America starts off the day by waking up to a hole in the drywall.
A hole the size of France.
Dammit.
He glances down at the still-sleeping nation and crinkles his nose apologetically at the sleeping form of Francis. Hesitantly, he inches up the hem of Francis' shirt and drops it quickly when he sees the outlines of hand-shaped bruises that begin on the other nation's ribs. He doesn't have to put his hand to them to know they'd fit perfectly.
He gets out of bed and scrubs his face with his hands. The movement stings his chest and, surprised, he glances down. There's five long, red lines scored down his chest, dried blood collecting at the corners. He doesn't have to look at Francis' hands to see the nails are untrimmed and longer than usual, and tinted unusually red. When he stumbles into the bathroom, he discovers a shattered mirror and a vibrator on the floor.
Christ. The aftermath is always impressive.
He peers at himself in the shards of mirror that managed to cling to their frame. Well, no obvious hair is missing. He tilts his chin and raises an eyebrow. There's a thick necklace of purple lovebites etched across his neck and collarbone. Teeth were used on some, if the indents and small amounts of dried blood mean anything.
He goes to the shower and is relieved to find it still works. Although he lets it run a little, first, to wash the sticky white substance off the shower floor. And also to let it warm up a little bit.
When he gets in, the movement burns his lower thighs, although he doesn't know what that's from. There's an empty bottle of whisky lurking behind the shampoo that hadn't been there yesterday. He makes a mental note to recycle it and then sucks in a surprised breath as the hot water stings his ass viciously.
When he twists around and finds red stripes crisscrossing it, probably from a cane, he's pleasantly surprised. That isn't a usual one.
Alfred makes the shower brief; shampoo burns the wounds something fierce and he's too hungry to dawdle in hot water anyway.
Before the leaves the room he pauses at the doorframe, stares at the France-shaped hole in his bedroom wall, and sucks in a deep breath of preparation.
Then he yanks the door open.
He uses his normal amount of force. Which is a shame, because the door is apparently already only flapping on one hinge, and it crashes down upon him. America emerges, shakes himself, and tries hard not to think about his boss saying, "You need to set an example, and start being more responsible! We can't spend so much money fixing up all your homes!"
He ventures down the hallway, peering into all the rooms. England and Canada's guestrooms are untouched. The third guestroom's bed has a headboard cracked in half. Also, the springs somehow gave out during the night and the mattress sags obscenely onto the floor in the middle. There's a dried splash of something that spells like whiskey on the wall beside the bed.
America proceeds down the stairs. The carpeting is curling up on three of them. At the bottom of the stairs, there's a puddle of what looks like blood but smells like wine. The banister lies in three pieces on the floor below the steps. America frowns at the little drips of wine that have been dribbled up the stairs as he daintily picks his way through the wreckage of what used to be a place to put your hand going up the stairs. He spies a cockring among the wood and gives it a considering look before continuing on his way.
The living room is no longer inhabitable; the couch is stained with fluids of various interesting shades and is violently ripped. The decorative pillows are absent, but America can see one lying in his yard, framed by the jagged glass of what was once a nice section of large bay window. Well, he can go get those later. The piano is sticky to the touch and there are some interesting indents in the wood on the side. If France put his fingers in set of dents in the inside, America could probably come up behind him, put his arms on either side of him, and align his fingers perfectly with the second set.
Austria will be furious. He'll have to fix that first. America has the strangest feeling that Austria instinctively knows when a piano is in trouble and he hunts down the perpetrator mercilessly.
The doorway to the kitchen used to be surrounded by pictures. Now the doorframe is cracked and busted in and the pictures are lying shattered on the floor. Alfred sighs at the many Matthew's lying in shards of glass, staring up at him with expressions ranging from confused to maniacal (he was at a hockey rink in several) to laughing to patient. He likes clustering all his pictures of Matthew in one place so that when he misses him he can go stand in front of them and soak up his slightly irritated, mostly brotherly and sheepish grin. It's like a shrine. A Matt-shrine. Except right now the Matt-shrine is all over the floor. Oh well.
Alfred goes into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. That isn't an option. Butter is melting on the floor; at least seven sticks are liquefying in puddles in different places. There's sugar fanned out over countertops and scattered into the puddles of butter. An almost-empty container of olive oil lies on its side, dripping forlornly. There are large, Alfred's-body sized splotches of oil all over various surfaces of the kitchen, including the fridge, making the handle hard to open. The microwave no longer has a door. The baguette that Francis brought it completely vanished, although Alfred certainly doesn't remember eating the long, hard stick of bread. And he usually remembers stuff like that.
He finds his dog-tags hanging on the tip of the ceiling fan and fetches them down, examining the broken chain. That explains the thin cut on the back of his neck. He also sees a piece of his shirt hanging on a cabinet handle. Strange.
He's sitting on the only unbroken kitchen chair, staring at the mess and feeling a bit lost, when Francis wanders in, yawning. And naked.
"This is a lovely morning," Francis greets him, stretching luxuriously as the sunlight from the large kitchen window hits his chest and face.
Alfred bites his lip at the wounds he sees on Francis. Francis sees his look and rolls his eyes, stalks forward, and slaps Alfred's unconventional necklace of lovebites. Alfred yelps. "Yes, Alfred, you bruised me. You are a very strong boy. It is very attractive. I wounded you too. Stop looking so guilty, I can't abide that. Heavens, the kitchen."
Alfred feels Francis has a fair point and he feels less guilty. "Yeah. It's…pretty good this time."
"Seven out of ten," Francis agrees. "Oh, I checked, and your washer is broken. The one that jumps and vibrates when you first turn it on."
"Really? I was hoping that one would survive this time," Alfred says. "Oh well."
Francis looks at the kitchen again. "That is a lot of butter."
"I think the butter is the least of our worries," Alfred says. "How are we going to make food?"
"Fair point. I am starving," Francis says, and rubs his chin. "Breakfast out?"
"Yes!" America leaps to his feet. "I'll go get some money."
"Be careful," Francis calls absently, and swats his ass on the way out. "There's glass everywhere."
"I'll get you some clothes, too," Alfred hollers down the stairs. "You fit my old stuff really well. And then you'll be wearing my clothes, so that'll…" his voice gets too far away to hear, but Francis chuckles anyway.
Alfred bounds downstairs a few minutes later, bright and golden as the day outside, bearing a pile of clothes for France. "Here you go!" he bubbles, and shoves them at Francis. "Can we go to that cute little Japanese Café on third street? They have bread shaped like cats!"
Francis is pleased that the immediate suggestion is not McDonalds. Alfred has become considerate! Slowly but surely! Then again, bread shaped like things is the ultimate in Alfred's book; not even burgers can compare with his fascination for bread in the form of small, cute animals. Francis should know; he's spent enough time making bread cats with Alfred hovering over one shoulder, eyes big and impressed, begging to eat it immediately. "It sounds lovely," he says.
Alfred chirps excitedly and bounces out of the kitchen. Francis follows at a more sedate pace, taking in everything with a critical eye. He catches up to Alfred at the front door; Alfred is examining the broken lock with a woeful air. Ah. "The beginning point," he says.
"I'm guessing we started here, and we were already drunk," Alfred agrees.
"And then the kitchen? Which progressed to the living room?"
They spend the walk to the café mapping out the night before, fitting together puzzle pieces of memory.
…
"I fucked you through a wall," Alfred says, and sips his bubble tea contemplatively.
"I know. My back has been telling me about it since I woke up. I'd give last night a perfect score," Francis says.
"Even better than the time with the French maid outfit and the vacuum?"
"Much better."
Kiku, sitting in a booth two tables over, quietly leans over his tea and starts flavoring it with essence of nose blood.
/ Author's note! I literally whipped this up in twenty minutes. I'm working on a Germany/Prussia/America threesome story and experiencing huge writer's block on it. I'm also planning on continuing the Romano/Alfred mermaid story I've got, but the second chapter is on my other computer which I don't have access to right now, so hang tight.
France/America is really fun to write, and I quite enjoyed this piece. It flowed naturally and was really no effort at all. Their dynamic is just so brilliant. I hope you guys enjoy!
Like I said: twenty minutes. Forgive me for any mistakes.