1st June, 2003; Évian, France
(Day before the start of a G-8 Summit; Évian-les-Bains)

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"So, are you going to this thing at France's place tonight," America asks as he and England wait for the lift that will take them up to their hotel rooms.

"'Thing'?" England echoes, immediately suspicious. In the past, he'd received many such vague invitations from France, and, on the rare occasions that he'd been foolish enough to accept them, had found himself walking into the midst of far more bacchanalian revels than he had simple drinks and nibbles. "What sort of 'thing'?"

"It's a soirée," America lingers over the word, pronouncing it with a ridiculously exaggerated French accent, "at the apartment he's borrowed for the summit."

Which is the first England has heard of it. Not that he's particularly surprised; his invitations had tailed off rather rapidly once France finally realised that England's immediate reaction to stumbling unwittingly upon an orgy in full swing was turning right around and leaving rather than ripping his clothes off and joining in. When it comes to drinks and nibbles that aren't mandated by their bosses, on the other hand, they both prefer not to be trapped in each other's company if at all possible.

"I wasn't invited," he says, shrugging.

America frowns. "I thought everyone was. Maybe he just forgot to tell you?"

"I'm fairly certain it was deliberate." England can reluctantly admit to a faint nip of remorse at the thought of missing out on the spread France will no doubt put on – for all England might wish otherwise, there's no denying the frog can cook – but even that is unlikely to be adequate compensation for being subjected to the other nation for an evening. "But I won't be losing any sleep over it, in any case."

The look America turns on England now is, to England's eye, faintly pitying, as though he believes England is just putting on a brave face, and will in fact spend the evening either crying into his pillow or drinking himself insensate over France's snub. Drinking himself insensate is indeed an option England has considered, but that is the case every evening, independent of his mood, and nothing whatsoever to do with France.

Before England can set him straight, however, America says, "You should come with me, as my guest. That way you don't have to miss out," and England is sure he detected the briefest of pauses before the word 'guest'. Nothing more than a slightly suspended breath, but long enough that a person would have sufficient time to deliberate between the choice of two words during it, nevertheless.

At that thought, blood rushes to England's cheeks, his chest tightens, and he faintly hears himself saying, "Yes, I will. That would be…" before he catches himself and stops his overeager tongue.

America's answering smile radiates nothing more than guileless happiness, however; nary a hint of a shadow of a suggestion in his expression that he might have meant anything other than exactly what he said. The heat in England's cheeks intensifies, and he busies himself with pressing the lift button again to give him an excuse to turn his head aside. He's beginning to think that the bloody thing is actually broken and not just incredibly slow, which would just be typical of his luck.

"Awesome," America says, and England pinpoints his tone as lying somewhere in the region of 'your presence there will be mildly diverting' rather than 'I wouldn't have been able to enjoy myself if you'd said no'. Which, of course, is always the case, and England really should stop allowing himself to think otherwise and getting his hopes up only to have them dashed over and over a-fucking-gain. It's a skill that seems to be beyond his ken, however, as he's no closer to mastering it than he had been almost sixty years ago when he first discovered he might have need of it.
-


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England's earlier suspicions are not rekindled by the disgruntled look France gives him upon answering the apartment door, as he is, after all, an uninvited guest and even the best of hosts could be forgiven for being less than welcoming towards party crashers.

They are rekindled, however, by the way that France's shirt is parted almost to his navel, by his bare feet and, most importantly, the lack of noise emanating from the apartment behind him. There is no conversation, no sound of other bodies moving around, only the muted strains of some classical piece or other, too faint for England to put a name to it.

France favours England with one of his more piercing glares and a curt, "Angleterre," before turning a fawning smile on to America. "It's wonderful to see you, America," he says, rolling the name around his mouth as though he's savouring a fine brandy, "but I fear we might have misunderstood each other. Yours was a private invitation."

"But it's a party," America protests. "The more people, the better, right?"

"That may be true for most parties, but not all of them. For some parties, one guest is all that's required," France says, his gaze sharpening into something closer to a leer. It's a leer that clearly states that awkward small talk and platters of canapés feature absolutely nowhere on his schedule for the night, and he intends that the party will adjourn to his bedroom sooner rather than later.

England is immediately torn between the desire to get as far away from the apartment as quickly as he can, and the equally strong one to plant himself as firmly as possible between America and France's plainly lecherous designs on his person. Those conflicting desires only serve to root him to the spot, and he just about manages to stammer out, "I should," before his words run headlong into the insurmountable barrier formed by the both of them.

To England's surprise – because America hardly ever touches him nowadays when he's sober; England makes careful note every time it happens, and thus knows it to be an exceptionally rare occurrence – America's hand closes tight around the top of his arm, effectively holding him in place even if his indecision hadn't already wrought exactly that same effect.

"Come on, France; can't he just stay for a little while? It took us ages to find this place, and neither of us have eaten, so."

America leaves the sentence hanging, and his eyes become round and wide behind his glasses, fixing France with the same begging look he has employed on England ever since he was a child. When it catches him off-guard, that look will have England offering America anything he wants without question, but France appears impervious to it.

He starts to shake his head, but the movement is suddenly aborted as his eyes narrow in a way England does not like. It suggests that he is hastily amending his plans, and no doubt expanding them to include yet another of his pathetic attempts at persuading England to shag him. Still, forewarned is forearmed, and England doubts there's a single trick in France's repertoire he hasn't seen and rebuffed a thousand times or more before. They're all stale and tired nowadays, and not half as shocking to England as France seems to think they are. His move, when he makes it, will no doubt be off-putting and disagreeable, but nothing England can't handle.

"Of course," France says, gesturing for both America and England to follow him back into the apartment. "Please, come in."
-


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France glances at the label of the wine that England had brought with him because he was a good guest no matter the host, but it clearly doesn't quite meet his standards as he puts it to one side and pours himself and America a small glass from the bottle he had already selected and uncorked. England knows that his wine will only go to waste if he doesn't drink it himself now that it has been deemed unworthy, so takes it along with an empty glass when France ushers them into the living room.

The apartment is decorated in much the same style as France's own – all stark colours and minimal furniture – and the living room contains only a huge television, white leather sofa, and one high-backed, under-padded armchair. The sofa is barely wide enough to seat two, never mind three, and, predictably, France plonks himself next to America as soon as he sits down upon it, leaving England to discover if the armchair really is as uncomfortable as it looks.

It is.

England fills his glass to the brim with his inferior wine.
-


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The first course of the light meal France has prepared consists of oysters. The second is accompanied by asparagus. And dessert is a completely barefaced combination of chocolate mousse with chocolate dipped strawberries on the side, and a small glass of champagne to wash it down.

"You're still about as subtle as a brick, I see," England observes over the rim of his second glass of wine.

France ignores him.
-


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England's third and fourth glasses insulate him against the way that France has slowly crept along the sofa to the point where he's only one more shuffle away from sitting in America's lap, the horrible studied nonchalance with which he keeps finding excuses to smooth down America's hair or adjust his spectacles, and even the whispered conversations they keep having that make America smile or maybe laugh a little, as though the frog actually has something to say that's worth listening to.

They do nothing, however, to help England blank out the sight of France's hand settling on America's thigh. Nor does the sixth – hurriedly downed in two huge, gulping swallows – invalidate that hand's slow, insidious slide upwards.

England jumps to his feet, vision swimming for a moment as his brain dips and swirls vertiginously from the sudden change in position. "You," he says, pointing a finger at France once he stops flickering in and out of focus. "I need to speak to you. Alone. Right now."

France rolls his eyes, but, astonishingly, stands up and then lets England drag him into the kitchen without protest.

"Maybe you should piss on him, Angleterre," he drawls as soon as England shuts the door behind them, "just to make your feelings a little clearer."

"It's not like that," England snaps reflexively. "It's just…" And England cannot think of a single other justification in that moment, with his blood still pounding in his ears. He stutters into silence, and France's lips curve into a knowing smile.

"It's just what? Surely you're not feeling neglected?" France's voice is all sing-song mockery, obviously not believing his own words and simply toying with England because he's the biggest bastard England has ever known, his siblings included. "I can easily remedy that. You only had to ask."

He reaches out, and starts to lightly run the tip of one finger up the centre of England's chest. England slaps it away and growls, "Fuck off. Of course it's not that, it's just…"

"It's just that you wish you were in my place," France says when England falters again, voice dropping low. "That it was your hands touching him instead of mine, your mouth –"

"Scotland." England didn't want to say the name, but it's the only defence he can lay his hands on. The only shield he can throw up against hearing words he can barely stand to listen to whisper in the back of his own mind spoken aloud.

France's brow furrows. "What about Scotland?"

"You're…" England swallows hard, takes a deep breath to steel himself, and forces out the words he normally tries his hardest to avoid ever voicing. "You're together, aren't you? What would he think if he knew you were… carrying on like this?"

"I shouldn't think he would care," France says, puzzlement bleeding away from his face with a short burst of laughter. "I have my diversions, and he has his. It's always been that way."

England has not noticed – not that he pays too close attention, mind – his brother having any diversions other than France for nigh-on a century, but it's not a subject he wants to dwell on overmuch, even if it might win him an argument with France.

"You're completely shameless. Has it never occurred to you that perhaps it wouldn't matter who it was?" he says, attempting to steer the conversation towards his general disgust for France's behaviour in the hope that it will deflect the other nation's attention away from the specifics. "That perhaps it would be good manners to wait until I was out of the fucking room before you started trying to make yourself acquainted with his –"

France's laughter this time is much fuller and more sustained. "Acquainted?" he asks as it dies down to a breathy chuckle. "I'm already well acquainted, Angleterre. Reacquainted, however, I –"

England punches him.
-


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"Here," America says, placing something cold and damp in England's outstretched hand. "That should help take the swelling down."

England presses the something – he can't make out what it is; the nearby streetlights are too dim to do anything other than highlight the darkness, and his eyes are swollen almost shut besides – against the side of his face. It makes his cuts sting, and the increase in pressure against his jaw shifts a loosened and cracked molar slightly out of alignment, making it throb as the nerve is exposed. His legs start to shake, threatening to give out beneath him, and he lets himself sink down to sit at the edge of the pavement below, hoping it looks a little more like a conscious decision than it feels.

At least, he thinks, he was able to walk out of the apartment unsupported, which was more than could be said for France, who had to be carried to bed by America. Who then left with England. If it's a victory, it feels like a pyrrhic one. France might be sleeping alone tonight, but then so will England, and now England knows there was a time – perhaps more than once? the possibility makes England feel even more nauseated than the blow to his head had done – when France had shared his bed with America.

There's a part of England's mind that seems to take joy in those thoughts which cause him the most pain, and it insists on asking the question of not only how many times it had happened, but when it had begun.

The answer he has ignored for centuries comes echoing back from the very deepest, most shadowed recesses of his memory: They seemed very close after America's revol

England jabs his loose tooth viciously with his tongue, and the sharp stab of pain that shoots through his temple drowns that answer out.