"Finally, mon Dieu," France dramatically sighs. He brings that distracting cardamom scent with him as he strides into the room. Taking out a hook from the closet, he nags nonchalantly, "I crossed half the city in search of your dishevelled form, only for you to treat me as a traitor? I will never understand why you are always so intent on wounding me."
In a single swift motion, he removes his grey coat and gingerly hangs it up in the little alcove. "You know, with all of the patience I have, I deserve to be called a saint! Anyone else would have left you by now."
The admonition pricks England like a thorn. "You're about as saintly as an imp," England grumbles.
"How tragic!" France laments, ignoring him. "I did not get to finish my pinot noir! I've done my people a horrible disservice by wasting good wine."
England bites back the potent urge to quarrel with an exasperated sigh. After causing a few disasters, he unfortunately has no leg to stand on. He did a bang-up job, scampering away from his date without even thinking to send a text. Then when France came looking for him, England threw out wild accusations like they were hand grenades. So much for being a gentleman.
Hold on, did he think of it as a date? That wasn't a date. Of course not! France and England don't go out on dates. They just happen to get drinks together. Frequently. But it's always in a professional manner! It's entirely normal for a pair of nations with a shared history to socialize outside of work hours. And, on occasion, find a quiet hotel room. For things that are not professional manners.
When the mood strikes.
England shakes off those distracting memories. Absently, he realizes that he's been ignoring France, who for some reason, is still delivering his monologue. "...And why could you not pay that waiter using your credit card, hmm? Have you gone broke? I suppose I should be thankful, though. It is a rare gift to have you partially sober. You are not as cute when you are drunk."
Heat rises to England's ears. It seems he picked the worst moment to start paying attention. France adds, "And also, you are far less pleasant when you accuse me of crimes I did not commit."
"Thank you, I get it," England finally retorts. "Can you please knock it off?"
"You broke my heart, Angleterre." France pouts, placing both hands over his chest. "You did not trust me."
"How could I have known?" England dismisses. "You've pulled stunts like that in the past." Maybe the distant past, but even so. The point still stands.
France tosses his golden hair and smirks. "Not even an apology? Quelle surprise."
Narrowing his eyes, England scrutinizes his companion. France is poised. One hand on his hip, head tilted up. Haughtily staring down his nose at England, as if daring him to pick a fight. But after everything they've done tonight, this melodrama is too exaggerated. And England sees right through it.
"Sod off," England mutters. "You're not upset."
"Oh, I am not?"
"No. If you were, you wouldn't have asked to come in."
"Be grateful that I did, cher. Otherwise, you would be spending the rest of the night alone."
"Exactly how I like it."
"Ah, oui," France sneers. "You prefer it so much that you let me in. You liar." Flustered and done with his nonsense, England brazenly approaches him.
Getting right up in France's smug, attractive face, he hisses: "Ever since we ran into each other back at the Europa building, you've been at my heels like a lost pup. First on the walk back, then at the bar, and now here. Anything you'd care to explain?"
France's confident smirk cracks for only a moment. Then, with a practiced ease, he shrugs.
"Well, you did not turn me down. Not even once."
"I..." England falters. "I told you off on our walk."
"No, Angleterre. When you do not want me around, you are always very clear about it. Aggressively so." France's voice is low. His grin vanishes and he leans in, all leathery aromas and captivating presence. His blue eyes are piercing, focusing on a secret hidden in England's soul. "If, as you claim, you wish to be left alone tonight, then you need only say it."
Heart pounding, England repels his challenge. "Say what?"
"Tell me to leave," France whispers.
Throat cramping, the words won't come to England. He should say it and damn, he does try. But the silent tension settles in to stay, as thick as butter and as dark as chocolate.
Why the hell is he so bothered by this? It's not like the two of them haven't been here before. Sharing a dim hotel room after a night out drinking - it's practically expected by now. Even on the rare nights when England is completely sober, they will find themselves back here. Saying nothing romantic. Stumbling blindly through the darkness. Tied up in each other's embrace.
It's just... them.
For well over a century, it's been their irrational way. Vapid and empty of any meaning beyond some ancient carnal hunger and faraway memory. And England is happy to leave it at just that. It's safer and it's easier than whatever France is alluding to. They're close - dangerously close to something frightening, something that cannot be named.
Finally, England asks quietly, "...Do you want to leave?" Then, the only sound in the air is the soft ticking of his wristwatch.
France says nothing, but doesn't need to. His sapphire eyes are lit with fiery intensity, and if England wasn't so tightly wound up, he'd be squirming under that gaze. At this range, France fills his vision. Dark eyelashes and rich hair; a golden beard lining his appealing jawline.
England's dry lips prickle and he makes the terrible mistake of wetting them with his tongue. France's eyes snap to his mouth, briefly, and that's all it takes to send a tremor up England's spine. "What are you staring at?" he murmurs, hating how uncertain his own voice sounds.
"I was just thinking," France muses smoothly, "you would be very attractive if you did not look like that."
"Well," England stammers. He scrambles for some flippant insult to toss out. Anything will do. "Your hair is ridiculous."
Well, that was just pathetic.
Carnal shadow falls over France's expression, conjuring the image of a tiger eyeing its prey. He drifts just a hair's breadth closer, sweet lavender and pepper scents whirling around him, so bewitching and tempting. England swallows. He's completely done for. "And..." Fingertips itching with want, heart thundering in his ears, England growls. "And your cologne is infuriating."
France's pupils dilate, giving only a half-second warning. And suddenly, hands fly to England's face, grabbing him roughly and crashing their lips together. Throwing his whole body into the bruising kiss, France arches and bears down on England, who stumbles backwards, dizzy and helpless. He feels his back slam into a wall, sending a shock through his core.
He can hardly breathe and France isn't letting up; threading fingers through England's hair and exhaling against his skin. England's trembling hands skate over France's soft sweater, dying to just fist the expensive fabric and pull the idiot closer. He's had enough of their tennis games, but... can he really let his guard down? Maybe they aren't close to anything at all and he's just dreaming up another delusion. Nothing is different about tonight. Right?
Then France bites his lip, hard, and England realizes he doesn't care to stop. Chucking the damned feelings in the bin, he lets it all go. And it's the best idea he's had all fucking day.
England shoves his tongue in France's sinful mouth, earning a muffled squeak. He explores, curls his tongue around familiar teeth and tastes velvety red wine. He wraps his arms tight around France's torso, locks him there, and then he does grasp that plush sweater, twisting it and feeling the hard muscles underneath. England doesn't stop until his lungs are screaming and he breaks the kiss, gasping for air.
France is breathless, wearing a satisfied smile and a rosy, pink blush. "So desperate," he teases. "Has it really been such a long time?"
"Five years is long enough," England admits, panting.
"Oh?" France inquires, raising a single, perfectly trimmed eyebrow. "You have been counting?"
"No, I- ...shut up."
France hums and nips at England's throat. Then he snakes a devilish hand behind England and gropes him through his trousers. Jolting, England yelps far too soon and wholly embarrassed, he scowls. "Y-you... Perverted... Knob polisher."
"Mmm, do not give me ideas," France purrs, and England can feel him smirking against his skin. On second thought, maybe they won't have sex. Maybe the night will end with England shoving a baguette up France's arse instead.
But England's anger melts away as they tug at each other, biting and kissing in a whirlwind of passion. Time loses all meaning and they drive forward, stumbling onto the bed. England bounces when he hits the downy duvet, fervent, lightheaded, and greedy. He knows it's far easier for him to indulge his lust than it is to speak his honest feelings.
Rolling over top of England, France wickedly assaults his jugular and starts deftly undoing his buttons. And England doesn't give enough of a shit to protest or put up a pretend fuss. Right now, he just needs this: the one singular vice that always obliterates his anxiety and crippling loneliness.
"Come on then," he encourages, nibbling at France's ear. "I haven't got all night."
Startled, France stalls, holding a button in place for just a moment. Then he releases it, instead smoothing his hands along England's chest and planting tame kisses on his collarbone. England fidgets and drags his fingernails harshly along France's back. He twists, licking and biting every patch of skin that he can reach. But it does nothing. As though sapped of energy, France only returns a few half-hearted pecks.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" England hisses. "Why are you slowing down?" France sighs against his neck, pulls back, and takes away that comforting body weight. He hovers, wearing a look of concern that England rarely ever sees.
"Angleterre, there is something I need to ask you," France says quietly.
"My consent? You have it." Grumbling, England drags him back down and urgently kisses the crook of his jaw.
France chuckles, but there's no joy in the sound. "I am honoured, but it is not that."
"What, then?" Because this is bizarre and alarming. By now, France should be all over him - slipping off their clothes and sinking into the mattress. Instead, he's solemnly searching England's face for some sort of answer. And England is apprehensively waiting for the question to be spoken out loud, so they can get back to more pressing matters.
Moving off England to sit on the bed, France begins, gentle and serious, "You said you do not have all night. And..." He drifts off, seeming to second-guess himself, and it's a behaviour England hasn't seen in half a century. "Years ago, when all of this was first being decided," France continues. "If you had been allowed to vote, what would you have chosen? Would you have chosen to Leave... or Remain?"
Immediately, the warmth leaves England's body, killing his arousal and dragging out the wretched misery he's tried to conceal all night. He sits up and gapes openly at France for daring to bring up this topic.
"Are you daft?" he asks. His voice sounds dead and foreign to his own ears. "You're asking me this... now?" This isn't right. This isn't how things are meant to go.
"Oui."
England really wishes they weren't in his hotel room, because there's no place left for him to run from France's penetrating eyes. All he can do is bitterly turn away as his last escape route is stolen from him. Why would France do this? Why now, when England was so close to grasping his only enduring lifeline?
"You... France, you can't just..."
"Please." The word strikes his heart like a spear, because France never talks to him like this. Reflexively, he wants to lash out, bark harsh obscenities and kick the frog out of his room. But his fingers are locked in place, bunched up in France's fleece sweater, and it's the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. England's mind is petrified stone, stuck fast, refusing to think or rescue him from this turmoil.
He barely manages to speak. "I'm not about to..."
"Angleterre," France pleads. "I need to know. Please."
France is absolutely wrong. He doesn't need to know. Why on earth would he need to know the personal thoughts of someone he doesn't care for? England looks back at France, immediately regretting it, because it's a bittersweet expression that he hasn't seen since World War fucking Two. Weary. Tranquil. Faithful. Like when the sunlight peaks through dreary rain clouds with the fragile hope that everything will be alright.
"Stop looking at me like that," England rasps. His heart is twisting into knots, his mouth is dry, and his thin voice is threatening to crack. He hates this. Hates how France completely ruins him, time and time again. "You're such a bastard. Bloody, stupid frog... I..."
With a trembling sigh, England's house of straw collapses. "I... I don't know."
France brushes England's hair aside and kisses his forehead in a way that's so tender and terrifying.
"You do," he whispers. "You can tell me."
If the bed were made of guilt, it would be deep enough to swallow England whole. Because France doesn't get it yet. England takes a breath and tries to steady his wavering voice.
"No, France I... I mean, I don't know."