Francis, though he teased the other occasionally, got along better than almost anyone else with Alfred. Of course Alfred teased him as well, but it was never the way it was with the rest of the nations. Never those low-blow comments, never anything that actually hit home when they joked around. And this was something Alfred appreciated. A break from genuine taunting replaced instead with playful banter was a welcome change. Francis was a welcome change; a good prospect for something, perhaps friendship or at least a closer political bond, and Alfred wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.
So, as yet another long-winded and not very productive world meeting in his capital came to a close, he found himself jogging after the Frenchman.
"Francis! Yo!" Alfred called, waving a hand. Francis did a double take over his shoulder, and then stopped walking and turned to face the bright eyed boy.
"Yes, Alfred, what do you need?" Francis replied, shooting Alfred a smile. Alfred clapped a hand down onto his shoulder.
"It's not so much that I need anything, actually." Alfred grinned. "But, well, I wanted to know if you'd booked yourself a hotel room. If not, you're welcome to crash at my place. I don't usually offer my super luxurious guest room up, but you're a lot less of an asshole than any other candidates for staying with me." Francis was sort of surprised at the offer, and chuckled at Alfred's joking. He shook his head.
"Non, I have not yet found somewhere to spend the night. I'll take you up on this. You're not an 'asshole' like many of the others that will be staying at the local hotel, where I would've ended up without you allowing me to stay at your home, either. Merci, Alfred." Alfred rifled in his pocket for his keys while Francis spoke, laughing when the Frenchman responded to his calling him 'not an asshole'. He bobbed his head. Looking up as he pulled out his keys and jangling them, he smiled wide at Francis again.
"Awesome, let's go, then!"
At Alfred's house, Francis cooked them a meal. Alfred ate his food ridiculously fast, but was also quick to thank Francis for his effort and clean the kitchen and happily show the Frenchman to his guest bedroom.
"Yeah, I figure we don't stay up too late tonight, and then tomorrow before you fly home we can do something cool like go see a movie or whatever." Francis nodded at Alfred's words, some odd tightness in his chest at the American's Crest-white smile.
"That sounds very good, cher, and thank you again for letting me sleep here." Francis turned to go into the room, watching Alfred go into his bedroom just next door and calling over his shoulder.
"No problem, dude. G'night, Francis!"
Francis, on occasion, had trouble sleeping. Sometimes it was thoughts of the past that kept him awake, sometimes those of the present, the weight of his people on his shoulders. Sometimes it was no strain of thoughts in particular that prevented him from a peaceful sleep, but a warm buzzing in his head. A craving for physical intimacy, heat, to touch and be touched.
On that evening, lying in the center of the king sized mattress in Alfred's guest bedroom, it was a combination of all of the above that made Francis lie still and sleepless, staring at the ceiling. It was warm, as well, and he was on top of the covers. He wore only boxers and a t-shirt. Both of which he was beginning to consider removing in light of the seemingly ever increasing temperature of the room. A hand was draped across his forehead. And then he heard it.
At first all he heard was breathing, Alfred's breathing, through the wall. Heavier than normal, uneven. Shifting upwards and shoving aside a pillow, Francis listened closely.
Not only was the breathing out of rhythm and rapid, but it was broken up by other sounds. Gasps, soft but clear. Tiny gasps and quiet moans. Followed shortly by sharp intakes of breath.
Francis bit his lip and edged closer to the wall. Pressing his ear to the cool surface, he shut his eyes.
Alfred let out a low moan, almost indiscernible from the other sounds coming from the other side of the walls. Blankets rustling, movement on the bed, shifting on the mattress. He could see nothing, but Francis' imagination was vivid.
Alfred's back arching upwards, breath hitching in his throat, eyes fluttering between shutting tightly and staring wide eyed at nothing. His hand, beneath the blankets, beneath the sheets, inside of his boxers...
Francis squirmed as the noises continued, trying to get his mind to simmer down. His own breathing was becoming faster, as was his pulse, and he wasn't proceeding very successfully at reigning in his thoughts. Maybe it really was time to remove the rest of his clothes.
Little did Francis know, on the other side of the wall, Alfred was thinking of him. In the day, out and about, he might never let himself think that he had feelings for the Frenchman. Might not even admit to himself that he found him attractive. But in the dark, alone, at night in his almost too warm bedroom... That was another story.
His lips shut hard, and then they parted again, involuntarily, as another sound of pleasure that he'd tried to hold back escaped his mouth. He was never very good at being quiet. But really, what teenager is?
As his hands moved, rubbing himself the way he liked, the way that made his hips buck, Alfred imagined Francis. His lips against his neck, his hands exploring his skin. He could almost feel the scratchy brush of his stubble against his flesh, smell the glass of wine he'd had with dinner on his breath, hear him moaning.
Alfred's eyes opened again, but this time because he was certain he did hear something. He'd heard a groan. He licked his lips, deciding it must've been his imagination in the moment. Then it came again, definitely Francis, and definitely out of pleasure.
Alfred felt chills. His pace, sliding his hand up and down, picked up and he gave up trying to get his breathing steadied and to quiet himself down. He wanted Francis, and perhaps Francis wanted him too.
"Alfred..." Francis let slip in a very soft and breathy moan. He bit his lip hard, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that the young American hadn't heard him.
He'd pulled his shirt off and tugged his boxers down to his knees and was touching all over himself, envisioning what it'd be like if it was Alfred and... He'd lost control. He had let himself be too loud. Hearing him just a room away, practically feeling him on top of him. It was too much.
He stopped what he was doing and pulled up the boxers, regretting the situation he'd gotten himself into. But regret didn't make his needs any less intense. He got out of bed, thinking he'd tiptoe to the bathroom.
When he crept from the room, however, Alfred was standing in his doorway. His hair was a mess and his pajamas were disheveled. His breathing was heavy and hot, and there was a very obvious bulge in his pants.
"You said my name," Francis swallowed hard as Alfred spoke, trying to stand so his own erection might not be so visible outlined by his tight boxers.
"Maybe I did, but you were moaning first, cher." Francis shifted his stance again. It was looking less and less likely he was going to be able to make his originally planned escape to the bathroom. Alfred was bright red.
"I was just seeing what you'd do if I did." Alfred replied hurriedly. The Frenchman rolled his eyes.
"Oh, right, because you surely were not touching yourself like a horny teenage boy." Francis' sarcasm was thick as he spoke, almost more so than even his accent. Alfred crinkled his nose.
"And what were you doing, then, huh? Touching yourself like a perverted old man?" Alfred's hand were on his hips, a stubborn gleam in his eyes. Francis made a face at having been called old, and thought the perverted part to be debatable, but shrugged his shoulders lazily.
"I would not call myself that, but sure. That is what I was doing." Francis' blunt honesty made the rosy color of Alfred's cheeks darken further. "But you were as well, n'est-ce pas?
"Well, yeah. I was." Alfred admitted reluctantly, running a hand through his hair. The two of them stood, neither speaking and creating a weighty silence, in the hall between the two bedrooms, looking at each other.
It was a fork-in-the-road moment. Either they could turn around and go back into their rooms and try and actually go to sleep, or they could explore the feelings (at least sexual, if not more) that they clearly had for one another.
And despite his inexperience in this field, it was Alfred who launched them down the latter of paths with a few steps forward and a quick movement that had Francis pinned against the wall and their lips interlocked.