"F-fuck… My head…"
France smirks, and waits. Beside him, England shifts, and then – finally – notices the Nation lying on top of the blankets.
"France? What the hell are you doing here? Get out of my bed you, you --" Whatever insult England was intended is replaced by a groan, and the Nation winces as a wave of nausea passes over him.
France continues to smile smugly as he tugs the displaced blankets back up around England's chest. "Now, now, mon cher, is that anyway to treat your saviour?"
"Piss off, frog."
He laughs outright, leaning forward to kiss his neighbour's forehead, though he is rewarded by an irritated swat.
"You undressed me too! You pervert!"
"Non, you did that yourself. It was all I could do to make you keep them on on the way back last night."
England shifts to try and push France away, but another wave of nausea hits, and he gags, jumping out of bed and into the en suite just in time. France isn't far behind him, and he rubs England's back soothingly as the Nation leans over the toilet, brushing blonde locks out of his eyes and off his sweaty forehead. "You never learn, do you, mon petit chou?" He chides him playfully.
England swats at him again, glaring up at him briefly, before he retches again.
When his stomach has settled a little, France helps him back to bed, a strong arm around the smaller Nation's waist, and the lack of complaints tells him just how bad England is feeling. As he pulls the blankets back up around him, England realises belatedly that France is still wearing last night's suit, although the jacket and tie have been lost somewhere.
"Go back to sleep, mon cher."
England groans, still feeling queasy, and pulls the blankets over his head. "Didn't I tell you to piss off?"
France just laughs again, and sits down on the edge of the bed, stroking England's hair soothingly while he waits for the younger Nation to doze off.
Once he's sure that he's asleep, he goes down the corridor to shower in the main bathroom, and changes into clean clothes. Feeling better (he didn't exactly go lightly on the wine last night either), he checks in again on England before heading down to the kitchen, a towel draped over his shoulders catching the drips from his hair.
France smiles when he spots a packet in the fridge and pulls it out. He knows that England doesn't drink coffee, and it's his own favourite. He puts the instant that he had assumed had been left behind by America back in the cupboard, and sets about making breakfast for the two of them.
When he cheerfully waltzes back into the bedroom and pulls open the curtains, England throws a pillow at him, exclaiming an inaudible insult into the pillow he's just buried his face in. France laughs at him again, and pulls it away, perching on the bedside. "Come, mon cher, we have things to do today."
"Fuck off, you wine bastard." At the thought of wine, England groans, turning away from France and attempting to burry himself in the blankets.
Leaning over to the tray he earlier balanced on the bedside table, France picks up a glass and two paracetamol pills, offering them to England, who all but snatches them away.
"You're a git, you know that?" England complains as he sits up, cautiously shuffling to one side to allow France a space on the bed and taking the tray from him to balance it in his lap.
"And I love you too." France replies with a smile as he takes his plate off the tray and settles down beside England.
"Besides, everyone knows that you're meant to have a fry up to cure a hang over, not this crepe shit."
France wrinkles his nose in disgust, and takes a delicate sip of his coffee before replying. "The fruit will do you good, mon cher."
England grumbles, but starts to eat, drawing the tray closer to himself. France must have gone out for ingredients because he's sure that there weren't half of these fruits in his fridge last night.
"Feeling better now?" France asks when England finally pushes the tray away and leans back against the bedhead.
England grunts a yes, and then sighs and closes his eyes, his mug of tea resting on his stomach, both hands curled around it.
"Good. You need to shower." England opens one eye to glare at France. "You stink of sick." France continues as though unaware that England was very visibly wishing him dead.
"It's only the truth, mon ami. You can hardly turn up to the meeting like this."
England groans again. Oh, yes. The meeting. Right.
Sighing, he dumps the tray on France's lap, then pushes himself up. He pauses to finish his tea, then stumbles back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
France has just finished clearing away in the kitchen when England finally reappears, towel drying his hair. "There. Now you almost look human." France says with a dry laugh.
England growls, squaring his shoulders, and drops his towel on France's lap as he passes him to get to the second cup of tea that France has prepared for him. While he drinks it, France fusses over him like a mother hen, straightening his shirt and tie, and pulling his fingers through England's unruly hair in an attempt to tame it. England endures the fuss while he drinks his tea, and then steps smartly out of France's reach and brushes down his jacket.
"Come on then, you bastard. I guess we'd better get this out of the way." He brushes his hand through his hair, undoing France's attempts to tame it, and France laughs again.
"Aiya, mon ami, what am I going to do with you?"
"Piss off and leave me alone?"
Their footsteps echo in the hall, and as England opens the door to let them out, France sneaks a kiss onto his cheek, and then darts away. "You wish, mon petit chou."
"Bastard! Come back here!" The words are shouted, but France is laughing as he keeps just out of England's reach, letting him chase him all the way there.