“An’ then—an’ then they all just—what wassit? Jus’ jumpin’ and whatnot, so much… haberdashery…” With that last proclamation, England slumped over onto the bar, arms circling his head and his hands holding onto his glass like it was a lifeline. France leaned onto the bar beside him, head in one hand, playing with a loose bit of blonde hair and watching the borderline alcoholic foolishly babble about absolutely nothings.
“An’—you don’t believe me, do ya?” England asked from his position on the bar, one hazel-green eye staring directly at France with a slight twinkle added to it. “You never believe me.”
“If I were to be frank,” France said, swirling his glass of scotch in his hand and downing it in a single gulp, “I haven’t had any idea what you’ve been talking about the last, oh, twenty minutes or so.” England just stared up at France open-mouthed as if he had spoken in another language entirely. France just raised his eyebrows and stared down at the nation.
It was the same old, old song and dance routine, for them.
England pushed himself from the bar with a groan, earning a dirty look from the barista, and turned to France, half smiling, tugging on his vest.
“Y’know,” England began, and he leaned forward once more, practically draped over France, his head pressed against France’s collarbone and his fingers pawing at his shoulders, “I dun’ think Imma sittin’ right.”
“No, no you are not,” France admitted, and he leaned against the bar as England’s weight mucked with his own sense of equilibrium. Just because he wasn’t a sloppy mess like England didn’t mean he wasn’t quite drunk himself—for, that was the point of his trips to outer London.
“I still don’ get why you come all the way out here but it’s bloody fun,” England murmured as he unconsciously buried his nose into France’s chest. The hair on the nation’s arms began to prickle as England’s hands applied the slightest amount of pressure and his thin legs wrapped around his ankles.
“You reek of alcohol,” France said as he snaked a single arm under his lower back, straightening the smaller man up. England just collapsed against the bar, shoving his glass back and practically falling on France, eyes closed with a pleasant hum. England was nearly in his lap, although barely any of the drunken groups of middle aged men and women noticed them over in the corner. England’s legs draped between France’s and the French nation began to realize just how uncomfortable his charcoal slacks were feeling.
“I-I think it’s time to go, Arthur,” France said, sliding off his stool with England practically in his arms. England just smiled that insane drunken smile of his, his lips pulled flat except for a sneaky, sexy tilt at the corners where a grin somehow formed. “C’mon, you sorry sack.” England slapped a twenty pound note onto the bar, regardless of the fact that France had already paid the barista, and straightened up (with France’s help) as he practically swaggered out of the bar with renewed balance. France cocked an eyebrow and wondered how long this would last, until he crossed the threshold and the freezing air smacked him in the face—and England practically fell over once more, sliding on the ice, hands cold against his cheeks.
France was wholly unprepared for the cool chapped lips that met his, tasting of cheap scotch and spices. England’s warm breath hit France’s cheeks and he closed his eyes, arms hanging at his sides in surprise as England pressed flush against him, bodies connecting at every conceivable point through their clothing.
“You taste like turmeric,” France murmured as England pulled away, looking strangely self-satisfied. England slid his hands down France’s arms and looped his fingers through the Frechman’s long spindly ones and tugged him down the street, away from the pub and in the general direction of France’s hotel. “Have you been eating curry lately?”
That Old Song and Dance - 1
“An’—you don’t believe me, do ya?” England asked from his position on the bar, one hazel-green eye staring directly at France with a slight twinkle added to it. “You never believe me.”
“If I were to be frank,” France said, swirling his glass of scotch in his hand and downing it in a single gulp, “I haven’t had any idea what you’ve been talking about the last, oh, twenty minutes or so.” England just stared up at France open-mouthed as if he had spoken in another language entirely. France just raised his eyebrows and stared down at the nation.
It was the same old, old song and dance routine, for them.
England pushed himself from the bar with a groan, earning a dirty look from the barista, and turned to France, half smiling, tugging on his vest.
“Y’know,” England began, and he leaned forward once more, practically draped over France, his head pressed against France’s collarbone and his fingers pawing at his shoulders, “I dun’ think Imma sittin’ right.”
“No, no you are not,” France admitted, and he leaned against the bar as England’s weight mucked with his own sense of equilibrium. Just because he wasn’t a sloppy mess like England didn’t mean he wasn’t quite drunk himself—for, that was the point of his trips to outer London.
“I still don’ get why you come all the way out here but it’s bloody fun,” England murmured as he unconsciously buried his nose into France’s chest. The hair on the nation’s arms began to prickle as England’s hands applied the slightest amount of pressure and his thin legs wrapped around his ankles.
“You reek of alcohol,” France said as he snaked a single arm under his lower back, straightening the smaller man up. England just collapsed against the bar, shoving his glass back and practically falling on France, eyes closed with a pleasant hum. England was nearly in his lap, although barely any of the drunken groups of middle aged men and women noticed them over in the corner. England’s legs draped between France’s and the French nation began to realize just how uncomfortable his charcoal slacks were feeling.
“I-I think it’s time to go, Arthur,” France said, sliding off his stool with England practically in his arms. England just smiled that insane drunken smile of his, his lips pulled flat except for a sneaky, sexy tilt at the corners where a grin somehow formed. “C’mon, you sorry sack.” England slapped a twenty pound note onto the bar, regardless of the fact that France had already paid the barista, and straightened up (with France’s help) as he practically swaggered out of the bar with renewed balance. France cocked an eyebrow and wondered how long this would last, until he crossed the threshold and the freezing air smacked him in the face—and England practically fell over once more, sliding on the ice, hands cold against his cheeks.
France was wholly unprepared for the cool chapped lips that met his, tasting of cheap scotch and spices. England’s warm breath hit France’s cheeks and he closed his eyes, arms hanging at his sides in surprise as England pressed flush against him, bodies connecting at every conceivable point through their clothing.
“You taste like turmeric,” France murmured as England pulled away, looking strangely self-satisfied. England slid his hands down France’s arms and looped his fingers through the Frechman’s long spindly ones and tugged him down the street, away from the pub and in the general direction of France’s hotel. “Have you been eating curry lately?”