A/N: Dis oneshot... honhonhon, dis oneshot. Sexy as hell. Listen to the song while reading, and double sexy as hell. Wish our cosplay group could do a CMV of it - but sadly, it's hard to make my basement look like a bar.
England was sick of being a gentleman. He was sick of having the other nations—one in particular, mind you—pass him off as some depressed old stick in the mud, when really, he was only acting like it. He was tired of holding everything in; the stress, the anger, the hate, the joy, the mischief, and the animal as well.
So letting go for one night couldn't possibly hurt, now could it?
He shot himself a smirk in the mirror, slinging the comfortable old jacket from his punk days over his shoulder and giving himself a quick once-over. Messy blond hair with that cowlick in the back (he hadn't even attempted taming it; all resistance was futile) and piercing green eyes stared back at him, his slim form clad in a comfortable band t-shirt and his old skinny jeans rather than the usual stiff business suit or military uniform. This was so much more... fun. And so much more like him, too. Why didn't he still dress like this all the time?
Oh, right. Because he was a gentleman.
"Well not tonight, I'm not," he muttered, shrugging the jacket on and heading out the door with his shoulders back and a smirk on his lips.
"Whoa, damn. Is that England? I didn't even know he still had any of those clothes..."
France looked up from his drink, following Prussia's gaze through the window to the messy-haired Brit who was now striding up to the door of the club with a confidence he hadn't seen in ages. Prussia whistled, laughing incredulously and taking another swig of his beer. "He's lookin' pretty awesome, considering the meeting was in London this morning..."
France just looked over to where England was pulling the door open and stepping inside, shrugging off his jacket with the Union Jack sewn into the well-worn leather and draping it over his arm. His eyes wandered downward and widened slightly. Dieu... those jeans were tight.
Almost everyone had looked up and was eying him with newfound interest; if France hadn't known better, he would've called it something akin to amazement as he watched England run a hand through the back of his hair, trying subconsciously to get that annoying spike to stay down, and only managing to make it messier. France shook his head to clear it of the word sexy.
England's brilliant green eyes sparkled as he looked around and smirked slightly before turning to America, who had just approached him with a little more enthusiasm than was to France's liking.
"Sorry I'm late to my own party," England said, just a hint of smugness hidden in the heavy British accent of his voice. The darting of his eyes and the slightest little smirk quirking those full pink lips told France that he knew everyone was watching him, and he saw Japan over there in his corner with blood seeping between the fingers of the hand covering his nose, and that even France's own discreet gaze hadn't slipped by unnoticed—but despite that, he'd been the first to appear to be paying him no attention.
America shook his head, laughing. "No prob, Iggy! Can I get you a drink?"
France's stomach dropped a bit as he watched England walk away with the obnoxious American, hips still swaying with that little seductive bit of confidence, every step he took.
Germany said he was just cocky because the meeting had been held in London this time; China wondered whether England was wearing some kind of eyeliner, the way his green eyes shone and glistened under the dim and flashing club lights; Poland said that the look was 'like, so totally him'; and Hungary had been slipping her camera up over the bar to snap photos of England as he and America hung out together on the edge of the dance floor, laughing and talking animatedly.
The night outside the club had grown cool and pitch-black, a huge contrast to the steamy, flashing environment in here. France was enjoying himself, being his usual smooth self and flirting playfully with the pretty barmaid, but secretly, his heart wasn't in it. His heart was chasing after the messy-haired Brit who was currently laughing with America at the edge of the dance floor.
Prussia had been annoying West just for the hell of it, but now he flopped down at the bar next to France, wearing a slight smirk that told France he knew everything that was going on in his head.
"You keep glancing over there every five seconds, Fanny, and sooner or later he's gonna notice," Prussia told him matter-of-factly, the mischievous look in his scarlet eyes making France laugh. Prussia slung an arm around the Frenchman's shoulders, dragging them both away from the bar and into one of the darker corners of the club, where no one would notice them plotting.
"Look; I know you like England, and don't even try to deny it, because it's obvious as hell—but you seem to be convinced that he hates you with every fiber of his being," Prussia said with a roll of his eyes, and before France could protest that England did hate him with every fiber of his being, the Prussian was moving on with his rant, taking another swig of his beer. He tightened his arm around France's shoulders, turning him to look at America and England, who were now dancing together in the flashing strobe lights with an enthusiasm that made France want to stomp up there and yank their two bodies apart, kiss England, and then punch America dead in the face. But he wasn't jealous; oh, no, he was definitely not jealous...
Well, that was a lie.
Prussia's voice jolted him back to reality. "You know how I know he doesn't hate you?" he demanded. France shook his head, still watching the two; England had stopped dancing just long enough to turn around and throw a glance over to where France and Prussia had been sitting at the bar a few minutes before. The Brit's thick eyebrows furrowed just slightly as he did another sweep of the club, then finally turned back to America again.
Prussia laughed, shaking his head. "That's how! He's been doing that all night. He's looking to see if you're noticing him, you dummkopf. He knows the tricks too, France; he's trying to make you jealous by leading America on."
France looked at Prussia disbelievingly for a moment, and finally the Prussian simply shrugged. "I can guarantee you that if you were to just grab him and kiss him right now, you'd be able to get him in bed so easy you'd think he was some whore who just dressed up like England just to get a good fuck." Prussia smirked. "Of course, this is also the only time I've seen him refrain from getting completely pissed before ten-thirty, too, so there's more proof he's a man with a mission."
France still looked a little unconvinced, and finally Prussia just clapped him on the shoulder and walked away. "Just think on that, bro," he called over his shoulder, before heading back over to the bar for another beer.
By midnight, the lights were low and America and England were getting quite a bit too cozy for France's liking, their hands brushing, faces close under the lights, and France was watching out of the corner of his eye with a murderous vengeance boiling just under the surface. He was determined not to be the first one to snap under this tension, though; if England wanted him so badly, let him come and get him.
And even despite Prussia's scolding, a tiny part of him was afraid England would shove him away if he was the first one to make a move.
So France just sat back and watched as America hit on his England, trying to ignore the way his hands were wandering now, slipping behind the Brit's neck, running over those slim, graceful shoulders and coming to rest at the small of his smooth back. France sighed, turning away, and ordered another wine.
Japan had disappeared into the bathroom with another nosebleed about fifteen minutes ago; Poland was completely and utterly sloshed and giggling about something with Lithuania; Russia had kidnapped China and disappeared with him into a closet under the pretenses of them getting away from Belarus's stalking and Korea's groping, and no one had seen any sign of them since; Spain and Prussia were singing loudly in a corner, much to Romano's dismay ("DON'T JUST IGNORE ME, YOU FUCKING TOMATO BASTARD!")—although Prussia still had a pretty good stretch to go before he could be classified as drunk; and Germany had been blushing profusely when North Italy climbed into his lap and started kissing all over his face five minutes ago, but now France was stealing some glances at their heated snogging session, that in... oh, another ten minutes, would have some pretty good grinding involved, and five minutes after that would mean the two of them disappearing into a closet as well.
Almost the entire club was slowly but surely hooking up, and France gritted his teeth as he watched America take England's hand and stumble with him, weak with laughter, off the dance floor and over to the corner table where both of their jackets had been abandoned on the backs of the chairs. England was clearly not drunk yet, but then again, it was obvious he'd been having a great time, his green eyes sparkling with utterly sexy mischief, hair messy and hot as ever, and skin shining slightly under a thin layer of sweat from all the dancing.
France licked his lips; he just wanted to pin him to the wall and fuck him until he screamed.
Now America was sitting down, giving England's hand a tug as the Brit tried to go around the table to his seat across from him, and patting his lap invitingly. England hesitated a moment, glancing around the club, and France was glad he'd just gotten up to move to where Prussia currently had his arm looped around Austria's waist, and the two of them were currently engaged in what looked like an extremely amusing conversation. After another second's reluctance, England turned back to America and climbed onto his lap with a smirk that somehow France could see from all the way across the club and holy fuck, he wanted that smirk pointed his way—
He shook his head to snap himself out of it, laughing at something Prussia had said, but still couldn't tear his eyes away as America was leaning in closer, closing his eyes, letting his forehead come to rest against England's, who was now straddling his lap. England's eyes fell closed, but flickered open uncertainly a moment later, darting around again, and suddenly they locked with France's.
England's reaction was immediate; he yanked abruptly away, climbing off of America's lap and stalking away, leaving a very bewildered American in his wake as he whirled around to come stomping toward France, who suddenly realized he'd been caught and Prussia had been wrong and that he was now in for a beating. He stumbled backward until his back collided with the wall, and then England was on him, in all his British fury, crossing his arms and glowering up at him.
"You're a fucking bastard, you know that?" England hissed, aiming a kick at France's shin, which he barely managed to avoid. England snorted scornfully. "Stupid, too. Guess if you're this thick, I'll have to just take what I want."
And then his hands were behind France's neck, yanking him down, and the last thing France saw was England's green eyes, sparking with rage, before their mouths collided for a messy kiss.
And suddenly, even Germany and Italy's grinding session was put completely out of his mind.
He let his eyes slip closed, kissing back hard, feeling England relax a little as his hands slid up to tangle in France's silky hair and pull him closer, and shivering as France groaned and slid his hot tongue along his lower lip, asking for permission. England parted his lips with a heavy moan and pushed even closer to allow it inside, his arms finding their way up and around France's neck, kisses growing deep and fast and heated as he lifted his legs to wrap them around France's hips and let the taller man hold him up, groaning again and finally breaking the kiss.
"Fuck, you're sexy," France muttered, giving England one more kiss before gently setting him down, only now aware of the cheering and whistles echoing throughout the club as he hugged England close to him. America was in the front of the crowd of nations, clapping and grinning, and he shot England a wink that the Brit returned with a laugh. France glanced between them a couple times, completely bewildered, before America caught his gaze and shrugged.
"I gotta get home to see Mattie; I promised him I'd be back before two," he grinned, before giving the couple a fleeting wave and bouncing away.
France shook his head to clear it of the notion that he should know who 'Mattie' was; now he was just starting to understand what had been happening all night, and turned with a glare to England. "...You seriously teamed up with him? To piss me off?"
England shrugged. "To make you jealous, yeah," he said offhandedly.
France growled and stole another quick, hard kiss from him, looping his arms around the Brit's slim waist and resting his chin on his shoulder protectively. "Mine," he murmured, pressing another gentle kiss to England's smooth neck.
England kissed his jaw in return, carefully turning their faces to rest their foreheads against each other. "No, mine," he whispered, kissing France again so softly it barely counted as anything more than a gentle brush of their lips.
"And here comes our first fight," France muttered in return, smiling slightly and letting his eyes fall closed peacefully.
"So why can't I bring myself to get worked up over it?" England's breath ghosted over his face, and France chuckled, bringing their lips together for another kiss.
"No idea."
Lol, AmeCan saves the day, eh! I love this one. Anyway. *insert stereotypical plea for reviews here*
...Pweaz?
Whether You Review or Not, Love from Maple