Consensual

Francis and Arthur got drunk together after one particularly stressful world conference. Them getting drunk together was no news, of course – they did that every other month – but what was extraordinary about this particular session was that it led to snogging.

France and England snogging wasn't particularly earth-shattering either. It was unusual, but not unheard of. In truth, the only odd thing about the whole incident was that France forgot it ever happened.

The snogging hadn't led to anything more than a hellish hangover on the following morning, and so, when France woke up in his own bed, alone, only with a splitting headache for company, he couldn't remember kissing England (multiple times) on the previous night. He didn't even recall that he had been drinking, but France was a sensible man and correctly suspected that however he had spent his night, alcohol had been in one way or another involved in it. This being the state of the matter, the only Nation to have witnessed France's snogging session with England was England himself.

France wasn't known for getting absolutely hammered (that was expected from England, really), especially to the point of suffering from a memory loss. And as England had at the time had more pressing matters to occupy himself with than keeping count on the shots the Frenchman was downing, it didn't occur to him that France would not remember.

What France remembered, however, was that there was still two more days of the conference left. He also remembered having a rather violent fight with England on the first conference day, which is why France was genuinely surprised when the Englishman approached him on the Frenchman finally arriving to the conference (three hours late).

England gave him an only slightly gloating look. "You look terrible," he stated the obvious, satisfied. Then his voice changed – barely noticeably, but enough to capture France's attention. "How do you feel?" he asked, as if France's appearance wasn't enough of a tell-tale. He sounded almost concerned.

This quite bewildered France, and the horde of zebras skipping rope with a mammoth inside his head did little to improve his reasoning. As far as he remembered, him and England weren't on the best possible terms, which explained his response: "What's this, has one night suddenly turned us to friends?" he asked.

His question was sincere, therefore he had no idea of how differently Arthur interpreted his words. The Englishman's countenance twisted into something ugly for a fraction of a second, then darkened, and he turned around and left without even the usual 'fuck you'. Under normal circumstances France would have paid more attention to it, but presently his headache efficiently prevented mulling on the matter any further.

It was only in the afternoon that he began to feel more like a man with a hangover and less like an octopus, whose all eight tentacles were being ripped to all eight compass points by eight horses, who were all pissing acid down its throat while simultaneously stomping on its head. And that was when he saw it.

It was barely visible, clearly meant to be covered and out of sight, but France glimpsed it all the same. And what he saw couldn't be unseen any more.

A love-bite. On England's skin. His neck. And it was evidently fresh.

France's entire vision flashes red.

It wasn't that they had ever sealed any agreements about their thing, about them. They'd never talked of seeing each other exclusively. Hell, they'd never talked of seeing each other at all to begin with.

Because all agreements were pointless. Why waste your breath on them when there was no question about England belonging to France, only to France? No one else had the right to touch him, no one. (Sometimes France himself didn't have that right, either, when England denied it, but that was beside the point. The point was that if someone had a right to touch England, it was France.)

After seeing what couldn't be unseen, focusing on the ongoing meeting turned from hard to impossible. The love-bite poked from beneath the collar of England's shirt only a little, but oh, a little too much at that. It presented itself so deliciously on the pale skin, so teasingly that France couldn't tear his eyes off it. What was more, there was the fact that the mark was meant to remain hidden, and damn the world if that didn't stir something in the pit of the Frenchman's stomach. If only England knew how extraordinarily well a mark like that complemented his complexion!

A mark left by someone else.

When the conference finally ended for the day, France wasted no time. He sprung up from his seat and in one flash appeared on England's side. He grabbed the Englishman's arm and, before the other man had time to react, dragged him out of the hall and into the first empty room he found. This room happened to be an old, unused office, and when France slammed the door shut after them, England came to his senses.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snapped, yanking his arm free from France's grip. On doing so his collar slipped lower to reveal the wicked love-bite in all its glory, and France's eyes were instantly yet unwillingly drawn to it once more. England followed his stare and realised what the Frenchman was looking at, and with an angry jerk he pulled the collar back up to cover the obscene mark.

With great effort France tore his gaze off it and into England's eyes. "Who was it?"

"What?"

"How could you let anyone touch you like that?" France growled.

Instead of answering, England stared at him with a baffled frown on his face. France began to lose his patience.

"I asked you -"

Apparently England's patience was in no better state than the Frenchman's, because France didn't have to ask twice.

"You!"

England delivered the answer with such venom that it gave the Frenchman a pause. Then comprehension visited his foggy mind (only briefly though), and he blinked. "Me?"

Silent disdain in the Englishman's eyes confirmed that he had indeed heard it right.

France frowned and tried to think, managing to sum one plus one. "Last night?"

Again, England's silent stare, this time defiant, delivered the affirmative.

Ah. Suddenly the love-bite appeared much more appealing.

France extended his arm and made to touch it. "Show me."

But England jerked back, away from his reaching fingers. "Hands off me!"

France withdrew, baffled. "Why?" he asked. "If you let me do that to you yesterday -"

"I didn't let you do anything, you sodding git, you just – I mean we -", England struggled to find the words but visibly failed, resolving instead to glare at France in helpless anger.

For France, however, he had said enough.

Every living person had their morals, their own rules to live their life by. Even the wickedest people had their own rules, however twisted they might be. Those rules were the pillars that support a person's identity, the very core of who they are. Should this person break one of those pillars, they'd be breaking one of the constructions that keep them upright, thus weakening their own character, their true self.

The nations had their moral pillars, too, France among the others, and one of his most absolute rules was to never, under any conditions, force his love, himself, on anyone. Doing so would destroy his belief in himself, would destroy who he is. And so, when England implied that he, France, had touched him, England, without his permission, France's inner self froze, then crumbled to little pieces.

"Did I do that to you without your consent?" he asked England, his voice hollow.

England opened his mouth to retort, but then he saw France's eyes, and bit his tongue before he'd spill his hurt out in the worst way possible. He knew of France's morals, and he knew how it felt like to break one's own pillars.

So instead of snapping, he gathered his willpower and asked, "How do you not remember?"

"I've got no idea, but it probably has something to do with my headache," France answered with a humourless smile and added, quieter, "You tell me."

England couldn't bear his earnest look any longer. He averted his eyes and hoped (in vain) to look cool and unaffected. "No," he said.

France wished those defiant eyes would look at him instead of he nearby wall. "No – what?" he breathed.

And then suddenly England's eyes met his – bold, determined, and a little bit vulnerable.

"It was consensual," he said steadily. "And I want you to do it again. And if you dare forget it ever again..."

He left his threat hanging in the air, but for France, he had said enough.

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