(Oh please, oh love, just one more kiss. I'll be gone before the morning.)

He likes to think he has a place beside the one he loves. The belief leaves an ache in his heart when he sobers and finds it not so-- an ache that spreads from his heart and clenches his stomach, dries his throat. So he ignores the dull pain and takes to another night, finding solace in a Frenchman's bed and his sweet, sweet wine.

But when he wakes, his throat is still dry. Untangling sheets and fumbling with the tabletop bottle, he tilts.

He was wrong. So wrong. The wine is terribly bitter.

Clouded green irises struggle to sharpen, taking in the mess that he has made. That they have made.

He doesn't feel guilt. France sleeps soundly, shamelessly bare, for he knows well that he is only standing in for something England does not have. England shuffles into his trousers and tries to find his shirt (have I discarded the damn thing in the hall again? No, here it is over the lamp. Must remember that sex with France is a potential fire hazard). He slips on his sweater vest (found in a wrinkled heap at the end of the bed) and stuffs his tie into his pocket, too clumsy to even attempt looking decent.

A hand catches his wrist as he turns to leave. France's lazy grin meets him back around.

"Mon cher," he slackens his grip to slide down and takes England's hand, "you must know that anymore it is painful to look at you. You are so much fun when you need to be consoled, but my conscience nags at me." France languidly shuts his eyes. "Find the place where you belong."

"Go back to sleep, " Arthur mumbles, more than irritated. He has a nasty hangover and wants nothing but his own bed. He doesn't need France telling him what he already knows.

He slowly makes his way to the front door, intent on getting home as quickly as possible, and is of course deterred at the front door. A young woman with bronze skin balances a basket of fish on her hip as she steps into France's house, not very surprised to see him there. She smiles after a moment, and then England feels guilt.

"Good morning," she greets softly, noting his state, and England feels terrible. He shouldn't; France has many lovers, and Seychelles has never before seemed to mind. But England knows. He knows how it is to have a love unspoken, to watch that love become close (intimate, even) with so many others. He knows the burning desire to want that love all to himself. With respect he notes that Seychelles is much better at hiding it.

He nods at her greeting and lowers his gaze, shuffling to the door.

"The sun is bright today, Monsieur Kirkland. Won't you stay?" She is correct. The sunshine burns. But he cannot stay.

"No. Ah, no thank you, I must go."

The door closes behind him, and he is alone once more.

The streets are crowded with people, bustling with activity, but the noise is torture upon England's ears and eyes. He wants to be home, this is killing him, he can't even see straight. Frustration and irritation grips him. He wants a drink. But he knows that if he stops, it will just take longer to reach his cozy, beckoning bed. Hell, even the floor of his home sounds good now. He just wants to be where he belongs.

"Hah," he scoffs at himself, at his thoughts. He only truly belongs at home. Not with a fling to take his pain away for a night. Not with a little, not so little, much-larger-than-he colony that he raised. Not with the strong nation the colony has become; the one he has come to love. Again. No, home was the only place for him.

He'd be a liar if he said that it was disappointing to be so... isolated.

Oh bugger. He needed a drink.

"Arthur?"

Of course. Of course that little twat had to be here, now, in the very instance that Arthur so fervently wished to be alone. Curled up. In bed. Sweet bed...

Through the crowd of French speakers they weaved, Alfred holding tight to a leading (desperate-attempt-to-escaping) Arthur's shoulder. He talked. England didn't follow quite well. Something about croissants, crepes and poodles. He didn't really care, though. The most important matters at hand were his screaming headache and the blasted idiot that was touching his shoulder and-

"Say, Arthur, are you all right?"

"Fine, fine," the Englishman muttered, batting his hand away and chastising himself at the disappointment that followed. "Whatever your schedule dictates, get on with it. My head is about to split in two, and I've got a bed at home that's calling my name, so.."

"A headache? You hung over or something?" Following closely, America began to dig in his pockets.

"That would be the case," Arthur answered tersely, pivoting around a rather large woman clad in eye-watering electric blue. Alfred stumbled around her and produced two pills from his pocket. "You wanna stop and get something to wash this down?"

Glorious aspirin. Arthur snatched the pills and swallowed them dry. "Lord," he said, finally slowing his pace. "I hope you've got more of those."

Alfred grinned. "'Course I do. I have to deal with you too often to not have any around. All of that migrane-inducing nagging you're so keen on sending my way..."

England burned red. "W-well, sorry for caring!"

The silence that followed was awkward (oh Alfred, you stupid git, just go) but soon the aspirin proved affective and England wasn't in so much pain. Awkward silences were so much easier to endure when a headache wasn't threatening to rip your skull apart. He glanced sideways at America. Sideways and up because he was so... agh, never mind.

"Hey," Alfred said suddenly, jolting England out of his embarrassing train of thought, "y'know, I can totally wait till tomorrow to eat France's food." No. "If you want..." No, please no. "I can stay with you until you feel better." I can't resist you, you idiot. "Knowing you, you'll try to drink away the hangover pain, and that's just dumb."

"All right, fine!" Arthur groused, ears burning. "You needn't be so rude!"

Alfred smiled. "Just callin' 'em as I see 'em, pops."

"Ugh. Don't call me that."

And Alfred laughed.

tbc.