Title : Silent Language
Author : DnKS – giRLs
Rating : PG13
Character(s)/Pairing(s) : America and England
Disclaimers : The characters involved in this story do not belong to us, nor do they have any connection to real nation(s). No infringement intended.
Warning : Nothing graphic happens in this fic but... well, it follows France's perspective so that should be a warning on its own
For America and England, Silent Language (yes, written with a capital s and a capital l, or, if America happened to be the one writing, in sparkles) meant something that they had somehow created to facilitate their banter-slash-flirtation during the time when they could not express said banter-slash-flirtation with spoken words. Like those times they spent sitting around in some UN meeting, for example. It was one instance of the times when they could not speak freely, else than voicing out some issues. So, it was somewhat inevitable that during those meetings, there would be some excess of meaningful glares, barely concealed smirks, and, of course, heavy pheromone, passing between those two blissfully ignorant nations. Or perhaps said two nations were not so ignorant after all and they merely saw it fit to torture their fellow nations with their heavy aura of UST.
At least, France thought so.
It was his bad luck, really, that made him have to sit between America and England on that year's meeting. And it was also his bad luck that he was so smart until he could decipher the meaning behind every seemingly-innocent-but-not-really gesture that America and England sent to each other.
His eyebrow twitched as he saw America, from the corner of his eyes, smirking and biting on his nails before he gave a coy glance to England's direction. That gesture meant 'hey, I'm bored with this meeting already, let's get out and fuck'.
Truthfully, France agreed wholeheartedly with that suggestion. He had also come to get bored of the meeting and getting out of there to have some nice fuck did sound really nice. But England, he observed, merely huffed slightly and tapped his pen to his handouts. It was his way of saying 'the meting is still running, pay attention to it'.
France frowned. Uptight Brit, he could be so painstakingly difficult at times. And it seemed America shared his sentiment for he made a facial expression that was at the same time cute, exasperating, and dangerous. He really needed to ask him how to do that but perhaps those kind of expressions were exclusive to those stubborn little nations who at one point turned at their once-guardian and beat the hell out of them.
Like, well, Japan.
He still watched in amusement as America's expression gradually changed to a challenging smirk. Oh, yes, France thought, their little hero would never give up the fight, would he? Of course America would never accept England's refusal. And of course he would…
France managed to turn his sigh into a soft cough before he continued watching America.
…drag his hand along the inside of his left thigh until his fingers ever so slightly brush against his crotch. Well damn. America did have nice fingers. And thighs. And crotch. There was no way England would be able to remain unprovoked after watching that gesture.
He turned his head slightly, curious to see England's expression. Seeing that particular pink blush on those cheeks, he smirked. Oh, well, the good part had just begun it seemed.
England narrowed his eyes then made a small gesture with his hand, touching his wristwatch before folding his hands on his lap. France guessed it was a variation of 'America, can't you wait and sit down to pay attention?' only with many words like 'bloody', 'fucking' and 'idiot' inserted to any comfortable gap between every pair of words.
He felt really smart for being able to decipher it, actually.
America seemed unfazed by that. If anything, he only seemed emboldened. And France watched in deftly concealed interest as America drew his sleek black pen (Mont Blanc, France noted, excellent taste) to his chin, giving off an air of mild interest before he softly brought that pen to his lips (really excellent taste!). He continued watching as America swirled his tongue around the pen, as he licked and sucked at the pen, as he did things that should be criminal. France would give his all to switch place with that pen (well, not really, but perhaps he'd be willing to give up Annecy, one Mont Blanc for another). After all, it was a Mont Blanc that America was licking. Ha!
After a few minutes of carefully orchestrated molestation of that sleek black pen, America finished his performance with one last lick. He gave his most saucy smirk and he even dared to wink.
France gulped. He was really, really, in the need for some restroom break. And he couldn't help wonder, if America's performance managed to draw such reaction from him, who knew what it had caused England?
He surreptitiously glanced to England's direction. His face looked flushed—no hard work trying to guess what had caused that. His hands seemed to grip the handouts with a tad more force than necessary. His shoulders seemed tense. France let his gaze travel downward (surreptitiously, of course) and he nearly unable to hold back a whistle.
Well, England, he thought gleefully, was that your cock or were you just so very happy with your America's performance?
Oh, wait, those two things were basically the same.
That thing aside, France thought, it was obvious that England would not be able to stay silent after such, pardon his French, magnificent performance. He was curious. Terribly so. And, yes, he even admitted that he quite entertained some England-got-up-from-his-seat-to-ravish-America-in-the-middle-of-a-meeting scenario. Perhaps they would not mind a third party.
But instead of getting up from his seat, much less ravishing America, England merely gave one stern glare and lightly traced his neck, from the place behind his right ear down until he reached his collar bone, with his three fingers. Then he smirk that smirk, the one that he used to employ when he was still enjoying his merry days out in the oceans sinking some poor nation's ships. But, God and the Saints, that smirk! France knew a lot of people who would be willing to do anything when they saw that smirk (a lot had indeed done that, mainly by, ahem, letting England sink their ships).
He averted his eyes from England to watch America's reaction. And if anyone was ever in a doubt whether America ever got serious in any world meeting or not, should they see America that time, their doubt would all be cleared. The gaze that America had was so very intense it gave France some shiver. Yes, America had moved to his serious business mode and he was sure England would get a very fulfilling night after the meeting.
Now, if only America could employ same seriousness for urgent matters like world economy recession, aside from employing it for the sole purpose of fucking England every chance he got, then perhaps the world could really be a wonderful place.
There were some noises of papers being shuffled and conversations that made France realize that they had just reached their coffee break for the day. He blinked. Time did seem to pass so quickly when one was enjoying himself. And speaking about 'pass so quickly', France thought, eyeing America who got to his feet and walked to the exit door with such enviable speed, it seemed time was not the only thing eager to pass so quickly.
He shrugged his shoulders and arranged his notes back into his briefcase. It was then he heard England addressing him.
"You damn frog," England said in that particular tone of voice he always used when he called him. "Getting off watching your peers communicating, such shameless behavior."
"Is it my fault that you and your America are fond of public sex conversation?" he said with a wink. "Face it, my friend, you enjoy the idea of someone getting off watching you."
England only narrowed his eyes at him, but France managed to catch the hint of embarrassment in his expression. It was enough reward for him.
"So, tell me," he said. "I could understand the meaning of the majority of your gestures to each other. But that last bit, when you touched your neck, what did that mean?"
"Fuck you," England said, closing his briefcase and standing from his seat. He gave his most condescending look to France and said, "If I have my way with you, I'll do so many things that will make you unable to speak for a week, much less walk."
"Hey," he said. "I was only asking."
England gave that smirk again as he answered, "And I was only answering your question."
France could only sit there, gaping, as he saw England exiting the meeting room. He was torn between laughing and being awed, but in the end he merely shook his head.
"I really envy those two sometimes," he said.
Spain, who happened to walk past him when he uttered that sentence, stopped and stared at him. "Huh?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just me being reminded that the world isn't fair."
He sighed and stood up from his seat. There was no use being envious. Moreover being envious toward England, he thought with a slightly disgusted feeling. He should not be envious toward some nation's love life. He was France, and France should not do things like that.
Instead, perhaps he could 'persuade' the hotel's security to install some camera in England's room. Yes, that sounded like a better thing to do rather than being envious. Definitely.
(A/N: yeah, so that's that. Hope you enjoy this fic and reviews would be very much appreciated.)