((England and France shall continue their shenanigans here!))

After walking for Dieu knows how long, France stopped under the artificial orange light of a street lamp and rubbed the cold out his arms. He still had no shirt on, which was probably part of the reason why he had been ushered out of every shop he came across on his way toward wherever the hell he was now. He looked around for any hints of his location: a pub and a tawny hotel were the only buildings emitting any sort of light.

Hm...France only knew of three nations that would be alcoholic enough to room in a hotel across the street from the pub, and since Russia had not arrived yet and France himself was standing half-naked on the street, there was only one option left...

"Excusez-moi, madame. Is there an Arthur Kirkland staying here?"

The receptionist tapped away at her keyboard for half a moment before nodding with a bored expression on her face. Well, it was obvious that she loved working the graveyard shift.

"I'm his brother. I just flew in from Paris and he told me to meet him here, but he's not answering his phone. Could I bother you for a key?" he flashed her his trademark smirk. Rolling her eyes, she rummaged through her drawer before tossing a small card at him. "Knock yourself out, hot stuff," she drawled before returning to her game of minesweeper.

Minutes later, France found himself standing before the room printed on the card. There was no sound, only dim light spilling out from under the door. It might as well have been vacant.

Knock knock.

No answer.

"Angleterre?"

Still nothing.

Steeling his will, France slipped the card through the lock and pulled the door open.

((I am so very inordinately excited))

The knock at his door barely sounded in England's dazed mind. He assumed it was housekeeping, or perhaps mistaken roomservice, and that they would go away if he failed to respond. So he let his mind drift back into fragile unconciousness, one hand resting peacefully on an empty bottle, his face pressed against the floral patterned hotel carpet. His hair, still matted with blood and sweat and now spilt scotch, dripped off his head and fell limply at his ears, as though it too was passed out with numbing exhaustion and another emotion that he couldn't - no, wouldn't, absolutely and utterly refused to pinpoint.

He did not hear, or perhaps did not properly register, but regardless did not react to the opening of his door.

The stench that assaulted France's nose was...unique, to say the least: some atrocious mélange of bodily fluids, cigarette smoke, and various flavors of ethanol. It reminded him vaguely of le Moulin Rogue, or le Val d'Amour on a particularly clean night.

But the smell was nothing compared to the sight. England had managed to empty more bottles in this one night than he had during the entire Blitz -- and yes, that was a lot. But why? Had America called him? Had Prince Charles finally taken the throne? What the hell could possibly drive him to utterly massacre Señor Cuervo and Sir Lagavulin? Could it be because....?

Non. Biting his lip, he let the thought slip away from him as he knelt down next to England.

"Angleterre?" France nudged his shoulder. "Alors, réveille-toi," he nudged him again, harder this time. There was no response. England was lost in a sleep so deep that France swore his blood had to be half alcohol by now.

He batted the bottle out of England's hand so that it rolled off to join the others with a faint, empty clink that was all too familiar to France. "England," he said, the foreign word jumbling strangely in his mouth. Still nothing.

Parisian hands cupped the dirty face and turned it upward, the skin burning beneath his fingers. "Arthur." He never called him that to face -- not unless he had a death wish -- but his risk fell on deaf ears. England did not stir. At that moment, an indescribable coldness seized his heart and spilled through his veins. "S'il te plaît, Arthur," he repeated with a touch of worry heightening the treble in his voice.

That coldness manifested itself as another bout of foolish bravery, and France pressed his lips to England's.

((Moulin Rouge/Val d'Amour = popular French strip clubs. Cuervo/Lagavulin = brands of tequila/scotch. Réveille-toi = "Wake up"))

((you would know French strip clubs...))

England's eyes fluttered open at the sudden contact. He could not see Francis through his blurred, darkened vision, but the warm lips pressed against his own that tasted of roses, wine and blood were all too familiar. He tried to pick himself up and gave a half-hearted swing at the offending frog's face, but his fist fell limply back to the ground several centimeters short. He surrendered and flopped back onto the floor.

"Mmph... molestin' bast'rd. What're y'doing h're," he croaked, his pupils dilated and unable to focus on the face floating above his. "I thought I tol' you... I tol' you..." his face contorted into a frown. "This's all y'r fault! An' d'nt gimme that look... y'know that y'r so... so... urmph." He gave up and closed his eyes. "Go 'way."

((Well, France would know them, haha.))

"Non. Dit-moi, what's all my fault?" France refused to remove his hand from England's face. Past the haze of alcohol and that brick wall of mental barriers, France swore he could see some wisp of emotion swimming in the depths of England's eyes and casting its shadow over his face. But it was a curious emotion -- familiar to France like some unremembered dream, but fleeing from his gaze if he searched too long for it. "Tell me, Arthur."

England's eyes opened again at the sound of his name, then quickly shut again, as if rapidly attempting to hide any emotion he may have revealed. He buried his face in the thick, fluffy carpet and shook his head weakly. "Y'know what. Y'know exactly what. The same 's been f'r a thousand y'rs," he murmured into the floor. But even he was unsure exactly what he meant, as though what he wanted to say and what he wanted to mean was just beyond his grasp, dangling above his head barely above his reach, or on the other side of a glass wall.

Finding it difficult to remain kneeling for so long, France adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his legs folded.

"The last thousand years..." he lifted eyes dreamily. Whether or not that dream was a nightmare, even he couldn't quite say. And he knew England wouldn't say it.

"Bien sûr, there are many things I have been at fault for, but it's not like I gave you all of your scars," France's voice was smooth and even like it always was, as if he didn't even notice that he was sitting half-naked next to his drunken enemy in a dim hotel room. "I don't think you'd ever let me claim that I did, even if I wanted to." England's head was still turned from him, but France knew he was still vaguely listening. He knew that even when he told him to shut up in the most colorful language he could muster, he was always vaguely listening.

"À dire vrai, I would never be able to hurt you that much," he let his hand slip away. "I wouldn't want to."

England turned back to France, his half-lidden eyes bright and shining with what could not possibly be tears.

"Francis..." He gave a weak cough, and clutched his chest with a wince before refocusing. "I know," he whispered. "An' I feel th'same."

A moment passed where nothing was said, and for a moment England wasn't sure if he had stunned France speechless, or perhaps if he had never spoken at all.

"B-but don' think i's 'cause I like you 'r anything," he suddenly felt the need to add hurriedly. "'Cause... 'cause I d'nt. 'S f'r my own benefit y'know. No' y'rs."

((This is the most adorable things I've ever read))

France had tensed at first, feeling himself on the verge of some beautiful thing he had wanted for so very long, but the added sentence shattered the shining mirage. His gaze fell to the floral carpet with a crash -- along with his heart.

"Ah, o-of course, Angleterre," he replied too hastily to be natural. It was not like him to stutter, ever. "I would expect no more."

((oh poor Francis, he really doesn't know Arthur as well as I thought he did. Sadness))

"Mm. Good." England's eyes slowly drooped shut. "I'ma... doze off now," he mumbled sleepily. "G'night, Francis."

((I'm sure France is familiar with England's tsundere ways, but I think that right now he's assuming the worst since England is usually more honest when he's drunk.))

France's fingers wound tightly around the burgundy shag of the carpet. Why did it always have to end like this? He had spent centuries trying to delicately temper their fragile relationship...but it occurred to him now that the only thing that ever brought them together was bloodshed, and that bloodshed only led Angleterre to despise his very existence more deeply than ever. He despised him even more on the rare occasion that France triumphed, which was understandable, but how did that explain the situation now? Was there no victor in that war in the darkness? Had they both surrendered...? Or had England felt nothing and resorted to filling that void with the blinding burn of whiskey?

France shut his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again he saw that England was sleeping as soundly as he was when he first opened the door. Such a peaceful innocent beauty could never harbor the undying hatred that France feared it might, could it? He slipped his arms around the smaller nation's limp body and carried him to the bed, laying him down gently before putting a pillow under his head. His matted hair shifted slightly and France's gaze fell upon the slash on his forehead. He sighed quietly before leaning forward and kissing his head with the softness of a rose petal.

"Bonne nuit, Arthur."

France brushed his hair back over the cut before lying down on the floor in front of the bed and drifting off into an uncertain sleep.

((I guess the next step would be what happens when England wakes up?))

England had a hangover before he was even awake. The blinding headache split through his skull a thousand times sharper than the dull morning light filtering in through the window. He groaned softly, and clung to his pillow for a few moments in the desperate home that it would just go the hell away, but when it didn't, he resolved to get up and shower. God knows he needed one.

He rolled out of bed and nearly fell over the sleeping form sprawled at the foot. It took him a moment, what with his head spinning and his mind not quite functioning one hundred percent, to recognize the shirtless form splayed across the floor. Honestly, the lack of shirt was what gave it away, but then England took in his uncharacteristically tangled, matted blond hair, the traces of blood crusted below his nose and the paleness in his cheeks and the painfully obviously French uniform... or the bottom half of it, at least. England wasn't sure he remembered exactly what had happened the night before - alright, so right then he remembered just about squat - but he still felt a familiar urge to kick the molesting, room-invading frog awake and throw him out the window.

France gave a small shiver in his sleep, and pulled his arms up to his bare chest in place of a blanket. England rolled his eyes skyward with a sigh, then shoved his headache as far to the back of his head as possible and gently shifted his arms under his enemy's armpits. France was taller than he was, but England prided himself on being stronger than he looked (America... America could suck it), and with admittedly considerable effort he managed to lift the sleeping Frenchman onto his bed.

"Can't have your filthy body dirtying the floor, now can we," England mumbled idly as he pulled the covers over France's muddy, rain-splattered form. "The cleaning staff's been so nice... the least I can do is get you out of their way." France responded with a light snore, but his shivering had subsided. Well, good, England decided. The shivering noise had been irritating him.

And then his headache returned with a vengeance. England held a hand to his head with a groan, and made his way into the shower.

((I was expecting him to completely massacre France, haha))

France awoke to the faint roar of water drumming against the walls of the shower. He raised his head for a moment before quickly turning his face against the pillow, the morning sunlight still burning in his crystal blue eyes.

"Merde..." he grumbled, running one hand through his hair and covering his eyes with the other. Wait...hadn't he fallen asleep on the ground? Then how did he...? Eyes widening in sudden understanding, he turned to the bathroom door and raised an incredulous eyebrow at it. He tossed the sheets off himself and stretched as he stood. Putain, his neck hurt from lying on the floor for so long...

He walked to the bathroom door and rapped on it with his knuckles. "Angleterre? Will you be long in there, or shall I join you?"

((haha, maybe it's because he's hungover. That, and I adore his secret caring side.))

England jumped at the voice, and nearly slipped and lost his balance. He steadied himself against the soap container, fixing his glare on the shampoo bottle in France's absence. "Go away you bloody pervert!" he shouted in response.

((France is too much of a pervert... I...cannot...control him....))

France smirked at the response. "D'accord, let me in when you're done, mon cheri."

For good measure, he tried the doorknob, and of course it was loc-- wait...no, no it wasn't. In his hungover stupor, apparently England had forgotten to lock the door. France's smirk widened into a grin. However, he really didn't feel like having his nose truly broken this time, so he decided to take a more subtle route. With careful hands, France slowly opened the door open a few centimeters and peered in through the crack.

The sight was more than he could have ever possibly dreamed. The smooth pale skin, the curves of muscle, the ridges of bone, the golden hair slicked against his head, fine hands that wandered across that vast landscape, over each mountain and in each valley, the scalding water pouring down in rivières against his body...

France swallowed hard and consciously picked his jaw up off the floor before closing the door as gently as he had opened it. He would just...pretend he didn't see that. Exhaling deeply, he crossed the room and laid back down on the bed.

((*w* Does Francis have a camera? Would he be willing to forward me any and all pictures?))

England emerged a short while later, a towel hanging loosely from his waste and droplets of water still lingering on his shoulders. Half his hair had begun to return to its normal form, spiking at odd angles, while half continued to drip limply down his neck and into his eyes.

"Shower's yours, frog," he grumbled at France, purposefully avoiding eye contact. "Heaven knows you need one." He returned the Frenchman's stare with a sharp glare. "What, it's nothing you haven't seen before," he snapped icily, but proceeded to subconsciously lift the towel to cover his torso.

((Only if I get a copy of the pictures too~))

France let his eyes trail over England's body from his legs up to his head, shamelessly remembering what was underneath that towel. "Can you do a little spin for me?" he grinned while twirling his finger mid-air. Noticing England's death glare, he chuckled and and rose to his feet, his deft hands already unbuttoning his pants.

As soon as the bathroom door was shut behind him (therefore blocking any items England might have been planning to throw at him), France quickly stripped and threw his clothes in the corner. Hopefully England hadn't used up all the hot water...but truth be told, he could use a cold shower.

((Maybe we can turn this into a fic and then shamelessly beg for fanart. XD

Hmm, I'm not sure where to take this from here. Their confrontationalness is just about done, and I don't see England spying on France in the shower so... where do you see this going?))

((Much begging shall be done.

Uh...I don't really know, to be honest. This would be a rather anticlimactic ending, though. Maybe England is reminded of what happened the day before and starts abusing France some more, or something involving America? I could switch to RPing America if you want to take the plot in that direction. England runs to him in all his tsundere-ness and France finds out and gets jealous/depressed?))

((while I love the England-America-France dynamic, I feel like he would take away from the France/England, but maybe that's because I'd be too tempted in the direction of USUK. (-USUK fangirl- :3) But you're right, this is rather anticlimactic. Maybe we could end on the two of them returning to the world meeting the next day, and then the janitor inquires as to why there's blood, various other bodily fluids and, errr, rose petals in the broom closet. Awkwardness may ensue.

That would be a more light-hearted approach, while the introduction of America and jealous France would be a return to the angstiness, either of which are welcome and enjoyed... or we can think of a different ending. -shrug-))

((My OTP used to be US/UK, so I wouldn't mind it terribly if it devolved into something like that, haha. I think we should try to keep the tone the same as it's been, so I think an angsty approach would be more in-line with what we've been working with.

We could turn it pure US/UK for however long, just vaguely referring to France here and there, and then end it with France confronting England about America and then either having his heart broken or enjoying a happily ever after?))

((okay, that could work. Then again...England, you don't make sense to me! England: why the hell would I want to make sense to you? ...would England really be willing to pursue anything with America so soon after his little incident with France? Ah well, we shall see.

So you'll be America, then? Only "vaguely" refering to France? Are you sure you can handle that last part? XD Let's go for it.))

(Sorry to Post here guys but you both are here please Forgive.)

{The Rp is ago we gots a Spain here is the Link.

http://forum.fanfiction.net/forum/States_of_the_US/74892/}

((I RPed America for a long time in a chatroom I used to frequent...the England RPer there was horrible though. Oh god, bad memories... And the France RPer made me rage with the fire of a thousand suns.))

France emerged from a cloud of steam, shutting the door behind him before looking around the room. There was England, perfectly dressed and groomed from head to toe (like always), sitting on the edge of bed. He really could expect no less of the Englishman.

He leaned against the wall, wringing the water out of his long hair with a towel. "Alors, what now?" he asked without turning to face him.

((I'm sorry I keep disappearing sporatically. I'm attempting to read a biology textbook and RP at the same time. ...France would be enjoying this. I wish he were here))

England graced him with an irritated frown. "What do you mean, what now?" he mimicked, in a hideously overdone French accent. "Now, we go back to the conference building for another day of superfluous, utterly useless meetings. Separately," he added pointedly. "We don't want anyone getting...the wrong idea."

He stood up, straighted his collar, ran a hand through his hair and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Farewell for now, frog. See you at the meeting." And with that, England slipped his room key in his pocket and left the room, leaving France behind, walking away as if nothing had ever transpired between them. He was getting rather good at that after a thousand years of practice, he thought wryly.

((Honhon, only if it's human biology. France is good at that. Very good. He may or may not be the reason why I got a 5 on the AP Bio test *cough*))

France frowned at the door, wishing he were actually capable of throwing daggers from his eyes and impaling England a thousand times over.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he slipped his pants back on. He would go back home and change clothes there.

---

"So guys, what do you think his excuse will be this time?" America mused cheerfully while flicking the straw in his cardboard cup, thinking it was cute how the little drops of soda would fling all the way to the other side of the table if he did it just right. After decades of meetings like this, he had gotten pretty good at it.

"I bet 50 dollars that he burned himself on a teapot!" he laughed loudly, causing the nearby countries to cringe from the volume.

((haha well I'd be very happy if he helped me get a 5 as well... though I'm not sure he would like this. It's all cell structure and boring crap. And since cells are too small to have sexual intercourse with (I think? I dunno Francis...) he's probably unconcerned.))

England strode into the conference room with his head held high and just about as much dignity as he could muster. "What," he bit out at America, who laughed obnoxiously out of the corner of his eye, and looked down at his watch. "I'm four minutes and twenty-two seconds late. Certainly no cause for the stupid spectacle you insist on making."

He sat himself down and forced himself to ignore the eyes of the world focusing on him. They'd forget this entire thing within five minutes of America bursting their eardrums with his newest idiotic scheme.

((Too bad he didn't get me a 5 on the French exam too. But seriously, if you need any help in that class, I'm a pro at biology. I also have a bunch of notes on my laptop that I could e-mail you if you want them. I've scanned all my notes from my other classes too, if you ever want them. My government notes are covered in mochi Englands...))

But the exact opposite happened.

"Sooo, England," America waggled his eyebrows in the gentleman's direction. "Guatamala told me all about your little adventure in the broom closet yesterday!"

He loved that shade of red that England could turn so quickly.

"Switzerland was on janitor duty this morning, and lemme tell you, he was piiiissssed. Seriously, rose petals? The hell is up with that?"

((France didn't get you a 5 on French? You surprise me. Must've been the lack of roses in the testing room. ;) And biology help at some point this year would probably be much appreciated, since I rather dislike science. History is much more fun~ Haha you should see my government notes. They're in a very similar state.))

"I-I have no idea what you're on about," England mumbled into his folder. "Now, if you please, let's be on with the meeting, shall we?"

He suppressed the urge to just bang his head against the table and hide his head under his stack of papers... bloody frog, this was all his fault.

((Yes, I completely blame the lack of roses in the testing room. I was actually the only person taking the exam... ._.))

"Haha! Whatever you say, man!" America finished off his soda with a loud slurp. "Alrighty! Let's git 'er done!"

The next several hours passed very, very, excruciatingly slowly. America started off the meeting by unveiling his new plans for a fighter jet with four cupholders (an upgrade from his previous plans for just two). When this was shot down, he moved on to international affairs, his area of self-proclaimed expertise. In order to solve the problem of North Korea demanding reparations from Japan, America proposed that Japan should be forced to wear a sign that says "North Korea is awesome!" for a week and then they could brofist and be cool with each other again. North Korea had practically stormed out of the room while Japan muttered apologies under his breath.

But finally it was over. America was grinning from ear to ear while he shuffled his messy stack of notes.

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