Rating: M
A/N: A challenge posted to me by a friend to make this idea somewhat fluffy (I tried, okay?) Also, this is the first time I'm trying out this style of writing, so I apologise in advance for any awkwardness!
France and England.
England knows that the concept of them having a happy relationship is one that's quite foreign. He also knows that he really can't blame anyone for being unable to understand their complicated situation. Any flawed conclusions they draw are entirely forgivable considering the messed up history the two of them share, up to the quarrels of today.
After all, it has always been slightly... twisted, even from the start.
England remembers that during their very first time, France had presented him with a single rose and a matching question.
"Angleterre, do you know why red roses are the symbol of love?"
Silence. The drawing of a sword – of two – a quick slash and parry – a sharp hiss…
"Because they're the colour of blood, perhaps?"
(Indeed, during that first time, there had been a lot of mutually shed blood and by the time they were done, the rose lay forgotten in a corner, lying in a pool of darker, crimson red. And England never did get the "correct" answer to that question, but he assumes that that means that his answer was rather accurate.)
In the centuries after, there are many variations as to how things play out each time. There is no absolute constant that determines when or where they meet, or even whether it is France that comes to him, or vice-versa. Everything always happens randomly (naturally) and often, without prior notice.
Perhaps, they are the only constants. Even so, the way they treat each other differs each time.
Sometimes, it starts with an offhand remark in an otherwise innocent meeting – aside from the fact that the bloody frog's gaze focuses on England's cock all too much. England snaps back a sharp retort when this happens (he absolutely does not flush) and things go on from there when France leans in toward England and licks the hollow of his throat before lightly biting it. (England does not moan.) Of course, he doesn't let France do all the work even when things play out this way.
They both like it when England winds his fingers into France's (ridiculously smooth) hair, lightly tugging at their roots to pull him lower and press their lips together. They don't speak much at this point, more preoccupied with savouring each other's taste. England doesn't admit it, but he enjoys searching France's mouth for the traces of chocolate, champagne or wine and the entire slow, languid exchange of flavours before they break away just to breathe.
In these sorts of situations, England usually lets France set the pace – which means it becomes painfully slow. France is all too experienced in the art of teasing and foreplay and England can't help but growl from need when France rims him expertly for what seems to be the millionth time in half an hour. (England begrudgingly mutters his agreement when France smiles and asks him if he enjoyed it later, but that is beside the point.)
In sharp contrast to their first time, England supposes this sort of thing could be considered making love. And that's all nice and good, but England also enjoys it when they play rough. And when he's in the mood - that's when he seeks out France.
These times, there are no pleasantries involved. England gets straight to the point, pushing France on to the nearest surface and stealing a kiss from the other before he can even speak. Sometimes, France resists. Sometimes, he responds eagerly.
England likes it both ways.
He enjoys nipping or outright biting France's shoulder, feeling the sharp tang of blood if it gets to that, and the shifting and flexing of the smooth muscles beneath his skin. From there, it just gets rougher and England is sure that this time, it can't be called making love as much as raw fucking. There's gasps and moans and groans everywhere, and he won't lie that it makes him even harder, to the point where it hurts when France growls his name while England thrusts into him.
And now that their relations aren't as tumultuous as before, England knows that France derives the same amount of pleasure from reliving the old times as he does. He enjoys seeing France sprawled out under him, head thrown back and neck exposed, the same way he knows France enjoys it when the situation is reversed. England leaves a trail of rosy marks behind him as he bites his way down France's collarbone, but he knows better than to think of them as territorial marks. France will never be his; the same way France could never claim England as his own.
That is something that all countries should get – but England supposes that it all boils down to lack of experience for the younger ones. Given another century or two, they'll probably understand.
Countries belong only to themselves.
America visits England whenever a new tale of France's debauchery spreads, and England can tell from his concerned tone that he doesn't understand why England always laughs and tells America to worry about his debt to China instead. He's not the only one to be approached by a worried companion whenever this sort of thing happens either. He has once caught Canada sending France worried looks when France sees England spotting a collection of telling marks and bruises after having disappeared for a couple of days. That look had morphed into one of confusion when France's only reaction was to lick his lips and wink at England.
The truth is, it doesn't mean anything that France chooses to spend many a drunken night in some hotel, accompanied in bed by (most likely) Prussia. It doesn't mean anything that England sometimes accepts Russia's offers of becoming one with him and thus disappears for a couple of days.
(And it absolutely doesn't mean anything at all that even after all the different partners France and England have shared, somehow, they never fail to end up in each other's beds.)
All of that doesn't matter when France wraps his legs around England's hips and whispers roughly into his ears just before he thrusts a final time and comes, dragging England over the edge with him.
They've known each other for an extremely long time; done shameful things to each other throughout all their wars; left scars, both physical and emotional, just because they could.
England doesn't think that what he and France have can be termed by a word such as love or romance. Contrary to popular belief, it isn't even as if France showers affection and declarations of love upon England. In fact, there is no mention of love (except maybe in drunken stupors and that's another matter entirely). But, that's okay, because they don't need it.
No one else can even begin to understand either of them the way the other does. In that sense, even though they'll never belong to each other, they belong together.
That is all either of them really needs – and since they already have it, why wouldn't they be happy?
A/N: A review would be great!