Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia!

This time around I shall throw France and England at you!


England wasn't exactly sure what he was doing at the moment, standing outside a certain Frenchman's door with a bottle of whiskey in hand, most of the liquid the bottle had contained already chucked down his throat and doing wonders to his system.

First of all, he supposed, he was here to make it clear that he was not playing hard to get. If it was his lack of an answer that made France pull this courting act then he would have to make it stop with a clear rejection, because being played with was the least he wanted to be.

Still, if France's feelings somehow proved to be genuine, then... he wasn't really sure what to do. All he knew was that there had to be some kind of a closure to this all or else there'd be no end to it because they had the rest of forever to dance around the subject and quite frankly, as short a while as this had been going on, England was quite tired of this game. As much as he hated to admit it, he owed an answer to both himself and Francis.

Just having dragged himself outside the man's door had been a feat in itself, so much of a nervous wreck was he. And that was exactly why he had resorted to alcohol to soothe his nerves. It had not been a good idea, though, it never was. If England was aware of that fact right at that moment, he wasn't sure, though he could agree that maybe he shouldn't have drowned so much of it before coming, if how his hand went on ahead to knock on the door on its own accord was anything to judge by.

"Arthur?" Francis asked upon opening the door, brow rising to judge the bottle still being held in his hand. Without providing much of a greeting, the Briton pushed his way inside, cheeks flushed from the consumed alcohol.

"I won't have you causing havoc here while you're drunk, just so you know," the other said, not doing much to stop Arthur from invading his house any further.

"Shut your mouth." With a bit wobbly steps, England managed his way into the living room and unceremoniously sat on the couch, glaring daggers at the nearest thing he managed to focus his gaze on.

"And you call yourself a gentleman..." His host rolled his eyes, not far behind in entering the room. "What brings you here?"

What brought him here, the man dared to ask. England had thought it was obvious if he went through all the trouble to show up at the man's house. Still, France's eyes remained honestly curious as he kept his gaze on England.

"Do you love me?" England slurred after a stretching silence, glad that he was drunk enough to not realize to grow embarrassed.

France seemed more surprised at his question that he ought to have been, but soon his expression softened into something warm that made it impossible for England to look at him anymore. Only a few steps, and the man was standing in front of him, smiling and as honest as a Frenchman could be. "That's what I've told you, over and over."

"Then..." At that point, Arthur felt his world lurch, eyes fighting to keep focus and he had to bring his poisoned head between his hands to regain some stability. In a second, France was kneeling before him, more out of familiarity that concern.

"Drinking just to get drunk is not very healthy, Arthur," he heard Francis scold, amusement hidden somewhere in those words. "You should know that after all these years."

A hand came to brush the bangs from his forehead and it made the Briton to raise his head, only to find the other's face really close to his own. It wasn't like this was the first time this man had invaded his personal space, but now that it mattered, those lips remained where they were, inches away and unmoving, almost like they didn't desire his skin like they always seemed to do.

He didn't quite know what he wanted from Francis, but the world rarely made any sense when he was intoxicated. So he frowned and leaned closer and frowned even more, when French bastard pulled back, keeping the however small distance between them.

"What?" England demanded, not quite registering how odd it was that his kiss had just been denied by France of all things breathing on earth.

"You're drunk," the other said, a pleased smile on his lips.

"Well observed." His words were dripping with sarcasm and England raised his eyebrows as if to dare the other blond to say much more about it.

"Someone like you might think they were taken advantage of when sober enough." And that being said, France was about to raise to his feet, probably to take England somewhere to clear his mind. The Englishman would have none of that, though, because hell, the reason why he was drunk in the first place was to stupefy his mind enough to forget reason and go with what felt was right.

France's eyes grew wide when he felt a hand pull at his hair, his body that was already halfway up falling back down and his knees connecting with the floor painfully. "Just kiss me," he could hear England growl into his ear, a familiar hint of danger in his tone that made delicious shivers run up and down France's body. Still, the other was drunk. Very much so.

"But you-" France started, unfamiliar with these restraints he had adopted since thinking that England would not buy his true feelings through touches. What stopped him from finishing whatever he was about to say was England himself, though, and what else could France have done but to let the words die when a pair of clumsy lips were so desperately trying to pleasure him.

England leaned closer and closer, body moving on its own since the mind was nowhere to be found. His arms had sneaked their way around France's neck and shoulders and soon enough he found himself stumbling off the couch, right into the Frenchman's arms.

"Why do you sound so happy?" England panted, parting their lips just to stare at the other with half lidded eyes. The little noises France had been making were less aroused and more delighted and for someone trying to please and get pleased, it was a bit discouraging.

"How do you feel about me?" France asked him instead of answering, his arms tightly around England to keep him in place.

"You're a stupid, wine-obsessed git," England said, arching his neck when France nuzzled it with his bearded chin. "And French," he added, as if that was the last nail to the box of insults.

"And you are a thickheaded old drunkard, Angleterre," was laughed against his skin, followed by lips that pressed against his neck, not to leave a mark but to make him shiver because the touch was so light.

"Do you love me?" France asked then, backing away from his neck and looked at his flushed face expectantly.

"That's stupid," England snorted, a bit bitter and amused at the same time. "We're not like humans."

"I'm aware," the other agreed, finding this to be a poor moment for a reminder that political intercourse was something they would (fortunately) never be able to put aside. Getting romantically involved with a nation was like being married with a prostitute, really. Depending on how you interpreted "political intercourse", of course. France wasn't ashamed to admit that his way contained less politics and more intercourse.

Putting that aside as it would do nothing to keep this thick-browed, vulgar brute in his arms, trying to kiss him silly and strip down at the same time, reeking of alcohol more than France's nose could handle. So while he was still not intoxicated from England, France took the effort to be serious one more time.

"France is off limits for the likes of you, but Francis Bonnefoy was given a choice," he said, running his hand through the other's hair to grab a hold of it and force England to look at his face when the words seemed to fall to deaf ears due to the amount of concentration removing a shirt required. "And what little he can offer, he would like you to have it."

England snorted again, finding more humor and less romance in what was being said. "And what would he like in return?" Because nothing in this world came for free. Nothing at all.

France just sighed contently, not minding how the hands fiddling on his belt were kind of ruining the mood he would have liked the situation to have. Yet, this setting was strangely expected, seeing how it was England of all people he had lost his heart to.

"How about you be honest with me for once in your life?" He suggested as England pushed him all the way down on the floor.

A smirk was bitten onto his neck and something was mumbled that England would grow to regret when he would wake up the next morning in France's silk-sheeted bed with nothing but a hangover to keep him company.

"In that case Arthur Kirkland will always resent you."


To Be Continued...

I'm not entirely sure what happened in there... but yeah, this story is labeled under humor, so something humorous, I suppose?

I can't really imagine countries having same kind of relationships as humans do, and I kind of imagine their thoughts about what is considered cheating to be pretty vague. Then again, I like to think that "political intercourse" is in all actuality pure politics, but since it was France, I felt like including perverted things in there.

Comment and Criticize~!