It was late in the afternoon when the world meeting finally came to a close. Dazzling streaks of the golden sunset gave the conference room a warm and lazy feeling as the nations began to file out, chattering idly amongst themselves. Alfred was disrupting the small talk of Arthur and Kiku, as was common between the three. Ivan was following an increasingly-irritated Yao around the room, his topics of speech jumping from pandas to pipes to winter and anything else in between. Natalia was, of course nearby, and at the ready with her butcher knife, her eyes bearing down on the Chinese personification with pure abhorrence. Tino stood behind a groggy-looking Berwald and, in a rare gesture of specific affection, was gently massaging his shoulders. Peter watched in light detachment, falling asleep as well after a long day of listening to the world's powers debating and arguing.
The pure normalcy of the odd happenings around him brought a smile to Francis' face.
The normalcy, and the fact that Antonio was within his hands' range.
"Are you busy now, Francis? Because if you're not, I've got this aquarium at my house I'd love for you to come and see. It's full of tropical fish and colorful corals, and we've even got a whale and penguins! I know you'd love it, although Lovino might not be too pleased, since I'm bringing him along too…"
Francis' hands had only spent a moment on the Spaniard's shoulders, moving steadily down his body to caress his torso, squeezing and pushing in a massaging movement that Antonio subconsciously leaned into.
"Mm, that's nice, 'Tonio…"
"-can't understand what he has against you. I mean, after all, we're all our own nations now and we all know you'd never try to take over his lands again. He goes on and on about your 'improper intentions' or something along those lines. I never understand it, and then he gets so angry and starts throwing tomatoes. He makes messes in my house and then goes home and leaves me to clean it up, I wonder if he needs anger manageme-"
Francis pressed his body almost roughly to Antonio's warm back, now lovingly stroking his belly through his shirt with one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on the center his chest, making circles with the bottom of his palm. The Spaniard smelled sweet and spicy and felt warm, a mixture well fitted with an evening date on a beach somewhere. Perhaps in southern Italy…
"-even when he was a child, he would always color obscene things all over my walls and break glass and good china and tear apart paintings and shatter my pretty crystal, and the endless smashing of the tomatoes, I tell you! I bought and made him toys to break so he'd leave my things alone, and those things are still sparkly and practically new. What a strange b-ah? Francis? Do I have something stuck to my pants?"
The Frenchman's fingertips stopped in mid-grope; was his ignorance finally starting to wear off? A silent prayer was sent to whatever deity happened to be listening before Francis spoke.
"Non, mon ami, but you've been sitting so long that your muscles down here," he gave a light squeeze of emphasis, "must be tensed and on the verge of aching. You're such a good friend to me, mon 'Tonio, I simply can't allow that."
Another moment of silence.
"Oh! Well, keep doing what you're doing, then! Thank you, Francis, you're really my best friend."
Another, particularly fond squeeze to the Spaniard's rear followed this statement.