This was meant to be just a one-shot, but I suddenly got an idea of how to continue it, so here's a second chapter to finish it off.
Sort of England/France, but only in that they kiss in this part. There's not really anything romantic about it, however.
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When France first kissed England on the mouth, they were both scions of Rome and mere fragments of who they would later become, bearing names so ancient they are now long-lost to their people's history.
France had the golden curls and dimpled cheeks of a Renaissance putto, a tongue like a viper, and more than a head of height on England. He had to bend almost double to brush their lips together.
It was a child's kiss, swift and chaste; a spontaneous outpouring of joy and affection that gusted with giggles when England spluttered in indignity at the imposition.
The second time, York and Northumbria had lately been shattered, and England's lands lay smouldering from the Humber to the Tees. England himself was hollowed and harrowed, half-blinded by the blood which poured, unceasing, from the deep wounds which had cleft his brow. He had not sufficient strength remaining to him to keep from sinking to his knees in front of the Bastard.
It had been France who helped him up afterwards; his fingers biting down to the bone as he hauled England to his feet and then into a clash of mouths so violent that their lips split under the blow. There had been triumph riding the thrust of France's tongue, but something like an apology hidden in its curl.
The third time was on the Champs-Élysées, and France stank of rotting flesh and his recent privations. He was so weakened by them that he needed the support of Scotland's hand at his elbow to stand, but he was still smiling. A smile as clear and bright as the sound of his people's voices as they were lifted in celebration of their liberty.
That kiss was as brief as the first, a light press that must have meant nothing more than fellowship and gratitude as Scotland had watched them in silent indulgence all the while.
The fourth time they kiss they are travelling between the third and fourth floors of a London hotel. There is no design on France's part, no encouragement on England's, just the synchronic happenstance of inclined heads and a disequilibrating jolt of the lift.
France tastes of souring wine and stale cigarette smoke. There is only desperation on his tongue.
He keeps his palms moulded to England's cheeks even as England eases him away, and he smooths his middle fingers along the line of England's eyebrows, touches the tips of his thumbs to the corners of his mouth. His gaze roams restlessly around England's face, from hairline to chin and all points in between.
"Still the wrong brother," England tells him.
France's sigh rattles at the back of his throat. "That used to matter a lot less, I think," he says, resting his forehead against England's for a moment before he withdraws a wary arms' breadth away.
They do not speak again until the lift dings to announce their arrival at the ninth floor, and then only to negotiate the placement of arms across shoulders, the curl of hands around waists. During their journey from the pub, France had seemed to need England to direct his every movement – reminding him to bend his knees, pick up his feet, and move forward instead of back – but his steps are surer now, and he does not lean his weight as heavily against England's side as he did then.
It takes him a long while to fumble the keycard out of the pocket of his unnecessarily tight trousers once they reach his room, and even longer yet to try and align that card with the corresponding slot on the lock. The narrowing of his eyes and purse of his lips indicate intense concentration, and still he manages to jab it above and then below, to the right and then to the left.
Despite promising earlier that his responsibility for the frog's sad carcass would end upon his safe delivery to his door, England grows irritated enough by this pathetic display to pluck the card from France's hand and swipe it for him.
France mutters something that might just as readily be a curse as thanks, opens the door, and then proceeds to slap his hands against the wall inside, apparently in a futile quest for the light switch. He seems strangely unwilling to cross the threshold of the room whilst it's still dark, and he twists his body so tortuously around the jamb as a consequence that he almost overbalances.
"For fuck's sake," England growls, grabbing hold of France's hips to steady him. "I'm going to have to make sure you get yourself to bed before I leave, aren't I? If you trip over your own feet, break your neck, and miss tomorrow's meeting, Germany will probably never forgive me."
He finds the elusive light switch in an instant, flicks it on, and then steers France towards the bed at the centre of the room. France collapses on to it with a groan, face-down with his arms and legs sprawling wide.
Although their walk here had been short, France's inebriated swaying had made it more arduous than it should have been, and his rising body heat has dried his shirt in two elongated semicircular patches that sweep down from the curve of his shoulderblades like folded wings. The rest of the material is still sopping.
"Have you got some kind of nightwear you can change into?" England asks. "Pyjamas, perhaps?"
"No," France says bluntly.
Of course he doesn't.
"You can't sleep in those wet clothes, and I have no desire to either take them off you or watch you do so yourself. I'll go and get a glass of water and leave you to it. You'd better be safely tucked up under those covers by the time I get back, all right?"
France's head makes a vague bobbing motion that England chooses to interpret as a nod, and he beats a hasty retreat to the tiny en-suite bathroom.
The bath, sink and toilet are crammed so closely together that it's likely possible for a guest to wash their hair, brush their teeth, and piss all at the same time should they take it into their head to try, and the addition of France's ablutionary accoutrements make its confines appear all the tighter.
France's Paris apartment is exactingly neat – a place for everything, and everything in its place – but elsewhere he has the tendency to spread out and take up each scrap of available space. There are bottles and tubes, brushes and combs, haphazardly scattered across every flat surface, and even some electrical device of uncertain purpose nestled at the bottom of the sink.
England fishes it out, and then turns on the cold tap. The water is cloudy and tepid, but he fills one of the glasses set out beside France's toothbrush with it, anyway, because he knows from experience that it's unlikely to become any more palatable even if he were to keep it running for longer. One of the more unfathomable mysteries of hotel plumbing, he's always thought.
Afterwards, he listens carefully for movement in the bedroom beyond, but hears nothing. He's unsure whether that's a good sign or not, but as his only other option is to cower in this claustrophobic little coffin of a room half the night through, he eventually forces himself to return to France's bedside in ignorance, regardless.
France has not covered himself with the sheets as directed, but neither, to England's undying gratitude, is he naked. His trousers, socks and shoes have all been kicked to the floor, but if his pants had followed, the drape of his shirttails hides that dreadful truth from view.
His collar and cuffs are unbuttoned but no more, and he has folded his bare legs up underneath him. The soles of his long, narrow feet look vulnerably pale.
"Would you stay here with me tonight?" he asks without looking towards England.
England has shared his bed – or, at least, what had passed for one at the time – with France but once before. They had slept soundly then, but they'd both been so wearied by the long weeks, months, and years in the trenches that they probably could have nodded off just as easily in the middle of No Man's Land itself.
Those few short hours of peace they found together in the cubby hole remain the only time England has trusted France fully enough to turn his unprotected back on him, the present day included.
"I most certainly will not," he says.
France gives a watery-sounding sniff. "I dislike sleeping alone."
"I'm afraid you'll just have to get used to it."
"I'm already used to it. Familiarity hasn't made it any more pleasant, though."
England has no answer for that, no solace to give except for the water, which he hands to the other nation. France gulps it down greedily, even though his nose is wrinkled in disgust throughout.
"Go, then," he says after he's drained the glass. "I'll see you in the morning."
England sets out to obey with alacrity, but France's voice rings out again as he approaches the door.
"Wait," he says. "Please, wait a moment, Angleterre. I wanted to ask you..."
He pauses for so long that England begins to suspect that he might have fallen asleep mid-sentence. When he turns to check, however, France is still sitting bolt upright, although his head is bowed again, his expression masked by the shadowing fall of his hair.
"Ask me what?"
France clears his throat roughly, but his voice crackles like burning tinder nonetheless when he says, "How is Écosse faring?"
The question irritates England for no real reason he can name, save perhaps that he has always hated the sound of that name from those lips. "You spent long enough wining and dining Wales yesterday, couldn't you have asked him then?"
"I did ask," France says. "And he answered. I can't be sure that... I would rather hear it from you, as you're less likely to want to spare my feelings than Pays de Galles."
"You're right about that," England says. "But I want to play messenger between the two of you even less. If you're really that worried, why don't you go straight to the horse's mouth, as it were."
"I..." France tucks his chin against his chest, hiding his face from view entirely. "Écosse will no longer answer my calls or reply to my emails."
"Well, try something different, then. Or take the hint and stop bothering him." Scotland's own words rise to the forefront of England's mind. They seem fitting to the occasion, so he passes them along to France. "Shit or get off the pot."
"'Shit or get off the pot'?" France repeats, a faint hint of laughter lightening his tone. "Eloquently put, Angleterre."
England shrugs. "It's Scotland's advice, not mine, if that makes you any more inclined to take it."
If it resonates with France at all, he makes no mention of it. He stays so quiet and still, in fact, that England soon tires of looking at him, and reaches out for the door handle instead.
This time, France does not attempt to stop him.