A/N - Sorry I didn't upload a chapter yesterday! I was out all day and then realised I had missed the deadline for a pinch-hitting assignment I'd taken up for a fic exchange OTL The first fic I did for that exchange was also written on the day it was due in...I'm just a fail when it comes to deadlines, clearly XD

14 July 2009, El Gran Teatro

It was early evening, and the sun was hanging low in the sky, lengthening the shadows and cooling the streets of Havana. England and Cuba arrived at the theatre to find a long queue already snaking out of the building, filled with people talking and laughing, looking forward to the first foreign ballet production in the country for thirty years.

"Do we have to wait in this?" England asked, eyeing the long line of people apprehensively. Cuba laughed.

"Aren't you used to it?" he teased. "Queuing is something the English are famous for doing, you know." England rolled his eyes.

"Doesn't mean I enjoy it," he grumbled, and was surprised when Cuba didn't stop walking as they reached the end of the queue. "Hey, where are we going?"

"What would the world be coming to," Cuba replied airily, "if an anthropomorphic personification of a country didn't get special treatment in his own capital city?" He pushed his way past the people stood in the doorway, ignoring their irritated looks, and led England to the very front of the queue, flashing an ID card and his ticket at one of the men who moved to stop him. The man backed away hurriedly when he realised who Cuba was, gesturing towards the door into the theatre itself. Cuba flashed a smirk at England, who considered that he'd be more impressed if he couldn't do exactly the same thing in his own country. Nevertheless, he resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow at the other nation and instead merely followed him as Cuba led the way to their seats.

They were good seats. Naturally. England sank back into the plush, red material and looked around, watching other people try to figure out where they were sitting and letting his eyes run over the white pillars around the edges of the circular room and the heavy crimson curtain hiding the stage from view. Then he turned to look at Cuba and was slightly startled to find Cuba already watching him.

"It's a nice place, huh?" Cuba asked, and England nodded. Cuba looked pleased and started talking about the theatre, but England wasn't really listening. He was too distracted by, well, Cuba; the way he sat, casually, completely at his ease and exuding confidence. He sat like a king, England thought. Not because of his posture – no king would ever slouch like that – but in the raw power that emanated from him, giving off the impression that he owned the place. Or perhaps the impression he gave was that the theatre was only a tiny, insignificant part of him.

Then Cuba caught the way that England was looking at him, and his voice trailed off mid-sentence. Something flickered in the air between them, and it didn't go away when the lights dimmed and an atmospheric hush spread over the room.

And then the curtain rose, and England looked away, focusing on the stage and the dancers and the music, letting himself be swept up by the fluid motions of the dance.

However, even though the delicate costumes and the flittering, airy notes of the piano were beautiful enough to hold his attention, they weren't enough to lessen the tug at the back of England's mind, distracting him with a small, persistent niggling to turn and look at the man in the seat to his left. England could feel the heat radiating from Cuba as if he were nuclear, searing through the air, and he was sure that he could hear Cuba's breathing underneath the music. England wanted to breathe the air that Cuba breathed, inhale the exhale that must taste of sunlight and sugar and everything foreign and beautiful.

And then Cuba's hand slipped onto the armrest and settled itself over England's, stroking England's fingers gently as the first few haunting bars of Swan Lake drifted out over the audience. England didn't turn his head, but the heat grew hotter, and he felt himself shift subconsciously towards it, felt Cuba tighten his hold on his hand by the most miniscule amount. And then it was gone, and England mourned in the cold for a moment before Cuba surreptitiously slid his hand onto England's thigh, causing England's breath to hitch and his legs to slip ever so slightly further apart.

Now he turned to look at Cuba, and he found himself trapped in Cuba's gaze, his brown eyes molten in the darkness, drawing him in and making him shiver as a thumb stroked firmly and slowly along his thigh. There were promises in Cuba's eyes and desire on the surface of his skin, and England swallowed thickly and forgot to breathe...

When the curtain dropped and the lights turned on, the applause and the following sounds of people rising, stretching and starting to shuffle towards the exit were lost on England. Cuba's hand had subtly been reclaimed before it could be seen, and England wanted it back. He started as Cuba tapped him on the arm, and looked up to see that the other nation was already standing, quirking an eyebrow at him and looking amused.

"It's time to leave," he said, and England blushed a little, hurriedly getting to his feet as he realised that he'd got lost somewhere in the opening notes of Swan Lake and in memories of body heat.

As they stood, waiting for the crush of people all trying to leave at once to move, Cuba pressed himself closer to England from behind and leant forwards to speak lowly in his ear: "Come back to my place." A hand touched England's hip. "You can stay the night," Cuba murmured, and England could only nod.

The journey back to Cuba's house took far too long, and the feeling of their thighs pressed flush against each other in the back of the taxi wasn't enough, the lingering glances weren't nearly enough, and it wasn't until Cuba had fumbled his key into the lock and opened the door that England felt free. He pushed Cuba into the wall of the hallway, grinding their bodies together and kissing him, touching him and demanding to know why Cuba had to be so fucking gorgeous at such inappropriate times.

They made it to the bedroom somehow or other, and paused to impatiently tug and yank at clothing, leaving it to messily crease on the floor as Cuba pushed England down onto the mattress. England reached up and pulled him even closer, their panting breaths mingling together in the air and their hips rocking against each other, seeking the friction and slickness and ahh.

And then it was burning and rhythm and want; it was pleasure pressed against skin, fingers curled tightly in fistfuls of sheets; it was sharp noises with soft edges and fitting together and patterns traced on skin with searing mouths. It was Spanish dripping from Cuba's tongue and heat so deep that it scorched England's body. It was green eyes like stardust and emeralds, and honeyed incoherent gasps falling from England's lips, growing sharper and louder as Cuba moved like that and then the whole world imploded and gravity broke and the insides of England's eyelids crystallised into coloured glass...

And when Cuba came inside him, England held his hand so tightly that he didn't know if it was his pulse or Cuba's that beat in his wrist like the waves outside that crashed on the Caribbean shore.

Notes

Yes, the Royal Ballet Company did perform in the Gran Teatro on the first night of their performance and Swan Lake was indeed part of their programme. And yet, somehow, this isn't even the extent of my obsessive research for this fic...OTL