England stared out over the choppy waves, once again going through his mental argument with himself about the same subject. His inner turmoil clouded his features into a look of gloomy disdain, and though his green eyes peered out at the bumpy sea from beneath his heavy brows, he saw nothing before him.
What to do? It had been three months since he had cornered that slippery frog in the Caribbean waters. Three long months. Three incredibly long months. Three incredibly long months without a glimpse of him, without a whispering rumor as to where he was. Three long months without an embrace, without a touch. England pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he closed his eyes. Should he end the game and go after him? Give in and forfeit? All he wanted to do was turn his ship around and backtrack until he found him. He wanted to jump onto that other ship, throw all men who got in his way aside, and search every inch of that ship until he found that man. But that would mean losing the game. Would his pride allow for that, even if he wanted to?
" God dammit!" England yelled, bringing his fist down hard against the railing, and glared out to see. " It's your turn to come after ME, Frog! Your turn to chase ME!" England's bitter anger rolled off his hunched shoulders in menacing waves. His loitering crew hesitated along the wide berth they gave him to approach and break the delicate bubble that appeared to be their captain's sanity for the past week. One man stepped forward carefully.
" Captain, there be a storm approaching! Orders, Sir?" The scrawny boy asked. England's head snapped up from his emotional woolgathering to observe the world before him, his crew, wary of his temper, and the sea and sky over yonder. Those thick, dark clouds that blacked out the sun didn't spell good luck. The sea was choppy, edgy, as if it knew of the danger ahead and was all the more nervous for it. England abandoned his yearning thoughts and frowned as his decision was made for him. He could've taken the ship off course, and made new routes to follow that would lead them away from such dangerous waters. He could've, very easily, uttered the orders to his men to save the ship by turning it around and hightailing it away from those dark clouds. He could've.
But that would mean he'd lose the game, wouldn't it?
" All hands to deck!" He yelled at his crew, who scurried off like lightning. They knew what hesitating when Captain Arthur Kirkland gave an command meant. " Tighten the ropes and secure the masts!" He watched the boys instantly obey. " We're going to survive this storm, mutts! With or without you! I suggest you see to turning the odds of your own survival in your favor!" England watched in satisfaction as each of the other the men's eyes narrowed in uncertainty at that. They didn't know if he was telling the truth or not, but they weren't going to take chances. They hurried to complete the orders and find ropes to secure themselves with for when they hit those tidal waves.
England looked out over the sea again, noting how the waves were rapidly growing choppier and rougher. His ship rose and fell like it was being dragged over potholes. With a final defiant glare out to sea, England turned on his heel so fast his dark red coat swished around his ankles, and briskly walked into his quarters.
He approached his desk and rifled through one of the drawers to dig out a blue ribbon that belonged to the frog. He'd stolen it in their younger days, when the world was much smaller and the seas much calmer, and their affair had been much more innocent. He'd gazed at this ribbon through so much. Through storms and clear nights, through rain, through attack. He'd gazed at it with such an array of emotions, hatred and agony, betrayal and fear, happiness, anticipation, hope… love. Yes. He'd gazed at this stupid, worn memento with love. As he did now. He stroked the worn, blue length tenderly and brought the frayed fabric to his lips, his eyelids shuttering as he closed them.
" Hurry up, Frog." He breathlessly whispered, reopening his eyes. " I won't lose."
" ALL HANDS TO DECK! SECURE THE CANNONS!" England could barely see through the sheets upon sheets of rain the assaulted his crew and ship. " You, bucko!" He shouted and a man running past, who stopped. " Mind the wheel!" The man grabbed for the wheel and could barely stop it from whipping around in circles, certainly flipping the ship, but Arthur had no choice. His strength was needed elsewhere, he was the only one who had seen that one vital rope snap in a flash of lightning, and if he didn't retie it, the wind caught in the mast could pillage his precious ship. He squinted to keep the water out of his eyes as he shouted orders and ran from the aft to the poop deck, and climbed the ropes up to the mast. A giant flash of purple lightning followed by a boom of thunder that seemed to penetrate to his very core, allowed him to see the ropes, if only briefly, that he needed to climb. His clothes were sodden and heavy, long clothes were not meant to be worn on the ropes, so England shed them as he went, allowing his red coat and fine embroidery to be whisked away by the terrible wind, like a thief in the night. He continued climbing at fast pace, his boots slipping from the ropes many times, slick with seawater, and many times the sudden he was almost thrown from ship as the sea tossed his ship around like a rag doll. Reaching the swaying top, he locked his leg between the wooden posts and stood to reach for the flapping rope that at any moment would allowing the entire length of cloth to be opened and trashed. He saw it there, that filthy piece of rope through his rain and sweat blurred vision.
Every inch of him was soaked to the bone, and his dripping blond hair got in his eyes as he reached out into the open air to grab the rope that danced on the tips of his fingers until- yes! - he got it! He saw his crew watching his struggle, each of them knowing certain death awaited should the rope slip or his strength give out. He used all his strength to pull the rope tight again, and struggled to tie it off, securing it with a rugged shard of shattered wood. Gratified by this victory, he stood, to relieve his crew and assure them this would not be how they died, to his full height in a momentary egotistical show of showmanship and invincibility-
-just as the ship bucked again, and Captain Arthur Kirkland was thrown into the raging sea.
England didn't know where he was. He didn't know what happened after he was thrown from the mast and hit the waves. He didn't even know if he were alive. He felt sick, and unwell. What he lay on was soft and comfortable though, and England thought wearily that if he was in Hell after all, they sure were treating him nicely. But then the nausea hit, and he knew he couldn't be dead. Surely the dead didn't vomit.
He sat upright and leaned over the side of- a bed? -to vomit into a bucket that had been strategically placed there in advance. Most of what he vomited appeared to be sea water. His whole body felt lethargic, and his skin felt dry and pulled tight from the dried salt. For how long had he been unconscious? Breathing heavily, he wiped his mouth with the back of his fist and laid back down.
" Please tell me the rest of Hell will be as merciful as this small torture." He muttered to himself. His eyes snapped open when he heard a small, familiar male chuckle from his left, and his head turned unbelievingly to see if he was hallucinating.
Sky blue eyes met his own, and a small, amused smile played on the edges of those perfect lips. Those perfect, luscious lips, smooth and plump and soft, the perfect lips to ravage. England instantly took in the rest of the man's features, soaking up the familiarity of the long, straight nose, that angular jaw line fuzzed with stubble, those shoulder length waves of golden hair, like a dried out sponge in water. The man sat on a chair that was made simple by the luxurious clothes he decorated himself with, a blue coat and proper hat that shined with gold trim and lace, rich fabrics and smooth designs. The clothes would hide, to any other who didn't know his body, what his body was like. Slender, yet strong, appearing weak and girly, when the man was in fact, all too male. Those blue eyes peered at him, seductive even when lying in wake, and England swallowed as he felt his heart skip a beat then kick into double time, sending a rush of accelerated blood throughout his body, to one spot more than the others, though his face showed nothing but calm as he said, " Frog."
Captain Francis Bonnefey's smile grew more profound as he answered in a calling purr, " Arthur."
They continued to stare at each other, England through his poker face and France from beneath those seducing eyes that urged England's mask to break. That damning smile never left France's face.
When England couldn't stand it anymore, he looked away to the ceiling, and called out nonchalantly, " I was expecting you sooner. Don't tell me you lost my trail?"
" Oh, no, Angleterre, I would never." France purred, standing to his feet and strolling over to England's bed, so slowly England couldn't stand it. " I was simply waiting for you to come to me."
" Bastard, you planned it out, didn't you?" England glared accusingly at the man who leaned against the bedpost.
" Oui." He answered, smiling. " I was testing you, as well as myself. I zought for certain you would give in before I, so I followed at a distance for weeks, waiting for you to turn around. But you never did. Even zough I knew it was my turn to chase, I wasn't chasing. I know the rules well, mon Arthur. 'Whoever gives in first loses,' oui?" Twinkling blue eyes peered intently and he smiled as he said, " I want you to lose."
" You'll lose before I, frog!" England snapped. " Don't underestimate the might of the power that is Great Britain! I am Great Britain! Why would I ever turn tail and lose to a floozy Frenchman like you? The very thought makes me laugh!" England snorted in disgust. He was on a roll now. " And while we're on the subject, why won't you give in? Why do you insist it be me?"
" It's simple really." France cocked his head to the side and released the full seductiveness of his lust filled eyes. " I want you."
England felt his breathing hitch and a wanton blush start to creep on his cheeks. So hurriedly, he angrily said, " Don't pull that with me frog! I know of your trickery all too well to all for your traps!"
" Only because you've given in before and let me have you. How else would you know of my 'trickery'?" France retorted, pointing out the obvious loophole, that alluring smile that drove England mad still on his lips.
" I would never do such a thing!" England snapped, blushing furiously, and glaring at the Frenchman. France sighed, that smile and all traces of teasing finally gone.
" Why not, mon amour?" France whispered, looking down at England with eyes so suddenly sad England regretted snapping at him. " I know you. I've known you. I know you ache for me as I ache for you. Zose long, lonely nights at sea I dream of holding you in my arms, of breathing in your scent. Too many nights we're too far apart. Ze agony of loving you rivals the ecstasy, mon amour, and I am but a man." France gritted his teeth as he looked away. " My heart, however used and vast, can only bleed so much." England heart leapt with each truth France uttered. He couldn't stand those twinkle less eyes as they looked back at him, filled with all the heartache in the world. " Why won't you just be mine?" France spoke slowly, looking at England with unhidden longing so strong England felt his stomach clench in response.
" You know bloody damn well why." England turned his head away and looked out the bedside window, to a calm sea with a setting sun dipping nearly below the surface. He couldn't stare into those eyes when they pleaded so unfairly like that.
England felt when the atmosphere change. The tragic yearning of the love filled pleading vanished completely and in its absence England felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, ever so noticeably. He stubbornly refused to make eye contact, and the longer he did so, the more tangible the air became until finally, France moved.
England heard the sound of France as he walked away, to the other side of the room. He heard very clearly when France took his boots and coat off, as he could feel France's stare as he did so. He knew France was watching him as he heard him undress, watching for his reaction. England knew these teasing games of seduction, he knew them well, but he couldn't stop the strong rush of blood flow to the pit of his groin, and the bittersweet ache that accompanied it. England kept track of the clothes in his mind as he heard them, one by one, hit the ground, each driving him just a little bit more mad with sweet agonies, and held his breath in anticipation. He knew France wore nothing but breeches now, and he heard his bare feet start to walk forward, approaching him again. England was suddenly aware- he'd been too distracted with France to notice before - that he himself wore only the lightest of cloth coverings beneath the thin blanket: A loose tunic. He felt the heat in his groin flare as he thought about what he knew was coming.
France pounced on the bed, and England looked up at him as he trapped him in a cage of slender, yet muscular and strong limbs. Blonde waves curtained France's face, and England met his fiery gaze with one of cool indifference. He knew he was caught, and this was all part of the game the two played. But if France thought he was losing, he had another thing coming.
" Be mine." France commanded.
" I refuse." England said.
" Submit, s'il te plaît."
" No."
" I will win zis fruitless game eventually, you realize."
" Unlikely. And definitely not today."
The two glared at each other for the longest of times, and France knew the Brit's pride all too well; he knew he wouldn't win giving orders. So France looked away first, trying to keep his emotions under control, England suspected, so he could keep arguing with him. But what France did next shocked the Brit.
When their eyes met next, England barely had time to register that familiar terrifying grin and that
particular emotion in those blue eyes before France kissed him.
It was not a soft kiss. There was no gentle nudges or timid touches between them as their lips met. It was not made of that sweet delicacy that made hearts beat fast and lovers hesitate. This was not a kiss. This was brutal and unforgiving. This was harsh and merciless and agonizing. This was war.
France kissed him unforgivably, his lips in all their soft beauty smashed against England's with the roughness of an animal, and his tongue clashed with his own. Their teeth clacked and France bit him and licked him savagely, barely allowing him to breathe between kisses. He lapped at his lips and tried to swallow England whole, like a man who has been deprived of something vital. Like a man who has been without water. Like a starved man.
England could only lay there and be ravaged, his breathing so irregular every inhale was a gasp for air. France pressed his body, hot and solid, against England's body, every delicious inch met his own. England felt his indifference slip further away with every passing second. Every fiery lick and bite and gasp made him loosen the delicate grasp he had on his self reason, until finally he couldn't stand the growing heat, and threw his arms around France's neck and yanked his mouth even closer, finally returning the passionate bites and breathless kisses with some of his own.
" Arthur.. mon Arthur.." France moaned against his lips, his voice breathless with desire. England jerked when he felt France sudden grab his crotch. He rubbed the growing rod roughly, feeling England's member through the thin blanket and clothes and England couldn't help the moan that escaped his abused lips, and his eyelids fluttered briefly as France pulled away.
" Arthur." France's suddenly stern voice made England's eyes snap open. He watched as France, his eyes half clouded with lust, said, " I'm not going to be sweet to you, until you're mine." With the solid sound of a promise. And the coldness of a threat.