They pause a moment to say their goodbyes, Spain's arm slung over his shoulder. Spain's a little over the top, as he sometimes gets with a few too many drinks in him. He wants Romano to promise him to take care of Veneziano and make sure they both get home safely, but seconds later he not so subtly informs Veneziano that Romano's too drunk and it's time to cut him off.

It's not the most tactical move. Romano springs upright on jello-legs and nearly trips over a stool in his path to confront Spain. Before the two of them can squabble the next hour away, France side-steps Romano and gently rests a hand on his shoulder. "It's getting late, mon petit. As certain as I am that Spain would love to hear the amusing tirade you have prepared, it will unfortunately have to wait for tomorrow."

Romano wrenches his arm free, abruptly shifting the onslaught in his direction. "What's the fucking rush, France? Can't wait to stick your dick in him?"

France freezes, too briefly for anyone but Spain to notice and smile apologetically, but then his shoulders relax and he winks. "How crude of you, Romano. I didn't imply anything of that nature!"

"Oh, please. As if there's ever anything else on your mind!"

"Ah, nothing but the thought of an innocent back rub between lovers, at the moment. Perhaps a long, hot bath afterward. You must know that men like us need our time to unwind."

Romano's eyes widen, but he takes a step back. "Jesus, France. I didn't ask for the fucking details!"

"Or we could massage each other's backs in the bath," Spain adds teasingly. He squeezes France's shoulder, and they share a brief, silent exchange of glances. Bedroom eyes, to any observer. But Spain purses his lips, tilts his head to the side.

France chooses not to answer the unworded question.

He raises one hand at the remaining crowd, a final good night, and then pushes toward the exit. The music and laughter dims behind him, and soon all he hears are Spain's footsteps hurrying behind him.

"France," Spain laughs. "Slow down! There's no rush, it's not that late!"

France pauses so Spain can catch up, and then turns the handle of the door. The cool night air whips through his hair, breezes through the loose fabric of his shirt. But it's not too chilly tonight.

He holds the door in place until Spain has slipped through behind him, and then allows it to fall shut behind them. "The weather is pleasant," France comments. "Shall we walk?"

"Sure! My house isn't too far off."

France is aware. They've frequented this bar many time with friends, though spending the night at Spain's house has only recently become a common occurrence. But in terms of his kind, 'recent' can range anywhere from a few days to a decade…

Spain hums a tune under his breath as they walk, but the glances he occasionally shoots France's way aren't as covert as he might like to believe. Finally, he blurts out, "Romano doesn't always think before he speaks. Especially when he's in a bad mood. And drunk."

France makes a noncommittal sound. "I am aware. Romano is no stranger to me."

Spain's silent for another moment, but the frown etched on his face suggests that he's internally floundering with his words. When he seems to piece them together, he says, "It's more of a joke, really. Or a stereotype? You know, you being France, and your association with love and sex? It doesn't have to mean anything."

France chuckles. "I am also aware of that, Spain. Are you concerned on my behalf? It appears, for once, that you are the one needlessly ruminating, mon amour."

Spain shrugs sheepishly, grinning. "Sorry. I wasn't sure, you know? Sometimes you start thinking a little too deep into things, and then you worry about things you really shouldn't worry about. And I don't always notice right away, so I just thought I'd make sure."

They pass the street corner, the one with the old-fashioned pastry shop the two had visited many afternoons, when the sun was bearing down a little too strong and Spain had promised their chilled flan was among the best.

"I dwell on it, occasionally," France admits. "Though not tonight."

Admittedly, it could have been days or decades since the thought last clung to his mind.

It happened, sometimes, when they strolled down the same street, midday, or when they were in France, or anywhere, and both their gazes lingered on the graceful arch of a woman's back, or behind the tight fit of a man's pants. They both appreciated beauty. France was just as swift to charm a local, and he couldn't chide Spain for something he took just as much pleasure in.

But occasionally, France would stand aside and observe Spain as he chatted with a young man who was clearly blushing and delighted with the attention, and he would wonder if the man, although a human, could do more for Spain than France ever could.

If France chose to extend the boundaries of their relationship, return to the earlier and more liberated stage of their courtship, would Spain lead that man to his home? France never dwelled on the aftermath. Spain would always return, as he had from the beginning, with more love and affection to shower over France.

But in those few hours, with that man hunched over in his bed, would Spain receive the gratification France could never provide?

Every once in a while Spain would toss out the old question, lips quirked apologetically. Shirt unbuttoned, straddling France, their hands roaming each other freely, and he would say, "Hey, France. Can we…try it, again?"

And France would swallow the cold lump that plunged to the pit of his stomach, feeling as though all the heat in the room had been sucked out, but he'd try to think about Spain's lips against his, his waist grinding against his groin, and then twist his mouth into a smile.

"Oui."

After all, he was known as the country of love.

France did love freely, beautiful women and beautiful men, from fleeting courtships to longstanding romances. But what type of misconstrued personification of a country would he be if he consistently left his lover in need of deeper intimacy? Love, after all, could represent the soft, giddy moments spent lying in each other's arms before sleep. However, love could also grow into the willingness to die for another being, and yet all Spain was asking of him was to suffer through a brief moment of discomfort.

Spain's fingers, by this point, would be drenched in lube. France did not quite enjoy crouching on his hands and knees, so he would try to relax on his back, legs spread. The first finger would enter and all France could think was cold, the intrusiveness, and then the scrape of Spain's nail against an intimate part of his body. France could accept the act in theory: some find pleasure here, and being who he is France should be one of them, but the best he can do is hold his breath and loosen his muscles as fingers rub too deep inside him.

Eventually, even Spain couldn't grit his teeth and bear through the sight of his lover bearing through obvious discomfort.

"France," Spain would say, forehead creased in worry, "It's okay. We don't have to."

And then France would say nothing. Because how could he lie when even Spain could see the relief so blatantly in his eyes?

Spain, however, could be ruthlessly optimistic.

There were times they tried with their roles reversed, Spain bent over the bed with France pressed up behind him. Spain would stifle the faintest hisses of pain in fear that France would retreat. In the end it didn't matter how much either of them tried; France would pull away shaking his head, his fingers stiff, feeling both disgusted and disappointed.

Sometimes France would lie awake, Spain curled up against him, and wonder why Spain settled for him and only him. After all, it wasn't uncommon for their kind to frequent between quite a few different lovers. And for Spain to choose someone like him, who—for all his pompous claims about romance—couldn't even satisfy him.

This night, however, is different.

France steps through the door to Spain's house and is immediately pulled into a deep kiss. Gentle, loving, but passionate. One of Spain's hands slip around the back of his neck and fingers entwine with his hair. The other grasps his lower back, pulling him flush against Spain's waist. Spain fumbles with the door and manages to kick it shut behind them.

France's chuckle is muffled by Spain's lips…

Somehow they've made it to the bedroom, pressed chest-to-chest and stumbling over each other's feet in a graceless tango. Spain can be clumsy and he can also be rough, but somewhere over these days or decades he must have picked up on a few of France's preferences. The two of them topple backwards onto the bed, with Spain's grip around his waist bracing the fall.

Spain's mouth caresses his lips, his neck, and down his chest, while France sighs and just feels Spain—the tight muscles of his abdomen, the curve of his back, the sharp end of his clavicle. They're both breathless, and Spain peers up at him with that dazzling grin of his before his hands dip below. France props himself up on his elbows and watches as Spain begins working the buckle of his belt.

France cocks an eyebrow. He begins to speak, but all composure is lost when Spain takes him in his mouth, and all he feels is heat and wet and the friction from Spain's tongue. He leans his head back and moans.

Spain teases him to fullness, and then unzips his own pants. France inhales sharply as Spain presses their erections together. His hand is hot around him, hot and slick with lube. He pumps slowly, sighing as he does. France tangles his fingers in Spain's hair, urging him closer, and kisses him.

Spain's lips seem to tingle against his. In fact, the entire room seems to be vibrating in a warm, comfortable buzz. France breaks away and sees Spain, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

He looks beautiful.

And he looks at France with a gaze that seems to reflect his own sentiment. Spain is looking at him as if he could never picture anyone more beautiful, as if he could never imagine anything better, as if he would never want to seek out anything better.

France can see love in those eyes, and he knows Spain belongs to him just as much as he belongs to Spain.

He slides his hand over Spain's, idly stroking his thumb. France thrusts up, deeper into their combined grip, and he hears Spain moan softly. The heat pools in his abdomen, swelling, and France can't hold back—he comes, spilling over Spain's hand. Spain finishes a moment later with a low groan.

The two of them topple back onto the sheets, their fingers entwined.

France feels warm, despite there only being a thin sheet to cover their nude bodies. Spain is huddled close, breathing deep and even, his head tucked under France's chin. France plants a soft kiss on his forehead before his own eyes flutter shut.

Tonight, everything is alright.