And there was the third casualty of this encounter, thought Arthur, in time with the smooth crackle of seems stretched too far. There were plenty of other, more effective things to tie his wrists with. There was no reason to have chosen his favorite shirt. "You couldn't have used something that wouldn't rip," he complained.

"It won't rip if you don't struggle," the stupid twat whispered, silkily.

"You have already ripped it," Arthur corrected. "You have also already taken my belt. You couldn't have used that, of course, it wouldn't have been damaged."

"I have other plans for that, my whiny little friend."

That sounded promising enough. Arthur was still raising a speculate eyebrow when the belt hit him with a solid thwack in the center of the chest.

You'd think the stupid bastard would have more respect for clothing, Arthur thought, panting delicately and spreading his legs wider. Perhaps it was simply Arthur's clothing that didn't deserve the attention. Yes, pondering Francis' amused little grin, Arthur was more and more convinced that this was the case. God forbid Arthur ruin a shirt of Francis'. There'd be no time for sex between all the whining. "Harder, dammit," he hissed, tilting his head back to keep from getting hit in the face. He'd liked that shirt. He ought to start sending a bill.

The other man shrugged. "As you like."

Arthur closed his eyes and waiting for the impact. It didn't come. "God dammit, Franci-" Ahh. Ah, there it was. He let out a breath, the sting just starting to set in. God. "Again!"

"Bossy, bossy," tutted the other man, in the amused, patronizing voice that invariably made Arthur want to strangle him. With his wrists tied, of course, he wasn't obligated to do so; luckily, since if he had, he'd have to follow up on the gesture, and he just wasn't in the mood. Sometimes all you really need is a good… He was still uncomfortable with the end of that thought, so he simply didn't think it.

He was rewarded for his tolerance when the belt hit him with another solid smack. He exhaled, shakily. "You're alright?" The voice was solicitous, and infuriating.

"If you ask me that again, I shall sever your dick and sodomize you with it."

Francis laughed. "I do not think that would work, friend."

Arthur opened his eyes, and stared. "Francis! I am going to murder you! Are you going to beat me, or stand there making conversation?"

The man shrugged eloquently, raising the hand with Arthur's belt, and aiming another hard thwack at the center of his chest. Arthur barely had time to mourn the equipment that he had not brought with him to the conference—they would be concentrating on policy-making, it was hardly the time for such things, he'd thought; he really should have known better by now—before the belt was coming down again, and again. Soon he was breathing hard, small sounds escaping him with every hit, and the warm, disconnected feeling was starting in his chest, and—was that the door?

"What the fuck?"

Arthur and Francis startled, and looked up as one. Arthur had one moment of shock and disbelief, and then closed his eyes in resignation. Of course. Nothing with those two had worked out properly since 1776.

"Alfred, my dear," came the oily voice. "Isn't it customary to knock?" Then the tirade began, and Arthur could only close his eyes and wait.

It would look... Well. He hadn't looked in the mirror, the scratches down his front would be scabbing, and then there were the welts from the belt. Bruising, from yesterday- they didn't always fuck all week long at conferences, but this week wasn't one of the exceptions- and not a few teeth marks. All under the shirt, of course, although now that the children had made their appearance, he doubted there was anyone in the G8 who would really be scandalized.

All of these thoughts entered and left his mind in the time it took Alfred to charge through the door and pin Francis against the wall by the throat, shouting and carrying on like the world was ending, nearly shaking in anger. He opened his eyes, finally, supposing that there was nothing to be done but try and deal with the situation. He glanced at Matthew briefly, but there would be no help from that quarter; the boy looked just as stunned and hurt as his brother (Arthur believed that the human terminology came from Alfred; the boy could be stubborn about imposing human standards of intimacy on his relationships with other countries. He remembered when he'd asked if he could call him "Papa," and shuddered).

Well. He supposed there was nothing to be done for it.

"Alfred," he said, closing his eyes. "Alfred!" he said again, louder. Finally, the deluge stopped long enough for him to get a few words in. "There is no problem here."

"England! What do you mean, there's no problem? You look like—You look—"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "I know perfectly well what I look like, and thank you very much for bringing it to my attention. Francis, if you please...?" He tugged at his wrists meaningfully.

"Of course," said the man, and tried to pull away from Alfred, but the boy tightened his grip.

"You're not going near him, you son of a bitch!"

"Very well, then," said Arthur, with resignation, and not a bit of testiness. "Matthew, if you would be so kind as to undo my wrists?" As the other boy crept to obey, Arthur sighed, and steeled himself for what was undoubtedly to be a deeply unpleasant conversation. "Alfred. I don't suppose you could be convinced to let this drop." He opened his mouth to reply, but Arthur took one look at his face, and cut him off. He knew that expression. He had become intimately familiar with it in the years since the Second World War. It said, I am going to help you, whether you like it or not, and he found himself thinking with longing of the boy's days of isolationism. "No, I suppose you couldn't. Well." And he sighed again, rubbing feeling back into his stinging wrists.

Alfred, the yappy little brat, took advantage of the pause. "England! You- you can't let him do shit like this to you! I mean, I know you're not as powerful as you used to be-" Arthur twitched, "-but this is so totally not the way to work with that, you know? You could, uh, maybe see a therapist, or-"

"—Alfred," interrupted Arthur, loudly, so as to be heard over the boy's continued yattering and the snickers from his dear old enemy. "I am aware that in your part of the world, 'French kissing' is still considered a dangerous deviation, but in Europe we are a little more advanced. Now, would you please get out of my hotel room?"

He'd thought that was a rather convincing argument, but Alfred's expression simply hardened. "I dunno what shit you're saying about kissing, but this is fucked up! England, he was hitting you, really hard, and you're all bleeding and shit, and…" Was the child going to cry? Good Lord, deliver him from unduly emotional well-meaning fools who interrupted his evenings with their puritanical ramblings. He shot a look of appeal at Francis, who—still pinned to the wall by the throat—shrugged. The message was clear. Bastard. Matthew, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.

"—Alfred," he repeated. "This sort of activity is part of an arrangement between Francis and myself that goes back far before you started barging into other's private residences and trying to rearrange their bedroom habits. Now I must ask you—"

The boy interrupted again, and yes, his eyes did look disconcertingly wet. "Just because you've done it for a long time doesn't mean that—"

"I requested that Francis beat me this evening," said England, loudly, "because I find it sexually gratifying. Is that clear enough for you?"

Alfred gaped, letting go of Francis—who, Arthur observed with pleasure, was rubbing his neck in obvious discomfort—more out of surprise than anything. Matthew, sensible lad, tugged on the other boy's sleeve. "I think we should go, Al-"

But Francis, having gotten his breath back, shook his head. "No, children. Sit."

Arthur stared at him in disbelief. "You've gotta be shitting me." Then he mentally cursed. Some of his less refined dialects tended to come out at moments like these. "You truly intend to have a discussion about this? There's nothing to discuss! Get them out of here, and we can…"

"No, Arthur," said Francis, and he didn't even smirk. "We shall not simply pretend this didn't happen." Arthur sighed. That was exactly what he would have done. "I will not allow them to leave thinking what they think right now." And the fool looked so serious that Arthur had no choice but to look away. "Boys, sit down." The two of them, still looking a little shell-shocked, sat down in tandem on the second couch. It was always dangerously cute when they did things like that. Francis- the traitor- sat down across from them, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. It was his serious conversation pose.

Realizing this with trepidation, and steeling himself, Arthur unrolled his shirt and struggled it on, hands still trembling a little as he tried to do up the buttons. He didn't even bother to mentally gripe.

"The giving and receiving of pain," began Francis, "is a non-mainstream sexual practice." Good Lord. Heintended to make this into some sort of sexual education course. Arthur shot him a glare, which, he ignored.

Naturally, Alfred interrupted. "What, like… with leather and chains and shit? Some of my children are into that, but I always thought they were just fucked up or something…"

Francis, looking bemused, said "Well, yes, I suppose leather and chains can be involved, but they are hardly the end of the story. And, while there has been much debate about this sort of sexuality over the past century or so-" of course, thought Arthur bitterly, of course Francis would keep up with the state of sex-related scholarship, "—people like us have always had a, ah, more relaxed approach."

Arthur wasn't entirely comfortable with that statement—he rather thought Francis was talking about himself—but the last thing he wanted to do was to draw the attention of the little terror, so he stayed quiet. Alfred's face was turning an unattractive red, like someone with a terrible sunburn, and Matthew was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Only Francis appeared composed, as he began to unbutton his shirt. "As you can see," he continued, lowering the shirt off his shoulders, and turning to display his back, "I also engage in this sort of loving."

Alfred gaped. "England did that to you?"

Francis looked away evasively. "Yes, well, ah—" Arthur had been meaning to ask him about that; where had he gotten those? It hadn't been Veneziano or Alfred; to his knowledge Francis had never slept with Kiku, and Ludwig didn't engage in that end of this sort of thing anymore, "—yes, as I was saying, the giving of pain can be an expression of love, just like any sort of bedroom game." Arthur coughed at the "L" word.

Alfred, bewildered, turned to Arthur. "So... you wanted him to do that to you?"

Arthur put his face in his hands. "Yes, Alfred. As I informed you at the beginning of this conversation."

There was silence. "That's... that's kind of... weird, guys."

Francis shrugged. "We are weird fellows, dearest."

No one spoke. "Well," said Arthur, hurriedly. "If that's all, then-"

But Alfred interrupted him, the same stubborn look on his face that he'd had all those years ago when he started talking about mercantilism and taxation without representation. Arthur winced internally. That expression never meant anything good.

"Do it to me."

"What?" Arthur realized with annoyance that they had spoken in tandem.

"Do it to me," he repeated, stubbornly. "So I know you weren't hurting him." All three of them stared at him. "Well, uh, hurting him in like- a bad way?"

Francis stared at him, mystified. "Alfred- this is, ah, a sexual thing. Are you sure that's what you want?"

The boy nodded, the mulish expression set on his face. Arthur sighed. "Lad, even if you do get comfortable enough with the sexual bit—have you even had sex?"

"Sure I have!" Arthur couldn't help feeling like the tone was slightly defensive.

"Well. As I was saying, even if you do calm down enough about that bit, there's no guarantee that you'll feel the same way about the pain. It's- well, in part, it can be an acquired taste, but more than that- not everyone enjoys it at all." The effort it took to speak in a reasonable tone of voice, rather than simply cuffing the boy about the ears and sending him to his room, was astounding.

But Alfred wasn't listening. He was looking at Francis, challenge in his face.