“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?”
“Maybe,” England responded, and that same smile graced his lips again as he released France and slipped into his peacoat, pulling his scarf from the pocket and wrapping himself in the cashmere and wool. France pulled his own coat on and wrapped his arms around England, helping him walk.
“I’m assuming you’re coming back to my hotel, then?” France asked. It was best to be blunt with England when he was drunk.
“O’ course,” England said, his piercing eyes roaming all over France’s face as they walked. “Yer eyes are really blue.” France just stared back, blinking rapidly in confusion. England was being unusually…. Affectionate. Normally England would send him half-hearted insults while simultaneously trying to feel him up as they walked—it was their foreplay, their own personal routine that they’d had for so long it honestly felt strange to have Nice Flirty England in France’s presence. “ ‘Swhat we always do when you come to London.” England gestured to the city with one sweep of his arm. “Gotta have it, gotta keep the tensions from buildin’.” France was torn on whether he should laugh or just be honestly baffled with England’s strange actions—but there was no doubt that the gentle touches to France’s side, leg and inner thigh were speaking volumes.
England leaned against France and slowed their pace over a large patch of ice, but they were reaching the hotel quickly. France brushed past the doorman, tugging England along with him. They hit the elevator, England stumbling in with France behind him, and as soon as France hit the seventh floor and the doors pinged shut, France found himself pushed with his back to the double doors, England grinding against him and laying kisses along his throat.
“We should just—just do it right here,” England murmured as he trailed sloppy kisses along France’s earlobe. “I can’t walk straight to a room.” France closed his eyes and suppressed a groan in the back of his throat, opting for holding onto England’s beltloops and pulling him closer, curling his toes in his boots at the tingling sensation running live beneath his skin.
“A-as much as I would love that,” France replied, his voice heavy and low, “this is a nice hotel. And unlike you—” the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and both England and France fell out, tumbling to the floor in a heap. France landed on his back with England on top of him, the English nation leaning over him in an alcohol-induced lust-ridden haze. His eyelids were lowered and his eyes practically glowed with an ethereal light; England licked his lips as he stared down at France beneath him, looking properly flushed and eager.
“…unlike you,” France continued, remaining on the lush red carpet, allowing England to bend down and press a kiss to his forehead, “I appreciate the finer things.”
“All you ev’r say is just… clichéd rubbish,” England murmured with his lips still pressed to France’s forehead. Footsteps sounded from around the corner and with France’s urging, England reluctantly rolled off France’s waist and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet and down the other direction of the hallway.
England didn’t seem to want to wait, which was another strange change; as France fumbled with his wallet for his cardkey, England had their hands entwined as he leaned against the doorframe, carefully kissing each knuckle. France couldn’t stop his face from heating up at the tender emotion England displayed with each peck. Again, normally England would be denying his obvious arousal and still attempting to rile France up with some lie or ruse about one thing or another and then their sex would be wild and angry and insanely passionate. But something else was going on tonight.
“I got the door,” France said, bringing England from his trance. England just lifted his eyes and smiled a softer smile, permitting France to pull him into the dimly lit room.
It as a fairly nice hotel, with a king sized bed with a delicate duvet and what seemed to be hundreds of pillows. France released his hand from England’s grip and pulled the curtains closed, face still burning from embarrassment and arousal and attraction and damnit England you aren’t supposed to be so endearing. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt but as soon as he did England was before him, unbuttoning it for him, and the next thing France knew England was leaning forward and kissing a trail down France’s chest as he went, making pleasant sounds as he went.
“England, what…” France murmured as England nipped at his navel, standing up straight and helping France shrug out of his shirt, tugging the other nation towards the bed. The lights were already dimmed from earlier in the day and the bed was made, but laid out, just waiting for two bodies to curl up inside.
England was humming to himself as they tripped over to the bed, England reaching up and circling his arms around France’s neck, nuzzling against France’s exposed neck, grinding up against him, moaning under his breath. England snuck his fingers into the nation’s hair and pulled his ponytail out, letting blonde locks fall over his hands and over France’s shoulders.
Whatever England was humming was giving a good beat because the two seemed to sashay across the lush carpet instead of the usual rough handling and intense stripping. England slid out of his vest and helped France unbutton his shirt as they were practically pressed together, limbs entangled. As soon as a bare white shoulder was exposed, France was overwhelmed with the need to taste and bit down gently, shivering at the delicious moan England emitted.
In one swift movement France was straddling England on the bed, thighs clamped on either side of England, tending to England’s neck and chin and the corner of his lips as England drunkenly tugged at France’s trousers. France wasn’t used to the caring way that England ran his hands up his sides but he found he didn’t care, really, he enjoyed it more than anything—he could really become accustomed to Sensual England—
“Ohh ahhh,” England murmured, arching his back to France’s touch. They were still partially clothed but the friction was near unbearable between them, and France knew if he didn’t shuck these trousers immediately either him or England were going to become—and then he heard it. It was a murmur at first, since England was leaning back, facing away from France, half-buried in the sheets.
“‘Meri,” England mumbled. France was leading kisses down England’s neck and his ears perked at the sound of England forming coherent words.
“Mmmland?” France said against England’s lips. “No drunken babbling, you’ll ruin it.”
“Hmm… America,” England said, louder this time, and France stopped. England took a tentative breath and France looked up, licking his lips, brow furrowed in confusion.
England was leaning back, completely lucid beneath him, eyes closed, face flushed and lips swollen but looking positively gorgeous in contrast to the cream-colored sheets. His breathing was tense but he seemed completely relaxed, seemingly unaware of what he just said.
“What?” France said, sitting up. England gave a small smile, eyes still closed. France momentarily wondered how much of that flush was arousal and how much was alcohol.
France bit his lower lip, rolling off of England and crawling up the bed to be level with England.
“England,” France said gently, pushing England’s shoulder, “did you just say… America?”
“Mmmhmm,” England confirmed, and he turned to face France, opening his eyes to half-mast. “My ‘Merica.” France was dumbfounded, staring directly at England.
He thought he was America. And suddenly, the whole world made sense. The romantic gestures, the loving gazes, the gentleness. ¬England thought he was with America. When England’s drunken brain had come to this conclusion confused France because at some point England knew he was with France, he even—
France put a hand to England’s forehead. He wasn’t feverish but he was warm, although most likely from drinking. France sighed. He couldn’t go through with this, not when England was this far gone. Had he mistaken how much he had to drink? Or had England gotten something stronger than France had realized? He wasn’t sure, but since England was mistaking France for his beloved America, he knew he couldn’t finish. His erection waned as he gently brushed England’s hair from his forehead.
“I’m not America,” France said softly. England closed his eyes once more, breathing deeply, fingers pressed against his cheek. “I always knew you had this kind of relationship with him, though, England.” England ‘hmm’d’ and turned onto his side, so he was now facing France.
“You don’t want me right now, you want America,” France said. England said nothing; he was falling asleep. France nodded as he agreed with himself. “So, you do this when America comes to London as well? Get drunk and have sweet sappy sex—so like you, always favoring America.” France carded his fingers through England’s bangs. “Your hair is getting too long, you look ragged.”
“Mmm, yer hair got s’ long,” England mumbled. France sighed.
“Or… do you fantasize about doing this with America? Making sweet love in the dimly lit lamp light on a king-size bed, swapping pet names and caressing each other?” France wondered a bit louder, wondering if England would wake up and realize his mistake. But England was partially asleep now, a pleasant smile on his face.
France slid off the bed, buttoned his trousers, and ambled to the closet where an extra blanket was stored. He took it down, fluffed it a bit and then draped it over the sleeping England, crawling into the bed beside him and tucking them both in. England’s breathing had evened, his lips parted.
“Good night, England,” France whispered, and he lay and watch England in the shifting light until he himself finally fell asleep.
Ah... This fic is the very definition of bittersweet.
Drunk!England never ceases to amuse me. I thought at first this would be a slightly cracky fic, but by the ending that misconception had wholeheartedly been shattered. I adored reading this. I wonder, is England delirious and dreaming, or does he actually do what he thinks he does with America? I suppose the beauty of this is that it's ambiguous.
My FrUK-shipper heart and my UKUS-shipper heart always die at fics like these, I never really know whose side to take. I know that France is probably the better match overall because there's so much history there, but a relationship with America would just be so much less angsty. Aside from, of course, when it's maddeningly unrequited.
But I digress! Thank you for this. I'm not the OP, but I certainly enjoyed it, and I don't think you have to worry about writing because you did a grand job x)
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That Old Song and Dance - 1
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 02:08 pm (UTC)(link)“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 - 2
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 02:08 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m assuming you’re coming back to my hotel, then?” France asked. It was best to be blunt with England when he was drunk.
“O’ course,” England said, his piercing eyes roaming all over France’s face as they walked. “Yer eyes are really blue.” France just stared back, blinking rapidly in confusion. England was being unusually…. Affectionate. Normally England would send him half-hearted insults while simultaneously trying to feel him up as they walked—it was their foreplay, their own personal routine that they’d had for so long it honestly felt strange to have Nice Flirty England in France’s presence. “ ‘Swhat we always do when you come to London.” England gestured to the city with one sweep of his arm. “Gotta have it, gotta keep the tensions from buildin’.” France was torn on whether he should laugh or just be honestly baffled with England’s strange actions—but there was no doubt that the gentle touches to France’s side, leg and inner thigh were speaking volumes.
England leaned against France and slowed their pace over a large patch of ice, but they were reaching the hotel quickly. France brushed past the doorman, tugging England along with him. They hit the elevator, England stumbling in with France behind him, and as soon as France hit the seventh floor and the doors pinged shut, France found himself pushed with his back to the double doors, England grinding against him and laying kisses along his throat.
“We should just—just do it right here,” England murmured as he trailed sloppy kisses along France’s earlobe. “I can’t walk straight to a room.” France closed his eyes and suppressed a groan in the back of his throat, opting for holding onto England’s beltloops and pulling him closer, curling his toes in his boots at the tingling sensation running live beneath his skin.
“A-as much as I would love that,” France replied, his voice heavy and low, “this is a nice hotel. And unlike you—” the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and both England and France fell out, tumbling to the floor in a heap. France landed on his back with England on top of him, the English nation leaning over him in an alcohol-induced lust-ridden haze. His eyelids were lowered and his eyes practically glowed with an ethereal light; England licked his lips as he stared down at France beneath him, looking properly flushed and eager.
“…unlike you,” France continued, remaining on the lush red carpet, allowing England to bend down and press a kiss to his forehead, “I appreciate the finer things.”
“All you ev’r say is just… clichéd rubbish,” England murmured with his lips still pressed to France’s forehead. Footsteps sounded from around the corner and with France’s urging, England reluctantly rolled off France’s waist and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet and down the other direction of the hallway.
England didn’t seem to want to wait, which was another strange change; as France fumbled with his wallet for his cardkey, England had their hands entwined as he leaned against the doorframe, carefully kissing each knuckle. France couldn’t stop his face from heating up at the tender emotion England displayed with each peck. Again, normally England would be denying his obvious arousal and still attempting to rile France up with some lie or ruse about one thing or another and then their sex would be wild and angry and insanely passionate. But something else was going on tonight.
That Old Song and Dance - 3
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 02:10 pm (UTC)(link)It as a fairly nice hotel, with a king sized bed with a delicate duvet and what seemed to be hundreds of pillows. France released his hand from England’s grip and pulled the curtains closed, face still burning from embarrassment and arousal and attraction and damnit England you aren’t supposed to be so endearing. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt but as soon as he did England was before him, unbuttoning it for him, and the next thing France knew England was leaning forward and kissing a trail down France’s chest as he went, making pleasant sounds as he went.
“England, what…” France murmured as England nipped at his navel, standing up straight and helping France shrug out of his shirt, tugging the other nation towards the bed. The lights were already dimmed from earlier in the day and the bed was made, but laid out, just waiting for two bodies to curl up inside.
England was humming to himself as they tripped over to the bed, England reaching up and circling his arms around France’s neck, nuzzling against France’s exposed neck, grinding up against him, moaning under his breath. England snuck his fingers into the nation’s hair and pulled his ponytail out, letting blonde locks fall over his hands and over France’s shoulders.
Whatever England was humming was giving a good beat because the two seemed to sashay across the lush carpet instead of the usual rough handling and intense stripping. England slid out of his vest and helped France unbutton his shirt as they were practically pressed together, limbs entangled. As soon as a bare white shoulder was exposed, France was overwhelmed with the need to taste and bit down gently, shivering at the delicious moan England emitted.
In one swift movement France was straddling England on the bed, thighs clamped on either side of England, tending to England’s neck and chin and the corner of his lips as England drunkenly tugged at France’s trousers. France wasn’t used to the caring way that England ran his hands up his sides but he found he didn’t care, really, he enjoyed it more than anything—he could really become accustomed to Sensual England—
“Ohh ahhh,” England murmured, arching his back to France’s touch. They were still partially clothed but the friction was near unbearable between them, and France knew if he didn’t shuck these trousers immediately either him or England were going to become—and then he heard it. It was a murmur at first, since England was leaning back, facing away from France, half-buried in the sheets.
“‘Meri,” England mumbled. France was leading kisses down England’s neck and his ears perked at the sound of England forming coherent words.
“Mmmland?” France said against England’s lips. “No drunken babbling, you’ll ruin it.”
“Hmm… America,” England said, louder this time, and France stopped. England took a tentative breath and France looked up, licking his lips, brow furrowed in confusion.
England was leaning back, completely lucid beneath him, eyes closed, face flushed and lips swollen but looking positively gorgeous in contrast to the cream-colored sheets. His breathing was tense but he seemed completely relaxed, seemingly unaware of what he just said.
That Old Song and Dance - 4
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 02:12 pm (UTC)(link)France bit his lower lip, rolling off of England and crawling up the bed to be level with England.
“England,” France said gently, pushing England’s shoulder, “did you just say… America?”
“Mmmhmm,” England confirmed, and he turned to face France, opening his eyes to half-mast. “My ‘Merica.” France was dumbfounded, staring directly at England.
He thought he was America. And suddenly, the whole world made sense. The romantic gestures, the loving gazes, the gentleness. ¬England thought he was with America. When England’s drunken brain had come to this conclusion confused France because at some point England knew he was with France, he even—
France put a hand to England’s forehead. He wasn’t feverish but he was warm, although most likely from drinking. France sighed. He couldn’t go through with this, not when England was this far gone. Had he mistaken how much he had to drink? Or had England gotten something stronger than France had realized? He wasn’t sure, but since England was mistaking France for his beloved America, he knew he couldn’t finish. His erection waned as he gently brushed England’s hair from his forehead.
“I’m not America,” France said softly. England closed his eyes once more, breathing deeply, fingers pressed against his cheek. “I always knew you had this kind of relationship with him, though, England.” England ‘hmm’d’ and turned onto his side, so he was now facing France.
“You don’t want me right now, you want America,” France said. England said nothing; he was falling asleep. France nodded as he agreed with himself. “So, you do this when America comes to London as well? Get drunk and have sweet sappy sex—so like you, always favoring America.” France carded his fingers through England’s bangs. “Your hair is getting too long, you look ragged.”
“Mmm, yer hair got s’ long,” England mumbled. France sighed.
“Or… do you fantasize about doing this with America? Making sweet love in the dimly lit lamp light on a king-size bed, swapping pet names and caressing each other?” France wondered a bit louder, wondering if England would wake up and realize his mistake. But England was partially asleep now, a pleasant smile on his face.
France slid off the bed, buttoned his trousers, and ambled to the closet where an extra blanket was stored. He took it down, fluffed it a bit and then draped it over the sleeping England, crawling into the bed beside him and tucking them both in. England’s breathing had evened, his lips parted.
“Good night, England,” France whispered, and he lay and watch England in the shifting light until he himself finally fell asleep.
My first fill in a while. I hope OP enjoys.
Re: That Old Song and Dance - 4
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 09:12 pm (UTC)(link)Drunk!England never ceases to amuse me. I thought at first this would be a slightly cracky fic, but by the ending that misconception had wholeheartedly been shattered. I adored reading this. I wonder, is England delirious and dreaming, or does he actually do what he thinks he does with America? I suppose the beauty of this is that it's ambiguous.
My FrUK-shipper heart and my UKUS-shipper heart always die at fics like these, I never really know whose side to take. I know that France is probably the better match overall because there's so much history there, but a relationship with America would just be so much less angsty. Aside from, of course, when it's maddeningly unrequited.
But I digress! Thank you for this. I'm not the OP, but I certainly enjoyed it, and I don't think you have to worry about writing because you did a grand job x)
Re: That Old Song and Dance - 4
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 08:07 am (UTC)(link)Does the author!anon have recommendations for this France?
Re: That Old Song and Dance - 4
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 04:32 pm (UTC)(link)Re: That Old Song and Dance - 4
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 09:19 pm (UTC)(link)