Oh Lord, how belated this is.

So the original was done in June... and I started this one in August. It's not too bad, admittedly, a gap between the two... but; It's relieving that I'm finally getting this on the way.

Unlike Our Scandalous Rabbit - this one isn't PWP. I'm hopefully offering what could be a much more realistic scenario.

I've got plans that have been split into thirty two points separate points. ...I've done 32 pages so far... and I'm only on point six. Darn. I've got a lot of work to do...

Regardless; please do enjoy!


Arthur licked his lips delectably with the intention to replenish his plump and parched asset with moisture as his throat ran irritably dry. The Brit lifted the soft fabric of his silky sheets closer, slipping further in the tunnel of strand that he wove himself in every night up to the level of just underneath his shiningly vibrant emerald eyes. His warm breath filtered through the gaps in the sheets, through giving heat that touched his bitterly blushing cheeks with comfort as he pressed them close against his skin.

His body had already given the illusion of scorching heights internally as he continued to flush a shade of scarlet red that he never knew was possible for a man of his porcelain skin tone calibre to reach, yet the warm of the almost hyperventilating breath evacuating his lungs reminded him that he was merely human in his experience of the devastating tragedy named as Love.

The air around him was refreshing; a mild temperature in actuality, but because of his slightly flushed body, it felt like ice cubes drizzled delicately over the small instances of exposed skin peaking out from the golden silk. Complaining ever so slightly in his now lucid sleep, low groan from the bottom of his throat escaping, Arthur wondered when he had scampered underneath the covers at all.

The last thing he remembered, before the sun poured down at him through the thick bedroom curtains and filled his eyelids with red, was collapsing from absolute exhaustion. Before that – well, Arthur found himself smirking in guilty pleasure; it certainly was an eventful night. Conquering fears never before exploited. It gave him a renewed sense of smugness and vigour that just as unnatural from someone doing such a deed.

It was foolish, absolutely barmy; to consider that doing something so little as making himself orgasm under his own jurisdictions would give him such a feeling of high self-regard. But it did. He felt fantastic.

Sucking in a breath, Arthur shifted to the side – mumbling a whole load of early morning nonsensical rubbish, and letting his slightly-spoilt linens smoothly accentuate the curve in his hips. When his knee brushed against something feeling foreign, Arthur initially ignored it. It was only when a slight flinch that didn't belong to him made him jump, that the Englishman realised that something was wrong. He didn't quite comprehend just how wrong, until his eyes snapped open and Arthur found his vision absorbed in the shimmering sheen of golden blond hair – far too long and attached to someone else's head to be his at all.

Needless to say, Arthur panicked. The Briton bolted up in bed; silk covers tossing off of him in a hurry, exposing his pallid and naked skin to the world. And what a world it was – waking to find that his imagination seemed to have been suddenly flawed. Why, for instance, would he possibly find someone who looked so realistically like the Frenchman Arthur was masturbating to the night before appear in his bed the next morning? Staring, Arthur noticed just how intricately the sleeping form in front of him was breathing – chest heaving up and down in slow succession – and how detailed every single cell on the man's body were. Each little chest hair being touched by the light exactly as it should.

There was no way that his imagination was so detailed and refined. Without blinking and his heart oscillating wildly in his chest, to the point of aching horrifically, Arthur draped his eyes over the creature's frankly… well… magnificent body. Arthur felt himself swallowing, gazing at the slight tan on his back – no doubt acquired in the Southern French sun, basking in the Rivera – and following the line of his spine all the way down to those hips. God, those naked hips!

It must have been a trick. The fairies must have cast a spell on him to make him see something that was just not possible. His imagination was not that strong, no matter how many times he tried to fool himself. Last night, although the figures were physically shaped and the vocals were just perfect, they were not anywhere near this solid. It was the fairies – yes… that made sense. Arthur deluded himself into thinking. Soon, he would close his eyes and the beautiful illusion would kindly fuck off like it should. Spare his sanity – or what was left of it, at least.

Closing his eyes, Arthur counted from ten. Lips moved ever so slightly as the numbers descended. Internally, he swore he could feel the bed shift and become lighter as the illusion went away. Good, good. It was a clever joke. He would have to pester those little nymphs later for it. They almost gave him such a shock. His heart still hadn't quite recovered – pattering heavily in his chest, trying to erupt. But then, the heart did not lie.

A slight squeeze and warmth flooding downwards made the Englishman cease at two. Snapping his eyes back open and dipped his pupils down to his lap, the pressure in his chest suddenly increased tenfold.

The illusion groped him. Hand on cock, feeling-up action. Oh God.

It was not… It… It was not an illusion. Not even the fairies would create something so—so forward and vulgar, even if it was for a joke. Striving with mischief as pixies were; they would never downgrade themselves to such a derogatory act. Arthur's eyes widened so much that he almost forgot to slap away the hand raping his privacy.

Oh fuck!

Forced to attention; the Briton's mind practically spurting with question marks and exclamation. For one – how in the World did Francis get there? Secondly – why was he in his bed? And thirdly, for the love of the British Empire, the Queen, and all that he had ever considered as remotely Holy… why the hell was he naked? Arthur's eyes shot frantically around him, gazing at the condition of the room he had left in his disgrace.

Besides him, the vibrators that Arthur rocked back and forth on last night had disappeared from the spot he dumped them on. But the rose tinted hand lotion was still there, abandoned right at the bottom of the bed. Evidence of that was left on his sticky fingers. The patch where Arthur had soiled the covers in event of his eventual orgasm was still vaguely present. The pain in his hips had not gone away – aching still after the double penetration stretched his inner borders so impossibly far…

Last night did happen. It did. But where were the vibrators? And why, oh dear Lord and Heaven above, was he not alone? Scampering backwards and away from the Frenchman in shock, Arthur ceased in his place when his back collided with something else solid – or to be correct, something rather fleshy, but very much there. He froze in his place; his eyes feeling like they could be knocked out and find themselves tumbling away like marbles out of his sockets. A hand dragged forwards and draped itself on the soft curve of his hip, rubbing soothing circles into the tensed skin.

There was no way. There just was no way that this was happening and that was not, not, what he thought it wa—

"—Morning, sleeping beauty." The unmistakeably American voice rung out, making Arthur go rigid with confusion. Arthur's breath came out as little more than a squeaking choke.

He couldn't believe it for a second… but all of the evidence was right there. The accent was ever so slightly touched with Southern charm – just like a certain person's does when he doesn't get enough sleep or is deprived of coffee for far too long. The skin that Arthur could feel brushing against his back felt hard and suspiciously muscular. Even the hand that circled his hips was the right colour; a Miami sun-kissed look about it, as well as slightly rough from that DIY work the twat just insisted on doing by himself…

"A-Al…fred," Arthur panted out, totally gob smacked beyond his mind's comprehension.

"That's me." The third body shifted, pressing itself closer to Arthur's own. A touch on the back of his leg identified all too well that the body occupying the space behind him was just as naked as he and Francis. Strong arms quickly wrapped themselves around his waist, touching him sickeningly intimately – heat bursting forth through his skin in sweltering jolts. Arthur found himself gagging, body and mind shutting down to an absolute blank as Alfred's teeth grazed his ear. "Don't abuse the name too much, baby. I want it to stay hot every time you say it…"

Hot breath poured against his skin, sending shivers down his spine that just were too non-existent the night before to believe. A headache was beginning to brew and stir within his skull. A sensation that was not indifferent from hangovers that the Englishman was just too depressingly used to.

"What's wrong, darlin'?" The American groaned out, morning voice being far too low and sexy for Arthur's liking. Did he mean to drive him over the edge right on the spot with little more than a nonchalant whisper? "-You're still sore, right? …Damn, sorry Arthie, but Francis was just hogging you far too much. I wanted to have a go m'self, and I couldn't have just let you finish, coul—Ga-ahck!"

Alfred's words were cut off far too short by Arthur's sudden shift, whipping around and elbowing the American straight in the chest with so much force that the man was tossed out of bed. With a thud and a well-placed declaration of pain/shock; Alfred watched questionably as the Brit practically flew over the top of him and ran over towards the closet at the front of the room. Arthur's legs buckled at the end – pain no doubt making each and every step far too shaky for the veteran nation to hold his weight. The American frowned deeply, lips pouting, as he watched Arthur recover and scramble around desperately at the bottom – searching for a certain box of his finest and kinkiest items. A small smirk cropped up on his sleek boyish features.

Finding it quickly, he scrambled to enter in the correct code – 6221 – tossed off the lid and proceeded to search through. Toys and sexual aids were flung here and there besides him as he frantically tried to find what he was looking for; the last piece of evidence – the only thing stopping him from realising that his little fantasy was nothing short of absolute truth. His heart fell like a stone to the pit of his stomach when his eyes gazed upon what he was unsuspecting to see. There, right at the bottom, were two suspicious shapes, wrapped up in kitchen towel. He didn't need to unravel them to know what they were.

Oh, how he could have just died.

"Why-…." Arthur began shakily, hands stirring just as much as his voice. He forced himself to his feet, knees wanting to buckle as pain seared through his crotch and filled the nerves surrounding. He stared at the bed, the post-sex stains, Francis's sleeping body, and then finally to the American – trying to make sense out of what must have happened. No matter how much he tried to remember; the night was not filling in with any details other than him alone, impaling himself to the thoughts of two men he loved and lusted after far too prominently. But everything was pointing in an entirely different direction.

"Why are the vibrators… why are yo-… what?" Arthur shouted, hands finding themselves clutched in his hair. The temptation to pull and expect the sharp sting to bring back memories he supposedly lost was exceedingly great. "What the bloody blazes—I mean… ju-just... what… Oh God, what the hell happened last—!"

"Woah, woah, woah… Hey, Arthie, there's a certain word that you really need right now, and that word is 'calm'! Slow down a minute, space invader!" Alfred blurted out. He got himself up off of the floor and clad his glasses, watching the Englishman warily – as if he was expecting the nation to suddenly attack him at any given moment. He approached tentatively with his hands held up in the universal 'I surrender' gesture. Arthur scoffed, realising just how correct he was to stay defensive. Frustration and confusion were threatening to make him act wild.

"S-Slow down? How the hell can I 'slow' fucking 'down'?" Arthur ranted, raving in the nonsensical banter. "Alfred, what happened last night? You better tell me or I'll shove a pineapple so far u—bugger, you're naked…!"

Arthur stopped in his place, heart thudding so much that he felt like he could collapse at any moment. His shocked expression turned to something of some awe, mouth hung ever so slightly agape while he rather perversely took the American's appearance in. Stone the crows; Alfred looked even better than he thought he would. The slight tan he harboured flourished all throughout his skin suited his shape magnificently, working in compliment with that lifeguard-muscle and straw coloured blond locks - an even and blessed tone that reminded him of the taste of butterscotch, and made him feel far too jealous. It was unfair that Alfred, and Francis for that matter, didn't burn like a scalded peach when the sun came anywhere near them.

"Arthur, are you paying atten—?"

The Englishman stared, imagining those toned arms touching his body – fingers exploring intimately and driving him into eccentric pleasure and ecstasy, mouth working wonders, that dusty pink cock pushing in and slickly pulling out and making him blush, moan, beg, and weak at the knees, and oh…! Arthur gasped, feeling the pain jolt as a reminder up his spine.

It was not an illusion, was it? He already established that. Alfred, his Alfred – his sweet, beautiful, and sexy Alfred – was in front of him wearing bloody fuck all. Naked. Freaking naked. Bare and barren and stripped and-and… Francis was in his bed. The vibrators weren't used. His body was. Two and two equalled four. He did have that big, impossibly big, length between his legs and… white, hot bliss… and gosh. They did it. They did it, they did it. It. Bugger, Shakespeare, and Knickerbocker glories…! They had—

"—Sex. Glorious, profound and awesome sex," Alfred announced proudly, hand on hip, expression absolutely amused. Stepping next to the Englishman and placing a reassuring hand on the narrow and pale shoulder; the American laughed when he realised that the other nation's line of sight was not exactly prudent. He took Arthur's chin in his hand and tilted that pretty little face upwards. "Er… Arthur, my face is up here."

"This isn't true," Arthur decided, rather determinedly, to tell Alfred once his place of vision had been fixed to somewhere a lot more prudent. Arthur wondered whether it was still a trick of his imagination; he already mentally established the night before that he was good at imaging this sort of thing – those voices he heard were just so real, so perfect, and he found himself even now with his stomach filling with heat at the thought. Surely, maybe, he could have conjured embodiments of Francis and Alfred even now? But, hark; they were just so perfect; surreally pristine. Gazing at Alfred's face, he could see the slightly opened pores in detail, little slight bristles peaking at the bottom of his chin from not having a chance yet to shave that morning, the glistening in his eyes that seemed to spark to life when their eyes connected… how on Earth could something so intricate be a lie?

"Arthur, it is." Alfred laughed, smiling down at the other.

His fingers were still lingering on Arthur's chin, he realised, as they stared in a way that could only be truly described as longingly at each other. The American opposite seemed to realise as well that he had been nurturing Arthur in his fingers for far longer than he should. Either of them looked disturbed by the fact. If Alfred was awkward, his facial expression did not betray it. Smiling at the man besides him warmly, he moved in for the kiss; lips so close now that they could brush if the angle was right.

Instead, Alfred got a swift punch straight in the stomach. With a shout, the American doubled over in pain - body winded, lungs tensed in his chest and his breath being quickly stolen - and his equivalent dashed away a few feet - expression blaring with a variety of emotions flashing through his mind. Confusion, of course, was being pre-dominant; although Alfred would not have misplaced that anger bleating away under his skin. The way Arthur's left eye twitched slightly betrayed the Englishman's frustration far too well.

"Are you stupid?" Arthur scathed through clenched teeth, watching the other as if he expected him to turn into some sort of horrific monster at any second - connotations of disgust clearly in his body language and tone. "You got me drunk and touched me, d-didn't you? God! ...You molesting bastards!"

"E-Excuse me?" Alfred breathed, still recovering from having his breath knocked right out of him. Arthur clenched his fists, and glared at him until his shoulder began to shake. The American was surprised to see that there was a sort of pain in Arthur's eyes that he didn't identify before. It was simply nothing more than the sensations of regret. In Arthur's mind, Alfred remembered, they were nothing more than apparitions that assisted him into an orgasmic high – though the evidence around him was far too compelling otherwise. There was nothing that would, should, have blurred the boundaries between them – except maybe drugs or alcohol, and strong stuff at that. Arthur did already feel a headache beating mercilessly in the back of his skull, battling as strongly as the pulse echoing through his heart.

"I mean-That's the only way this could be explained! Do you really, truly, believe that I would get up this next morning and not blame you two for what must have happened? Honestly!" Arthur continued. Their eyes met for but a moment before the Englishman scoffed angrily and gave an abrupt turn, pushing the closet doors open again. Without looking at what he was getting, he dragged out a pair of trousers and started shoving them onto his naked exterior. Even from behind, Alfred could tell that Arthur's eyebrows were knitted together in frustration. Of which, Alfred knew quickly, definitely wouldn't do.

"Wa-wait, Arthur, look!" Alfred replied, scrambling to his feet. The American got up off of his knees and grabbed the Englishman's shoulder. Arthur retaliated immediately, shooting his arm around to hit him in the same place as before. Alfred was smart enough not to let that happen twice. He snapped his other hand up, grabbing the Brit by the wrist. "Listen—It's not like that! We woul—I would never do something so detrimental to you!"

Fuck Francis, he can dig himself out of his own grave. It was his idea anyhow.

"What is it like then, Alfred?" The retort snapped back, gnashing practically at his throat. Arthur tried pulling his arm back and out of the American's strong grip; and stumbled backwards, having no expected it to come so easily loose. He watched the other nation with hyper-critical eyes bearing so accusingly that the word 'liar' could have been burnt into his skin.

Said American faltered for a moment, trying to quickly come up with some sort of excuse. 'Well, Arthur, we were just being voyeurs in that little pantry room of yours next door by watching you masturbate; and so we decided that it would be totally hilarious if we hit everything and got in bed with you, just on a whim. I mean, really, it's not like you'd get creeped out of anything. Nope' – doesn't exactly cut it.

Alfred mentally kicked himself that he didn't realise that Arthur would take it negatively. He just swore that the Englishman would be happy – satisfied and potentially ecstatic – that last night did happen. Which it didn't, really, but the implication was still the same.

"Well...?"

He realised that he had been quiet for far too long when he heard Arthur moving again; zipping up the trousers he managed to get his hands on, hissing at the feeling of going commando – which Alfred would have found absolutely hot, if it weren't for the fact that Arthur clearly was trying to get out of there as soon as possible. Tossing a glance over his shoulder, seeing that Francis was being typically useless in what could have been considered a miniature battlefield of life, he opened his mouth to object hurriedly. Only to be immediately interjected.

"I thought so," Arthur scoffed as he found a shirt, internal organs feeling like they were going to turn into mush. Nerves were jumping up and down within his body like lines on a graph, though the ache in his lower body was definitely the most prominent. The Briton shook his head with a distinct lack of mirth, atmosphere radiating tension almost solidly around the ground on which he stood. He turned around abruptly, glaring at the American hard enough to make the other go rigid and forget to breathe.

"I thought you were better than that, Alfred. Turns out you and Francis are just one and the same. You've always followed whatever he says blindly, don't you? 'Don't worry, Al. Let's go break his heart. It'll be c'est – fucking – fantastique'!" He growled. "What else did the two of you do to me that I can't remember, Alfred? ... Well!"

Alfred didn't know what to say. His mouth hung rather stupidly agape. Arthur narrowed his eyes, shoving the shirt haphazardly over his shoulders with an agitated shrug.

"Did you thrust your cocks down my throat and laugh about how I looked like some wanton whore? ...What about when I told you that I loved you? 'I love you Arthur', 'It'll be okay, baby'. Were you just lying and pleasing yourself internally about how utterly pathetic I am? Well... did you!" Arthur prompted. The American looked up at him, pupils dilated and thin. "Speak to me, Alfred! What the fuck did you do to me?"

Seeing the American warble silently, lips opening and closing like a beached fish; Arthur seethed at him, shaking his head. His own lips had curled back so far in frustration that they had formed little more than a thin lie. Teeth bit so hard that he could practically taste the blood.

"How dare you." Arthur spat out, taking a deep breath – heavy enough for his vocal chords to rattle upon exhale.

"Get the hell out of my house before I call the police."

With that, Arthur promptly left the room – slamming the door behind him.


A sudden hand on his shoulder made the Frenchman jolt; eyes flickering open far too quickly, light pouring immediately into retinas with far more intensity than should be possible at God-knows-when in the morning. The blond soon was wincing away afterwards. An audible groan left his throat as he tried to slink back underneath the covers. If there were a million words to describe the wonder (or horror, as it may be) of Francis Bonnefoy – none of them would have suggested 'morning-person' in the slightest.

"Francis! Hey, France - get the hell up! Quick, please, come on... come on, come on, come on!"

Francis squinted, shielding his eyes underneath the covers until everything was no longer blurry and the light didn't sting him more horribly than wasps when disturbed. And frankly, he could identify with them very well. Nobody should be expected to be sociable at such a horrifically early hour. As the hand grabbed him again and shook, voice pouring into his ears and waking him up properly, the Frenchman shifted over and glared groggily at whoever was touching him. His eyes widened when he recognised the innocent face of the American. He was even more surprised to see it lit up with anguish – and was that panic settled in his cerulean eyes?

"Zut alors... Alfred, I hope you do know just how horribly I wake in the mornings when I am rudely interrupted from my beauty sleep? Relax, cher." Francis complained, noting the deep quality of his voice. It really was the only benefit to being alive in the mornings at all. Pinching the bridge of his nose and wrinkling his expression to help coax the muscles into waking up properly. He sat up in the bed, sighing deeply to himself.

"How on Earth can I rela-? Look, Francis, it's Arthur..." Alfred said quickly, backing off about a foot or so to give the Frenchman his personal space. The American shuffled nervously on the spot, shifting his weight uneasily on his heels. The Frenchman rolled his eyes at the American's state of undress – as beautiful as it was, that nicely formed body and complimenting skin tone.

"Hm? What about Anglet-..." Francis paused, looking around him. He instantly recognised that he was definitely nowhere near his home, though a small weight felt like it lifted itself off of his heart when he realised exactly where they were. Nobody less was so vain to have golden silk bed-sheets. A slight smile cracked on his plumped lips, and he wetted them as he remembered the events of the night before. Though the brief feeling of joy disappeared when he considered the condition of the place around him – closet door still hung open, crate and toys tossed randomly on the floor, ruffled sheets next to him. Not to mention a particularly missing host.

"I presume, by your distress and our lovely little rabbit's absence... that you completely screwed up. Didn't you? Did he figure out the facade?"

"No, he didn't figure it out. It's worse than that!" Alfred said quickly, brushing his fingers rapidly through his hair – repeatedly – in a sort of nervous reaction. He had a crooked, confused smile on his face that proved he had simply no idea what he was supposed to do. Francis scowled in response, and gestured for him to elaborate.

"He thinks we did sleep with him, but, he's convinced that we weren't doing to because we love him. Arthur thinks we used and manipulated him-God, Francis, what are we going to do? He told me to get, quote, 'the hell out of my house before I call the police'. I don't know about you, Mr. Used-to-this, but I've got panic bells alarming here!"

"I thought this might happen..." Francis sighed, rubbing his temples. He shrugged, and went to fix his hair with his hands – he loathed it when his waxy blond locks got tangled; another scornful threat of the mornings. He'd need a shower sometime soon, he deemed. Alfred looked scandalised.

"How can you be so relaxed? Francis - he thinks that we fucked him because he was being easy! He accused us of forcing him to-to suck us off-an-and, y-y'know, all sorts of obscenities and everything! I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love my-In his-Oh damn it, this isn't the time to think about it!" He bleated out, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the free space in the room. He kicked a cock ring out of the way of his path in frustration. "We've got to move, Francis!"

Francis merely watched him with an eyebrow bent in consideration. Barely satisfied with the condition of his hair – he was honest; he knew he was a critically vain sort. You had to be, if you wanted to have experience like he did – he rubbed his chin in thought.

"Hm. That was awfully rude, don't you think?"

"Okay, okay! I trailed off a little, but we don't have time to imagine! Come on, Francis, we've gotta think o'somethin'!" Alfred spat back frantically. Francis sighed, realising that the American had entirely missed the point. He patted the mattress next to him, inviting the other over. The other nation looked a little conflicted for the moment – tossing a glance over his shoulder and towards the door – but came over back to the bedside regardless; plopping himself down next to the Frenchman, cross-legged. He fidgeted nervously until Francis moved his hand over to stop him.

"I was talking about Arthur. If I'm not jumping to conclusions, I'm rather certain that what he said was really an insult to your nature, Amerique." He said, glancing over at him with a slyly evaluative expression on his face. The Frenchman was many, many centuries older than the American – and as wise as his years, despite his awful reputation to being the sex ambassador of the world. Not that his title was a cause for grief in his mind. He wore it proudly. "Are you sure that you are not angry about that?"

"Insult? Whatcha mean, Franny?" Alfred replied, glancing up like some hopelessly lost puppy. It was clear that his mind was pulling a blank, and Francis sighed. Did he really have to spell everything out for the American to read the atmosphere and get the point?

"Please don't call me that-" He crinkled his nose in disgust at the little nickname the other gave him on a whim. Clearing his throat, coughing into his fist, he willingly continued. "-Well, for example - he seems to have gotten you and I completely wrong. You are - what was i-Ah, yes - a hero, non? He seems to be mistaking you for a simple villain. Do you think he just has no faith? Aren't you angry that he judged you out of character?"

Alfred shuffled uncomfortably. It really did remind the Frenchman that Arthur's beloved ex-colony was still akin to the mentality of a young child, at times.

"...Er... well, I was a little offended that he would think I'd use him like that. I mean, I know that his people haven't been looking too favourably on the power-sharing for the special relationship an' all... but he's never complained before. A-And... y'know, I've never hurt him if I could help it! I swear!"

"Perhaps, Amerique, you should remind him of that fact."

"Y-Yeah, you're right. But - he doesn't exactly want to talk to us right now. I can't just walk up to him - he'll castrate me with his bare hands or something! And personally, I like having my totally sexy country singer voice. I don't want to be a choir boy, Francis. I'm not freaking suicidal!" The American complained back, tossing his arms into the air with frustration. His lower lip quivered, betraying just how worked up he was feeling inside.

He knew he could understand where Francis was coming from – but the idea of just strolling over to Arthur and going 'Hello! I know we totally pulled a blank, but, y'know, it's not fair what you said – cause I'm totally not like that. And like, it's really horrible of you to think I'd be like that. I love you, and although I'd love to dance in your pants... I don't want to fuck you just cause! So, can we make up now?' ...So unrealistic.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken; but we are still in his house, correct?"

"Yeah - but - what does that have to do with-"

"-It means, cher, he has not called the police yet. Nor will he. It's an empty threat. Surely you should recognise one by now? Especially when, no doubt, he thinks that he was the one that let us into his home. Which means we are perfectly obliged to be here." He said, shaking his head at the oblivious face the American was pulling. Francis scoffed, suppressing the urge to ruffle his hair. "Really, Amerique, you need to do your homework. Arthur prides himself on being a gentleman, you know. Though I have no met a gentleman quite as vulgar as he..."

"And that means that...?" Alfred said, looking adorably hopeful. He had noticeably stopped shuffling in his place, and the suggestion that he had been comforted made the Frenchman smile.

"By virtue of the fact that he hasn't ushered us out himself, means that subconsciously he is willing to change his mind." Francis told him, nodding. "Trust me, Amerique, I've known this man for the worse part of a thousand years. He is pliable when upset - accepting to have himself proved wrong. You just have to force him to listen."

"That's all?" Alfred said, looking eager to get back to Arthur as soon as possible.

It was obvious, by the look of the way his eyes gleamed that his mind was whirling with ideas of what to say and what to do. Francis only hoped that the man had the confidence to say them out loud. When it came to him standing up in front of a crowd and calling out his opinions and thoughts – Alfred was clearly the best in his league. But more personal things, he knew, were much more difficult for him. It was he that had come to Francis, after all, looking for help to woo the man that captivated his heart. Good thing, truly, that Francis had been expecting him for a very, very long time.

"That is all. Go on, Alfred... don't stop until your opinion is heard. Capito?" He said, beaming in reply.

"Got it!" The American let out past his grin. He scrambled off of the bed and onto his feet and towards the doorway. After he got his hand on the doorknob; Francis found himself mentally laughing, as Alfred winced at the realisation that maybe going around Arthur's home wearing nothing but his birthday suit probably was not a good start to a potential apology. He found his pants on the floor and tucked himself in, being careful not to get the zipper stuck, and gave an awkward smile back to the blond on the bed before sprinting it out of the door.

Left behind, Francis smirked callously to himself. The man let out an adoring sigh, resting his chin on his hand. The thought of Alfred's enthusiasm weighed wonderfully on his mind. "...Ah, you're so sweet. Like a puppy. I wish, cher, that you were possibly less eager for his affection. I would have enjoyed tasting you more than a fine rosé, I find. Young and fruity. Perfect for appetisers, mm?"

He chuckled, turning his head to stare out of the window with satisfaction written all over his face. Everything was going just how he hoped. One or two bumps along the way, he evaluated, but the hiccups were not likely to last too long. He could tell that it wouldn't be long now.

"Still, you are my rival. And there is plenty of time for us to battle, non? Ah... How relieving it is, that you listen to my every command. You're so easy, cher. So easy. Mm, yes, things are falling into place. As Angleterre would put it... 'Bleeding marvellous'."


So, there's chapter one for you~

Thoughts so far?