SOY: that's the third and last chapter of this fic! Thanks to everybody who reviewed and read this fic, I love you tons! :D
Rating: R for mentions of past sex
Warnings: threesome, mentions of sex, England. Romano. France.
Pairings: France/England/Italy, mentions of Spain/Romano.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Shot of Honesty
Chapter 03: Realising the truth
England sighed, and looked up at the sign of the pub with a frown.
For once, much to his surprise, he was not here to drink; he'd been searching for that one pub for over two hours, as his memories of that night were still fuzzy at the best, and it had been one of France's recommendations.
If England remembered correctly, they had a good brand of whiskey, though.
He pushed the door open –the motion caused a vague sensation of déjà vu, and he inwardly nodded, satisfied.
He was here to see if he could, by any chance, remember the hell had happened back then.
As soon as he was in the pub, he looked around. He remembered choosing a table somewhere on the left, and he nodded as he recognised the corner –there was a huge painting on the wall right in front of the seat that had been his, so he remembered it well enough.
Sitting down, he looked around.
Familiar as it was, he was not sure what…
"Monsieur? Do you want to order?"
England looked to the side, startled to see a waitress already there. He blinked, about to order a scotch, double malt, but bit down on his tongue and cleared his throat.
"A beer would be fine, thank you," he ordered instead.
With a beer he was sure not to get drunk –it was by far too light for him.
While he waited for his beer, England looked around again. The pub looked decent.
France had been sitting to his right that night, and he had ordered a bottle of the best French wine of the house, starting to drink it in little, slow sips –always the prick, France– moaning and moping about…
Well, not just football, but mostly about it.
French people didn't take the loss that well.
Scrunching up his face, deep in thought, England barely realised the waitress had placed his beer in front of him.
Italy had joined them around half a hour later. He'd said something about France recommending the place to him once, and had asked if he could join them.
France had been all for it, but England had been against it –Italy didn't seem like one he'd want as a drinking companion, but there again, the Italian team had also lost. They were all on the same boat.
And in fact, Italy hadn't been that bad of a drinking mate. Not at all.
He hadn't been loud or silly or as annoying as France. On the contrary, he'd been silent for the first hour, sipping at his own wine in silence, listening to England's rants (he'd been already ankles–deep in his alcohol) and France's recriminations.
Of course, after some prodding, he'd started to loosen up, and it was around that time that England's memories had started vacillating.
He was sure that part of him didn't want to remember… there was a huge gap between their talks and…
gently lowering down on Italy's body, tongue flickering out to lick at the tip of his–
… and the sex.
Shaking his head, England downed the entire glass of beer.
Even now, his heart was thumping fast at the memory. It was pleasant, alluring.
He remembered kissing France, with Italy looking at them with wide hungry eyes, observing how they had interacted, the way France had removed England's shirt, then unzipped his pants.
He remembered how France had leaned to the side, grasping Italy's neck and pulling him closer, away from his observing position and into the action, how Italy had gasped into the deep French kiss as England's hands moved into his shirt to caress the skin underneath…
They had been drunk, but not enough not to know what to do, and how to make it right.
It was absurd –more than eight days had passed, and England could still taste the ghostly reminder of Italy's flavour on his tongue… sweat compared to France's salty skin.
They had moved in synch, England slipping inside Italy with some strain, stretching him wider than he'd ever been as France worked to get into him, filling him–
Moving, sliding, skin slapping against skin, France's fingers intertwined with Italy's, their frames melting into one, England licking on Italy's collarbone as France kissed his spine…
Even in England's sober mind, something did not add up.
These were not memories of fucking, of having sex like he and France were used to.
There had been an added factor, and suddenly it had turned sensual, slower…
Was it just because it was Italy's first time?
It shouldn't have… if they were truly drunk, that shouldn't' have mattered. He knew how rough he got when drunk. The memories were definitely not how he'd thought it had been.
Slow, sweet –and somehow, more mind–blowing than ever before.
Why couldn't he remember? He always remembered his drunken times –which was why he was always so embarrassed of them afterwards, especially around America.
Was it just… was he afraid?
Was he rejecting something more than just having taken Italy? Or was that enough to make him refuse those memories?
'I'm bnot/b afraid! I was a great empire, and I was a pirate… I was afraid of nothing, so why would this scare me?'
He had to remember. Face his guilt, face his actions towards Italy, and understand.
Talking. They were talking and moping, and Italy's face had been so sad, so depressed, sipping his wine, ordering more…
"All they see in me is an idiot –silly and afraid of fighting, always running away, good for nothing but pizza and mafia and…"
Italy's voice echoing through his head.
England frowned more.
Something was still evading him, something important…
"Everybody always bitches at my cooking, and pokes fun of me because I 'have invisible friends' and that I'm all stuck–up and weird, and stupid Alfred too…"
His own voice muttering against the other Nations –Gods, how embarrassing…
"I don't think you're stuck up nor weird, though. I like you Arthur~"
Cheeks flushing red, England snapped his fingers and ordered another beer.
Had Italy really said that? That he liked him?
"You have tons of good writers and poets, and I admire your strength, too~ Arthur is really cool, even if he gets angry and sometimes scary, and even if his cooking isn't the best, his intentions always are… and… you're cool, I really like you!"
Hiding his face into one hand, England tried to push the embarrassment away. Why was he getting worked up over such simple words? It wasn't like it was the first time someone said that to him…
Well, only that it was. Other than France, and the bastard only said it as a joke, especially during sex –shitty frog eater– nobody had told that to England ever. Maybe America when he was really, really little, but…
Italy was just another stupid nation, saying silly things, after all, nothing to get embarrassed about, he was England after all!
The glass of beer stopped midway to his lips as he froze.
Of course that was a lie. Italy wasn't stupid. He'd been lamenting exactly about that –of how everybody accused him of being stupid and silly… and England was thinking the same, too?
But it was true…
"No, it isn't," he muttered in a low tone, looking down at his hands.
"Nobody ever looks at me –they just see what they want to see, ve~ a stupid silly Nation always smiling, that nobody really wants except for his territories, and now not even because of them…"
England's head was hurting, so he sipped some more beer to try and calm himself down.
"But I think you're nice, Feliciano…" he murmured. The words echoed through his brain like soothing balm, a stronger sense of déjà vu, as if he was just repeating an already orchestrated conversation. "Despising war isn't a weakness, and I know of your poets and your painters, your artists and your sculptors… being good at that is… just as good as being good at fighting, probably more. I wish I could have spared myself some of my cruellest battles in exchange for…"
He paused, hesitating. His heart was so beating so fast he feared it'd come out of his throat. His hands were trembling.
Things clicked inside him, like the precise sound of an old clock.
"… in exchange for even one of your talents, that is… you're not useless, and I also admire you for your resolution not to fight… I like you too, Feliciano…"
That was what he'd been afraid to remember. He'd admitted… loudly, that is, he'd finally admitted something…
Italy had been shocked at his words and then–
He had smiled.
It had been England's words that had made him smile that beautiful, bright smile… a thank you, happy because someone didn't consider him useless…
England felt his insides shift painfully.
Italy had smiled, and in that moment, England had realised that he'd found him beautiful –not just as a Nation, or because of his territories, but simply because it was him. A silly, cheerful nation that he realised he knew enough to know of all his good sides.
Ever since when had he been looking at Italy, really? To know that he was easily frightened, but he wasn't a dolt, that if someone insulted his family, he stood up to protect them. He knew how to hold a rifle or a gun, though he didn't like using them.
He knew that he worked so much better with a brush. That he cooked delicious meals in which he put his whole heart.
He knew that he really liked cats, and liked to sleep so much, but that he also loved to read, and compose and create.
It hadn't been a lie when he'd said it. He really liked Italy, and if he smiled like that, too…
He'd leaned forwards, one hand already brushing against Italy's cheek, dragging him close, feeling his heart flutter in his chest, the booze in his blood helping him, spurring him on, and behind him, he'd heard France stand up, moving closer to them…
Now England realised that France had been waiting for an opening for a long, long time, too.
That stupid frog had been right, after all. He was way more honest when drunk than he'd ever be when sober.
That was why he allowed France to screw him only after drinking so much, that was why he refused to even think about the frog in any way except as a rival all the time…
Well, not 'screw'. There was another word for it, but it was far too mushy for England's liking.
It fit better with the current situation, and his memories of holding and been held back, of Italy's eyes filled with tears as England and France showered him with love, at his hesitant kissing and licking and exploring of their bodies afterwards, of France kissing him, gently caressing his palm…
Thinking back at it, it was probably even sillier than it seemed to him.
Glancing down at his second glass of beer, England snorted.
He was quite the idiot, but at least now he knew what to do.
France hummed and stirred the pot on the stove, eyes trailing to the wall clock every now and then.
It was mid afternoon, but his meat wouldn't be ready for another hour or so. He had enough time to sprinkle it with a little more wine and stir it some more, and then cut the carrots to his liking before he'd have to check up on the dessert baking in the oven, too.
With a sigh, France checked the portions again. He was making just enough for three, and yet he had no way of knowing if England would join them later on.
Or ever, if at all.
Casting a long glance towards the open door that connected the sitting room with the kitchen, he observed Italy's frame on the sofa, his chest rising softly with every deep breath; he was deeply asleep, clearly tired.
France didn't mind –Italy needed to rest a bit, after so many days of continuous painting and not eating enough.
He wondered if Romano would bitch at him if he even knew, and decided not to venture too far. If push came to shove, he'd call Spain, and have him keep Romano away for some time.
Italy's face was relaxed in his sleep, hands curled on his chest and completely abandoned on the comfortable cushions of the couch, and France fought the urge to step to his side and kiss him –it wouldn't do to wake him up yet.
Not until the food was ready, at least.
With a smile, he returned to his cooking, allowing it to fully absorb his attention.
France moved through the kitchen like a pro, smiling as he went through these simple, enjoyable motions –cooking was more than just something he liked to do… it was an art. And he was a master of such art.
A soft click alerted him that the front door was being pushed open.
Blinking and allowing his heart to skip a beat, France did not turn around, simply waiting, hands getting busy with cutting slices of onion.
The door was closed softly again, and the floor creaked softly as someone moved inside; the sound stopped for a moment and France bit his lower lip, concentrating on his carrots, forcing himself not to turn around yet.
He was a man of patience, after all.
The footsteps came closer at a slow pace and then they stopped again; France could feel the other's presence inches away from him.
"Welcome back, Arthur," he stated. His voice was cordial yet carefully monotone, just in case the other still–
England pressed his forehead against France's back, sighing deeply; hesitantly, one inch at a time, he wrapped his arms around the other Nation's chest. His hands were trembling, but for once he did not mind if the other noticed it. In fact, the thought didn't bother him in the least.
"I…" a pause. "I… remember now".
France smiled, tapping his lips with the wooden spoon, and pressed his free hand on top of England's joined fingers on his chest.
"I'm glad you do, Arthur," he purred. "How much…?"
"All of it, Francis, all of it," England continued, clearing his throat. "I'm… fuck, I'm sorry it took me so long".
"Well, it has been only eight days, non?"
"Stupid frog, you know exactly what I'm talking about here…" but he didn't raise his voice, contenting himself in making France turn around to face him.
The damn bastard was smirking in satisfaction.
England grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him down.
"I hate you," the Englishman murmured against France's lips.
"Oui, of course," with a breathless chuckle, the French nation pressed forwards for the kiss. "Je t'aime aussi, Angleterre…"
It was familiar –everything of it was familiar. The touch, the taste, the sensation of France's body pressed tightly against his own, his arms wound around his waist, pulling him even closer…
England liked that.
The entirety of the action, and its meaning. Now that he could understand it, he wanted more of it.
They fought –tongues pushing and battling against each other, sensual and exciting, a breathtaking kiss fought fiercely and valiantly until one of them succumbed, then fighting again for a gained revenge.
When they finally parted, panting and satisfied, lips bruised and red, eyes glazed over, France gently shifted England so that he could place a softer kiss on his closed eyes.
With a shudder, England leaned forwards to nibble at France's neck, making him moan appreciatively.
The two remained like that for some more time, breathing and simply holding each other, until France pushed the other Nation away from him, smiling.
"Come on, Arthur. Feli is waiting".
Fingers twitching in anticipation, England returned to the sitting room where Italy was, still deeply asleep.
Sitting on the couch at his side, he delicately pressed his fingers against the offered cheek, brushing it gently, coaxing him back to consciousness.
France kneeled at his side, gently pulling Italy up and against his own chest, just as the Italian nation opened his eyes, finding himself face to face with England.
Heart thumping madly in his chest, cheeks flushed, England shifted on the sofa, moving over Italy and intertwining their fingers together, France's hand covering both of theirs.
He had barely enough time to appreciate another one of Italy's bright, joyous smiles that he was moving even closer, pressing his lips against Italy's ones, tongue slipping past them to take a taste again.
Italy gasped, tongue shyly meeting England's own, his other hand coming up to cup the Englishman's chin, as France from behind rubbed his stomach comfortingly.
Deepening the kiss, England groaned softly, eliciting a similar sound from the depths of Italy's throat; the Italian man felt both warm and pleasantly dizzy, being spooned between France and England and feeling their hearts thumping just as fast as his own was.
Italy could barely breath when England moved back to take short, quick gasps, and yet he was the one to move forwards, lips greedily opening to another kiss.
France chuckled and shook his head, ripping England away from Italy so that he, too, could take a taste.
It was going to be ok now, definitely.
Who could have guessed that losing at that frigging Football tournament could have been such a good medicine?
"Feliciano…" England moved one hand to his chest, massaging it through his clothes.
Italy smiled sheepishly when his stomach grumbled. "Ve~ but I'm still hungry…"
"Don't worry, I can give you a taste of something yummy, Feli~"
"Stop being such a pervert, fucking frog!"
"But we're together now, I'm allowed to ask one of my lovers to suck my–"
"D–don't say these things loudly!"
Italy pouted and looked over to the kitchen, from where the yummy smell of meat and carrots was coming, and sighed, listening to England and France bicker around him.
He hoped they would stop that, at least enough for him to eat… but in the meanwhile, he just snuggled more against France's chest, giggling at the many colourful insults that passed from one of his lovers to the other.
At least this was pretty normal.
SOY: So that was it. How is it? was it pleasant to read? I hope you've liked it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, lol.
Monsieur (French) – Mister
Je t'aime aussi (French) – I love you too.