Author's Note: Hello, everyone. I've never done one of these before. Well, this is my never ending rp that I co-write with TsukiNaito, go check her out on deviantArt, she's amazing. Just got a few things to clear up here; the charcacters will be very OOC. Iggy will be emotional and clingy sometimes, France will be called a rapist, sorry if that offends you, but it ties into the story, trust me. And he's not all that manwhoreish... There will be mpreg. And this is a yaoi. FrUK is the main pairing. We also use a lot of history, and for all you HP fans out there, he might just make an appearance.

Disclaimer; I own nothing but some of these ideas. The characters that belong to Tsuki and I haven't shown up yet.

He sat with his head hung close to the bar, a glass of golden whiskey clutched in his right hand as though he feared it would run away. World Conferences always called for a pint afterward… or two, or three. The polished wooden grain of the bar surface swirled slightly in front of him.

"I should stop drinking…" he murmured to himself.

"No, the more you drink, the easier you are," the irritatingly nasal voice came from the stool to his right.

He jerked, and glared at the intruder of his private drunkness, then returned to examining the bar. "Get away from me, Frog!" England hiccupped violently on the last word.

"Nope! And now you don't have anyone to protect you, Arty," France answered with a smile.

"Shut up."

"I shall not. You love my voice," he said it with a clear smoothness that infuriated him even more.

England snickered dryly, "Like fingernails love a chalkboard."

"Oh! You like fingernails, do you? That's rather kinky!"

"What the f**k, Frog?"

"Hahaha, oh yes Arthur," France leaned an elbow on the bar.

"Foul smelling manwhore," he said simply and ordered a bottle of rum.

"It'll be okay, England. I promise. I won't hurt you…. Much."

England choked slightly on the swig he had just taken and quickly got up, rum bottle in tote.

"I'll catch you one way or another, dear Arthur."

"Back off, cherie Francis," he spat with threatening distaste.

"Oh you are speaking my language, dearest. You love me, no?" France smiled softly.

"No."

"Deny it all you want, love. I know your true feelings."

England pulled out his wand threateningly, "I don't like the dead."

"Uh huh. Sure." France seemed unphased.

"I'm not like you!"

"No. But you're in love with me," the Frenchman said plainly, almost teasingly.

"F**k you, Frog! No I'm not!" he couldn't keep the defensive tone out of his voice.

A wide smile cracked across France's face.

"The more you deny it, the more obvious it is that you love me!" he bellowed.

"Shut your mouth, Frog! Or I will!" England took a gulp of rum to hide the bead of sweat that ran down his face.

"Oh! And what with?" he sneered.

The comment slowly processed through his drunken mind, and then, England stayed silent for a moment. A warm blush appeared on his face.

France smiled again and chuckled, but this time England couldn't tell if it was mocking or not. "Yes. I knew it. You just can't resist me." France said.

England jerked nervously, and, with another swig of rum, replied darkly, "Oh yeah, I can't resist you…with a bat!"

"Kinky."

He growled at how that had gotten turned around. "No! Dammit France!" He suddenly pulled out a bat and wacked France on head, who fell back on the floor with a thud, yet didn't seem in the least discouraged.

"Still kinky! If I can survive a night with Russia, you can do nothing to hurt me," France said.

England jerked in surprise, then said with a mix of anger and disgust, "Russia! How could you?! …or he?" Wack!

"He doesn't give you a choice," he rubbed his head, then looked up at him with mock curiosity. "And why do you suddenly care so much, hmmm?"

Britain didn't answer, but merely took a swig of rum, glaring at him with his deep jade eyes. He swung the bat once more. To his surprise, he didn't feel it hit the hard surface of his long time enemy's head, but slowly found that France had caught it in his hand and was now glaring at him with those familiar piercing blue eyes.

"Just tell me the truth, Arthur Kirkland!" he yelled, yanking the bat to pull him closer.

A childish anger came over England. "No! Fop!"

"Fine," he pushed him back. "Your dear brother has always been nicer."

Wack! Again.

"How could anyone love you?!" England cried. "You rape everything you see!"

Swig.

France's thin eyebrows met in a v. "Why don't you ask Scotland? Find out how much your own family hates you before you attack me!"

"It's not my fault! You're not the youngest brother, you don't know!"

Swig.

"Scotland loves me," France crossed his arms.

"Scotland can suck it! He probably already has!" he retorted, a slight sniffle escaping with the last few words.

"Hahaha of course. Jealous that your big brother loves me more than he loves you," France answered with a manipulative twist.

"I don't care who he loves and who loves you! Who do you love, eh?" he threw out one arm. "You bleeding rapist!"

"Who do you love? That affects my answer more than anything, mon cherie."

"Heh, well I think we've come to a stalemate, old friend," England stated humorlessly.

"We have," France agreed calmly. "What's your real answer? Because no matter what, you are mine."

He looked away and said softly: "If you hadn't whored around all over the world maybe I'd…"

"Maybe you'd what? You'd be surprised by the truth."

England shook his head.

"Oh, who am I kiddin'. Nobody loves the old maid of the world," he looked up at France with sad distaste, "you just wanna rape somethin'. That's how you work, isn't it?"

"Not true."

"Whatta ya mean not true?" he shoot with a drunken slur. How could France toy with him so much?! "All my brothers hate me, you try to invade me!"

"Scotland hates you! America hates you (sorta)! I love you!"

It was like an electric current had rushed through him. France himself seemed shocked at how it had come out after being held in for so long. Silence fell heavy on them as they regarded each other.

"Francis?" England weakly mustered the low sound.

"Yes, Arthur?" his voice was soft.

Arthur's mind was still slow to process.

"You rape everybody, though," he said slowly.

"Not really. Only you."

His mind snapped back to normal speed, and he waved his bat menacingly. "Don't lie to me, Frog."

"I'm not Arthur, I swear. Russia's the rapist!" France answered defensively as he backed away a few steps.

"Prove it."

"How?"

" … You know how."

"Um… Arthur, does this mean you really do love me?"

"Uh, I, uh," he stammered and blushed. The question felt simply impossible to answer and he coughed on his reply. "Yebcxks."

"What was that love?" Francis smiled and moved closer to hear.

The attempt had thrown England into a bit of a coughing fit.

"Don't choke!" France said worriedly and slapped him on the back.

"Argh! You're not helping the moment, Frog!"

A few more coughs.

"Sorry," he said with a sheepish smile and lightly put his arm down on the bar.

England cleared his throat once, then again. Then cleared his throat for a long moment, then cleared his throat, before he said: "Oui, mon cherie, oui."

"Why is it that you keep speaking my language, hmm? Not that I don't enjoy it, but it makes me very curious."

"I just confessed! And that's all you have to say?!"

"No. It' not at all everything I have to tell you. I still have to tell you how desperately in love with you I am. How you make my life livable," Francis looked up slowly, only to find him passed out on the bar. "Oh Arthur. Didn't you know how bad for you drinking this much is? You had better be glad that I care about you, and that I'm not Russia.'Twas not the most fun thing in the world," he shuddered as he hauled England into bathroom. "If you do end up throwing up, it won't be on me."

It was with great effort that England opened his eyes. Bright sunlight was pouring into the room, burning his eyes and adding to the pain that was already being caused by his headache. As his vision improved, he slowly realized that the ceiling above him was not the one he expected. England looked around, his neck aching, and realized… he was in France's house. Oh please no, he pleaded to himself. However, he slowly began to comprehend he was still fully clothed.

"What?" he wondered aloud.

He felt a hand gently pat his head. "You were beating me with a bat."

Arthur looked up and saw his familiar blue eyes looking down at him, yellow hair shining gold in a midday sun. Strangely, he did not seem to feel the usual hatred that came with the sight of France's face. Slowly, he sat up.

"I would imagine. What the hell happened? Argh, my head," he rubbed his head as the pain intensified.

"You got drunk, tried to beat me to death," Francis answered, then added as if he had almost forgotten something, "oh, and you confessed that you love me."

England's eyes snapped up. "What the f**k, Frog?" he shook his head and opened the window by the bed. "Eh, I'll just jump out the window now."

Francis frantically grabbed at his arm as he swung his leg over the sill. "Oh no you don't. Not after I finally got you to admit that. Do you know how long I've been trying to make you realize that I love you too, Arthur?"

"Why are you always grabbing onto me you perv?" he only seemed to have heard half of what was said.

"I'm grabbing your arm so you don't DIE!"

England glared impatiently. "France, this is a first story window!"

"Oh. Ummm," Francis bit his lip for a moment, then quickly thrust a basket of golden, perfectly baked bread under England's nose. "Scone?"

"These aren't scones," he said jerking his head away from the basket and sniffing its contents. "They smell… good." Still confused by what was going on, he glanced up suspiciously and demanded, "What did you put in these?"

"Butter!" France answered, taken aback. "I can cook remember?!

"…What are you saying?"

"Nothing. Your cooking is great," he said quickly, crossing his fingers behind his back.

"I'm out." England jumped off the bed and walked to the door.

"What?" an edge of panic was in his voice. "No! Don't leave!"

England shut the door and muttered to himself: "What it that creep up to?" as he pulled on his suit jacket and approached the elegant front doors of France's home.

Francis opened the guest room door and dashed after him. "Arthur, you can't leave!"

"We've been through this before, France. I'm leaving before I end up with another 'little brother,'" he said, rolling his eyes and turning around, one hand on his hip.

"You certainly seemed willing to listen to me last night!" France yelled as he caught up. "The drunken mind speaks the sober heart, Arthur."

"What? Since when are you smart enough to speak in riddles?"

"I'm very intelligent, mind you! I can remember that we have TWO "little brothers" as you call them."

"Two?"

"CANADA!"

"Huh? Hey. What about Sealand? Where did he come from?"

"That would be your affair with Alfred."

Arthur jerked back with a disgusted look. "Are you on drugs? Why would I do that? I—" he was confused about how he might finish.

"You what? And no, I am not on drugs!"

"Hmm, maybe I am," he said slowly and opened the door.

"Well, obviously. You practically worship the Beatles, after all," France growled as he quickly circled Iggy and slammed the door shut.

"The Beatles were a great band!" England retorted." They sure beat your music! Daft Punk just says the same thing over and over again for 5 minutes! If they're gonna do drugs, they should learn how to do them right! Now move!"

"DO NOT INSULT DAFT PUNK! And they don't do drugs! AND I will not move! Not now, not ever. Not when I have you so close, when I love you so much."

"Huh? Cut the dramatics, will ya? And don't touch my Beatles, either. You know you love them. My place, Alfred's, all the way to Japan they're popular, so don't get all worked up punk!"

Francis shook his head with frustration; England seemed to be oblivious to half of what he was saying. "No honestly, I don't. The only thing I love about your damn country is you."

"I seem to remember a certain someone cutting his hair like Ringo's back in the 60s… the 1960s."

"Arthur!"

England broke in to laughter.

"What?"

"I.. wish… I still… had a picture of that!"

Francis's face softened, his eyebrows upturned (huh, that's a word), and he said in a sad voice, "Why do you hate me?
"Huh?" England snorted as he attempted to regain himself. "What's that? Hate you?"

"Yes. Hate me. Why?"

"Hmm?" he straightened himself up and regarded him curiously. "You're acting odd, France. Come on, I gotta get home."

"Fine. Go." France said it with a bitter, definitive voice and walked passed England without looking at him.

Suddenly, Arthur remembered something. The polished wooden bar swirled in front of him and… last night.

"Wait, France," it was weak, and Francis continued to climb the grand staircase. "Wait! France!" he dashed after him and grabbed his arm, and France slowly turned his head.

"England?" he said.

Arthur hesitated for a moment, stopped by a fear that hadn't hit him the moment before. But he threw it aside and (I don't know how to describe "attack kiss" at this moment.).

Francis stood in shock for a moment after their lips met, his eyes wide, but slowly wrapped his arms around Arthur and closed his eyes as he began to kiss back. However, this long awaited moment only lasted a brief minute. America waltzed through the large wooden doors without warning.

"Hey France, I wanted to ta—," he stopped as he processed the scene he had walked in on, his bright blue eyes confused. "Wha?"

Quickly, Francis pulled away and chucked a bat in America's direction. "Dammit, Alfred! You ruin everything!"

"Alright, alright!" Alfred shouted as he backed out the door, throwing his arms above his head to protect himself. "'Bout damn time."

He glared as the door shut, then turned back to England and kissed him again.

"And you thought I hated you?" England said as he pulled away and smiled.

"Arthur?"

"What do you want, Frog?"

"You. Arthur. Only you."

England, smiled and looked down. "I, uh, I don't know what to say."

Francis said nothing. He simply pulled him close and attempted to smooth his unruly hair.

"Like that's gonna do much," he laughed and wacked his hand away.

"It never hurts to try, love," France replied with a pout.

"… Now what?"

"Well…." France's mouth curled into a familiar creeper smile. "What do you think happens next, Arthur Darling?"

"Uh," England jerked and extended his hand out between them. "I don't think I'm ready to take it to this level, France!"

Francis blinked, looked around, and then blushed slightly. "I was just talking about playing Monopoly! What level are you talking about?"

"Uh… Nothing Francis, nothing." He grabbed France's eyelid and examined his eye closely, and mutter to himself. "Is there something wrong with him?"

"I'm fine, Arthur," he said, swatting his hand away. Yet the Brit still regarded him strangely. "I'm fine. I just want you to know that I really do care about you." England didn't answer. "What?"

"You're not acting like yourself," he finally said.

"Is something wrong?"

"Didn't I just say it? You're not acting like Francis."

"I am Francis. A new Francis. I'm trying to prove to you that I love you, that I don't just want to use you. Arthur, I really do care."

"Well stop it."

The words pierced and confused him. "Why? I thought this is what you wanted."

"I love Francis," England put simply, crossing his arms. "So I want Francis."

France raised an eyebrow. "You want me to be a pervy creep again?"

"Uhh… Yes. Just no raping, Frog."

"As you wish, Arthur."