for celebration!"
"I don't see why you're so keen to celebrate. I hear your lot nearly rioted in protest." England pauses then, thinking about what he's said. "Though, I suppose that's no different than a normal day in Paris."
"My people are quite opinionated, I must admit, but...ah, non, non, non," he makes a tsking noise with his tongue here, "You won't distract me so easily. I'm here to save you from paperwork. Have a drink with me."
He tries, England honestly does, to say no, but then he looks down at his tepid tea and his ink-splotched hands, and his handwriting, which over the last hour has deteriorated into nothing short of chicken-scratch (only Alfred's can compare, and that's enough to compel him). "Fine, fine," he mutters.
"What is this? No argument? No 'go to hell, you bloody wanker?'" France feigns shock.
But then he's standing. He's reaching out, and he's taking England's hand. He's escorting him toward the door like gentleman, opening it, playing the part so well that for a moment, England actually thinks, he's really rather dashing when he tries.
"Just one drink. In celebration. I suppose."
Naturally, a few hours later, they're both completely pissed.
"Liberté, égalité, fraternité!" France raises his glass toward England.
"Yeah, right, all that rubbish. Equality and such." But he's smiling when he raises his own mug, and that's enough. His people are happy. There is peace, at least here, at least for now. Yes, that's certainly enough.
When France not-so-subtly slides his hand up England's thigh, he can't think of a single excuse to protest given the reason for their impromptu celebration. Instead, he leans a little closer, his shoulder butting against France's, and murmurs something that makes France chuckle softly. They stumble out into the street together, all elbows and knees and awkward giggles and grins.
France slips his hand into England's and laces their fingers together, and they both freeze for a breath. Then, he squeezes ever so slightly, and England's cheeks burn and he looks away.
But he doesn't let go.
Just for today, he supposes, it's okay.
On some level of his subconscious, he knows that they've been gravitating toward this moment ever since France entered his office. Their inertia will carry them home, and into his bed, and there will be nothing to stop them but their trampled inhibitions. (In fact, it happens very much along these lines, except they never make it to the bed. They barely make it in the front door.
It's all very scandalous.
)
They stumble up the handful of steps to England's flat, where he fumbles in his pockets for his keys until France gets impatient and pulls out one of his own, clumsily slipping it into the lock.
"WHY DO YOU HAVE A KEY TO MY FL-?"
The oncoming diatribe is cut short when France captures his lips with his own and swallows his words down along with his breath and dignity and self-control and oh god, it has been too long, hasn't it, and he's only faintly aware of the front door being kicked closed-if he scuffed it, there will be hell to pay!
The back of his head thunks against the door rather painfully, but he's not going to let France win (not this time), so he presses one palm into France's chest and tangles the other into his blond hair and he push-pulls him at once. In their ensuing struggle for dominance, they bump a lamp that nearly topples over and a curio cabinet full of figurines, and they end up in the den where France pins England over the back of a rather ugly loveseat.
"This is an antique!" England growls, more indignant over the fact that it's him bent over it, than out of any concern for the couch.
"I know; I was there when you bought it." France is leaning over England's back and grinding against him. "And, I'm sure, that time, we were in similar positions, non, Ang...le...terre?" He's mouthing the words against the shell of his ear, and his hot breath ghosts across England's cheek.
"We m-most certainly were...ngh...not," England tries to retort coolly, but his fingers are clawing into the fabric and the way France is grinding against him mixed with the swirling buzz of the alcohol is making it hard to form his lips around the words. His blood sings in his veins for something more, and France is already hooking his fingers into England's slacks and sliding them down his hips.
He pushes back, impatiently urging France to hurry with the clothing. They're not virginal maids; they've done this enough times that they can map one another's scars from memory, so they quickly shrug the clothes away and France produces a small bottle of lube from somewhere (probably carries it in his pocket in case of 'emergencies,' damn perverted...ngh). His fingers are cold and England tells him as much, voice thick with desire and beer, and France laughs and slips them inside: one, more. The heat of England's body quickly warms them, and he doesn't complain again.
It's been a while, so it's understandable that he winces when the fingers are replaced by the true object of his desire, and, oh, oh, why did I resist for so bloody long?
And then France is moving and England is lost and the world around them melts away in a symphony of gasps and moans, curses no proper gentleman should know, and France's soft laughter between breaths.
..
French translations:
mon ami = "my friend"
Angleterre = "England"
Liberté, égalité, fraternité! = "Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood!" (motto of France)