Hetalia Fanfic: In Vino Veritas 2
And onward we go. Morning after awkwardness and more.
Still ratings for language in effect, and consequences of dubcon.
*V*^*V*^
Arthur sipped his tea, relishing the early morning quiet of the hotel's cafe, and the small breakfast in front of him.
It was always like this the morning after one of Francis' parties, hence business being delayed until afternoon, when most of the attendees would have recovered from their hangovers, and such. For once, he wasn't among that number. Not that Arthur wanted to be among those who were missing a good chunk of their evening, or hiding under the blankets with a massive headache, and perhaps massive regrets.
Not that one had to have been in their cups to be stewing in regret and shame.
England didn't really hold much hope that America would remember anything about last night, or, if he found out, that Alfred wouldn't be horrified. He'd been completely shattered, and Arthur should have run as soon as the boy was safely in his hotel room, should never have kissed-
The memory of that kiss distracted him from the misery of his thoughts for a moment.
He called America an idiot so often, but England knew that he was the fool for yearning for someone who had thrown himself out of reach long ago.
God. Things were fucked. And complicated, but mostly just fucked.
He'd left while Alfred was still sleeping. Drew the drapes so that the other nation wouldn't have to deal with the punishing light upon awakening, left a glass of water and some paracetamol next to the spectacles he'd tossed on the nightstand, and slipped out the door (half dressed) to find his own room, and some tea. Because he was England, and tea would settle the ball of nerves, and longing, and sorrow so much better than whiskey and rye.
He'd forced himself not to brush a kiss on the sleeping forehead. Ignored the urge to run his fingers through mussed locks. Arthur didn't deserve it- it would only make things worse, in the end. He would only end up wanting to stay, and settle back down next to Alfred, listen to the steady beats of his heart as America slept, feel the warmth of the arm that had been thrown over him, and the way their legs tangled beneath the sheets-
Instead, he was here, wondering about the uncertainties that alcohol and his own libido had inserted into his life. England told himself that leaving had been for the best, to delay the arguing and yelling- he wasn't avoiding the issue. He hadn't run away from the sheer terror that America might awaken, and that soft innocent look would turn to one of confusion and betrayal.
That Alfred didn't really lo-
For a French cafe, this place certainly had some very nice tea.
The stirring of air as someone slipped into the seat across from him roused him from his gloomy thoughts. The tall blond, pushed his spectacles, as he gave Arthur a shy smile. Alfr- no.
"Good morning, Matthew." The blond's smile widened, as he hugged his bear friend. As though beyond pleased that Arthur had remembered his name.
"Good morning, England. I hope Alfred didn't give you too much trouble last night."
Fuck. Matthew was going to kill him for taking advantage last night. He should have been thinking of that, instead of the way that Alfred's skin was hot and smooth under his touch, as they pressed closely to each other-
England found himself choking on his tea, and futilely hoping that his face wasn't as red as he imagined it.
"No. No trouble at all."
"Good." Matthew nodded, trying to order something from a passing waitress. Pancakes? Predictable. Just like the way he could be counted on to defend his twin, even after making America cry. "It's usually harder than that to get him to go lie down when he's been drinking. Not that he really causes trouble or anything- it's just a little more difficult to move him once he's passed out. He's pretty heavy- but you know that."
"Did he really drink all of Francis' cointreau?" Arthur couldn't help but wonder.
Matthew laughed.
"No, he just got one bottle. Spilled a bunch of it on himself. That irritated Francis, and I figured it was better to cut him off there, or there'd be more international incidents than him and France arguing about wasting booze."
"If he doesn't cause trouble, why would there be an incident?" Arthur frowned. The Frog had been angry with Alfred- maybe his actions hadn't been so benevolent after all. It was Francis' fault- but no. He couldn't blame France for his own actions.
"Well, he doesn't do it deliberately. It's just that..." Matthew shrugged, face turning a bit pink. "I think some of his self filtering turns off. No- seriously. He has one, it's just- weird. When he's drunk, though, he's mellow enough so that his guard is down, and he doesn't feel like he has to be putting on the usual 'I'm a hero, watch me' show. It makes him... well almost brutally honest if you ask a question. All we'd need is some other drunk with a bad temper asking the wrong question, and boom. Flattened Al. Picking buckshot out of Al's ass once is bad enough, I'd hate for him to accidentally insult Vash a second time."
Arthur could only stare.
"He didn't say anything stupid to you, did he? There won't be sanctions or anything, right?"
"No..." Arthur didn't need to feel nervous, not with a calm Matthew who didn't know yet. Words that were brutally honest. But last night... Last night-
Love you, always wanted...
Last night, America's words had been soft. There'd been no real arguments. He told England that he loved him, that he'd always wanted-
It still didn't excuse anything.
"How much do you suppose he'll remember?"
Matthew squinted at him.
"England, It's not like he does that regularly. He's been much drunker than that, and still remembered everything in the morning. He doesn't black out. Why is your face so red?"
"So he wasn't-"
"He was pretty well trashed, if he was leaning on you, though. He usually tries to avoid being drunk around you for some reason. Tried asking once, but he just fake-laughed, and mumbled something about lowered inhibitions, and not wanting to end up in a hospital." Matthew continued to stare, "So. What did he say that has you so upset? I can get him to apologize."
Damn but Canada had always been so much more observant than his twin. What could he say?
"It... it was personal." England admitted finally, and it was the truth. "I don't think most of it bears repeating-"
His breakfast had grown cold, not that Arthur was finding much of an appetite. He glowered at it, then finished his tea. He had time before the afternoon's meeting, and right now a long walk seemed more to his liking than icy eggs. He needed to think. To move. To figure out exactly where he'd gone wrong. (England knew it was wrong when he'd lost track of how many times their lips had met in the rush and tingle of pleasure at kissing America, but he leaned in to steal another anyway.)
"I need to take a walk," England managed to say, pushing away from the table.
"See you at the meeting-" Matthew was half turned to talk to someone else standing over the table. Who? It didn't really matter- but he recognized Francis' blond mop as he pushed by, on his way out the door.
Vaguely he heard his name called, but couldn't find it in himself to respond. England didn't want to talk to France- he might be angry at the enabling, the little push- but he knew it wouldn't last.
Everything was broken, and he didn't know how to fix it.
*V*^*V*
The headache greeted him with all the promised power of several tons of explosives confined to his skull, set off at once, and creating an enormous desert in the middle of his mouth.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He made the mistake of saying 'fuck' aloud, and regretted it immediately and several minutes after, as the echo grabbed him by the ear and yanked what was left of his brain out the orifice with cleats. Alfred groaned, and buried his face back into the comfort of his pillow.
For a minute he just breathed the mingled smells of tobacco, orange, and sweat.
But he hadn't smoked in a few years, so why-
England inhaling a cigarette out on a cool balcony, looking mildly annoyed at the party, but still so wonderful, that Alfred just had to watch the sky, the city, or he'd do something he regretted-
Oh.
The citrus-y smell made his stomach turn as the evening's activities came back into mind. What he'd said. How he'd acted-
Arthur's lips on his, their hands clasped as England-
Oh god.
Alfred lurched for the bathroom as the contents of his stomach finally decided they'd had enough of the inside of America, and wanted out. The twinges of pain in his body were explained by memories that popped up whenever one made itself known. Like how his ass and lower back were aching as he leaned over the commode brought the way that Arthur had stretched him with a familiar tenderness, then fucked him soundly.
Despite the hangover and the persistent ache, not all of his body was objecting to that memory. Blood was still rushing south at the thought of England... It hadn't been another fantasy to accompany another session of frustrated self-loving. It had been real, and good, and he'd finally told England how he-
Alfred froze, feeling his face alternately heat and cool. He'd told...
He wiped his mouth with a bare hand, and stumbled back to confirm the impression that the bed had already been empty when he'd awakened. In the dim light allowed in by the drawn curtains, he could see only the vague impression of sheets that had been tangled and slept in.
His glasses were on the nightstand where he vaguely remembered that England had put them when-
Echoes of the kiss thrummed through his naked body, giving him the bitter-sweet thrill. He'd asked for last night. Al had nearly begged for it, and England had obliged, proving that his imagination had been so inadequate-
Alfred sat on the bed, absently drinking the glass of water that had been so thoughtfully left for him- and the aspirin. If his head would stop throbbing, maybe he could understand. He'd asked Arthur to stay- half remembered waking in the night to the warmth of another body in his bed- and this morning... nothing.
Maybe what he'd heard was right, and sex in Europe was completely meaningless. Like the cheek-kissing custom, or a handshake. It happened, both parties cleaned up, moved on like it was no big deal. Casual. A good screwing once in a while to take care of pent up sexual frustration. England had wanted him, but that didn't mean he lo- cared.
It had meant more to him than that. Alfred wasn't a part of Europe. He dreamed in movies with happy endings, and rainbows, and -
God. He'd fucked up. Fucked himself up.
England had left him again.
Would he act differently during the meetings, now that he knew that Al didn't mind the yelling, the cuffing-
He fucked up long before this, by being drunk around Francis, and getting involved in a conversation about what sort of things they both imagined while getting off. Al had blushed heavily, and simply said 'England.' - but that conversation had never been brought up again, at least not until last night.
The heels of his hands rubbed against his painful eyes, finding them a bit damp.
He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't crying. Seriously. It's not like he was some lovesick girl. He'd just have to get over it, and be exactly the same fluff-brained idiot they all expected.
Fucking headache.
The door flew open, and Alfred realized that the pounding hadn't all been in his head. Matthew still held the extra keycard to his room, as he stared for a minute.
"Al, are you ok?" Matthew's voice was almost the right pitch to not provoke his headache further. "It's getting late. We should be-"
The light was turned on, making Alfred flinch away. (Though the aches were lessening now that he'd taken something.)
"Al..." Matthew was still staring, and suddenly America was very aware of the fact that he was naked and probably a bit disheveled. "What happened last night?"
There was no arguing with the firm tone that Canada was taking.
"Nothing." Alfred said carefully, realizing that there was something wrong with the answer when Matthew started to protest. Did he really look that bad this morning? "Gotta hangover. I'll be dressed in a minute."
The twinge of abused muscles didn't stop him as he grabbed clothing, and dove into the bathroom under the concerned violet gaze.
The mirror gave him a final clue as to why Mattie was asking that particular question. A purpling mark on his neck- little red ones along his shoulder. Finger-shaped bruises on his left hip- the way his lower lip was still a little swollen from where it had been bitten and sucked on.
Man, he looked as though he'd been... well he had been well fucked, and enjoyed it.
The sounds of an argument came through the thin bathroom walls, as he cleaned himself up, trying to hide the mark on his neck with the collar of his shirt, but realizing that it wasn't going to remain hidden the entire time, unless he was going to sit still as a statue.
Francis must have been with Mattie- they usually hung out a lot at these things. They didn't usually argue though-
Fuck what people thought about the marks, anyway. They'd just chalk it up to more of his stupidity, and that was fine with him. Because that was what it was-
A loud smacking sound from outside, and America put on a big smile, cleared his eyes of the swirl of raw emotions that were still unsettling his stomach. Mask firmly in place, he walked back out to find France reeling and holding his face, Mattie looking absolutely furious, and-
"Hey guys, I'm ready to go." He ignored the obvious tension between the two. Whatever it was, they needed to go work it out elsewhere, and not while he was still hung over. "C'mon. I need coffee."
The knowing (one-eyed) look that France was giving him was also ignored- particularly the one that most likely was taking in the edge of the bruise on his neck. Fuck, he might as well just call it a hickey and get it over with. Mattie was looking as though he wanted to ask more questions, or demand something- but Alfred really wasn't in the mood to think right now.
"Coffee." He used the whining, wheedling voice that he knew always irritated the hell right out of half the countries, and pushed past the silent pair. He really did need coffee now. And to get away from this room with it's orange hazed memories.
Maybe caffeine would help him think, and figure out what the fuck he was going to do now.
*V*^
Paris was different in the daylight. Less glitter, more dirt- but still, it held a beauty that called to an artist's soul.
Arthur was no artist, however, and his trek through the streets was with eyes that could only pick out the little things that reminded him of Alfred. This might be France's capitol, but that didn't stop the memories from being snatched to the front of his mind.
A market down the street with a pile of oranges in a bin reminded England of the taste of lips crashing against his own, sparking heat- the shiny apples in the next container, of a brilliant smile offering him a pastry made with the sweet-tart fruit picked in his own orchards- A florist sold roses in hues of red and deep pink, like the flush that colored the boyish face when he had bitten at his neck -
A tall blond in a brown jacket linked arms with a ebony haired woman, and their laughter trailed back through the streets.
The scrawny teenager that excitedly bounced around the entrance to a museum, taking pictures of his tour group in the midst of reading brochures, waking up, or generally doing nothing exciting- suddenly becoming the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen because this was Paris, and wasn't it awesome?
England settled next to the Seine, leaning on the edge of a stone bridge, ignoring the foot traffic, opting instead to study the way the water carried boats downriver, trying to ignore the reflection of the perfect blue sky above.
Rivers couldn't change their flow any more than time could be reversed. England would that it could, and he would go back to last night, and run from the hotel room while he had a chance. Or better, given Alfred to his brother's care, rather than even run the risk of letting his baser instincts take over. Anything-
But last night, Alfred had told Arthur that he loved him. Even if it was only the alcohol talking, for just one moment, England had been loved by someone whom he hadn't expected any such feelings from.
He called Alfred an idiot at every opportunity, yelled at him, was rude, nasty, and tried to hurt him on more than one occasion- but Arthur had been loved anyway. Wanted, despite the way that he cuffed the back of the blond head when he said something utterly ridiculous- and regardless of the history that had come between them, this morning, he'd awakened to find the boy's limbs intertwined with his own, a faint smile on his face.
America had produced his own share of rudeness, fought against things that England believed to be correct- but always, always tried to make certain that Arthur was safe, and treated well by allies. Tried so hard to win his approval-
Perhaps it hadn't just been the booze speaking.
It hadn't been. Couldn't have been- Matthew said that in essence all masks were down, and the man he had been with, made love to-
God. England pressed his face into his hands. He's loved me all this time, and I never noticed. And last night...
He'd taken advantage of a trusting, loving young nation, who had opened his heart, and spilled his feelings out in a drunken haze, while England had fucked him, only thinking of the moment's pleasure, and how sweet America's lips and body were, rather keeping what was right firmly in mind. He'd hurt Alfred, as sure as if he'd fired a gun at him.
The itching behind Arthur's eyes turned to salt-tears, with nobody he knew to see them, they fell freely, dropping into the river below.
He ran away from that hotel room, because he didn't want to see the pain that he'd caused. The mistrust that would surely now be in those sky-coloured eyes. England deserved whatever Matthew would do when he found out, because he knew Alfred wouldn't do anything- couldn't...
No more than Arthur could, if their positions had been reversed.
He'd always been weak, when it came to America, when it came to Alfred. The young colony who had looked to him for guidance with rapt attention at times, and a wandering one at others. The one who had brought him the first flowers of spring, clung to him, needed him- and much later shown him the beauty in his gray-skied world. Brought an energy and enthusiasm that had died away in many of the old world nations long ago.
The mask of unintelligence and obliviousness that Alfred wore much of the time had made him forget the person underneath. Kind, strong, intelligent- and brave.
"Oh god, I do love him." Arthur told the Seine. "I love him so much, that my heart aches at the very idea of losing him again. But he's not mine to keep in a cage... He would hate me for that, and I would hate to see it all go wrong again, and the light would fade from his eyes-"
"Monsieur? Êtes vous bien?"
Arthur looked up to see a young lady with an arm full of roses watching him with a concerned hazel gaze. How long had he been mooning here, like some teenager- he was a Nation, for god's sake.
"Monsieur?"
"Eh..." England searched for the words under ancient Gaulish, he remembered- not that he cared to admit to knowing the language. "Il suffait du penser. J'ai fait du tort à celui qui... j'aime."
Thinking about how he'd wronged the one he loved- was Arthur well? Not really.
"Ah, L'amour." A wry smile curled the girl's lips, "Nous avons toujours mal ceux que nous aimon, que nous le veuillent ou non."
You always hurt the ones you love- willingly or no. It wasn't just some tired old clichè- England and America had been hurting each other in little ways for a long time. But now-
"That's true, but..." England swallowed hard, "I've done something-"
"If you love each other," She interrupted, separating one blushing rose from her bundle, and held it out to him. "You can forgive anything. That is the nature of love. Give this to your lover. It's one way to say 'I am sorry, please forgive me.' From there, you must work on fixing whatever problems that remain- but together."
A moment later, she was gone, leaving Arthur standing in the middle of the bridge, staring at a single red rose.
*V*^*V*^
Francis was waiting for him in the lobby of the conference centre. Or more correctly, Francis was lounging in one of the overstuffed chairs facing the doorway, one hand holding what looked like an ice pack to the side of his face.
"Ah, Angleterre." Yes. Yes that was an ice pack. That was also a nice black eye that was revealed when France leaped out of the chair, almost blocking the way to the lift. "You- it might be a very good idea to take a tour of the Louvre before we begin the meeting."
"Shut it, Frog." England scowled, "Or I'll make both sides of your face match- and the meeting is in ten minutes. The Louvre takes at least two hours to see the decent works, rather than all the French crap. I take it Alfred is awake, and told Matthew what happened last night."
"He has said nothing. I am only concerned for your safety, mon ami. Matthieu-"
"As you were last evening, I'm certain." Arthur moved around France. "While you were interfering in things that weren't any of your damned business."
"I was merely-"
"Encouraging actions that you knew fell into a morally gray- if not wrong- area." England again found his way blocked by Francis. "Frog, you might have acquired a certain reputation for romance, however this... Let me go."
Instead, Arthur found himself grabbed, and roughly yanked aside by the taller man.
"Arthur." Francis asked, his bruised face close to England's own. "I have been watching the two of you for years. Decades. You dance around each other, always missing slip-ups, to obliviously go back to your mutual games of pretend. It has ceased to be amusing, and has become tiring, and very painful to watch. Mon cher, it is long past time for you two to halt the games."
"Belt up, Frog." England bit out the insult halfheartedly. "I don't care if Matthew wants to kill me. What I need to do is apologize for my actions, and hope that Alfred can forgive me."
"He has not arrived yet," The grip on his collar relaxed. "America has evaded both myself and Canada in a quest for what he termed, and I quote, 'The absolute perfect cup of coffee and a giant honking doughnut to make the world stop being so weird.'"
"And Matthew?"
"Is upstairs, scaring Russia with his angry face." Francis frowned, apparently only now registering the rose in Arthur's hand. "What is that?"
"Again, none of your business." England snapped, not allowing himself to notice the faint blush that had to be coloring his cheeks.
"I will tell the others that you will both be late, and to not wait." Francis smiled, without a leer, for once, and let him go. "I am sure either I, or one of the others can calm Canada discretely."
"Whatever, Frog." Arthur was stalking towards the door once more. He almost thought he heard France wishing him good luck, as he fled back into the busy Parisian streets.
*V*^*V*^
Coffee was helpful, and so was the grease-soaked burger that lay half-eaten on his tray.
Somehow, Alfred had realized, the greasier the food he ate the day after drinking, the faster he felt better. Weird logic, but watching some of the college students and binge drinkers around one of his capitols, he had found that it was true.
Al still had that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach though- and he knew no amount of grease, antacids, or hangover remedies would take care of it. It had more to do with today's meeting- the one he was going to be late to- where he'd have to see, to sit next to England, as though nothing had happened. Pretend they were still awkward allies, instead of awkward lov-
God, he didn't know if he could do this.
Maybe he should just skip it, and tell Mattie and the others that he got distracted by... something. And forgot. America knew they'd probably buy the story- after all, he'd built up the reputation of being a complete airhead at times. That way, he wouldn't disappoint Engl- anyone as badly as if he were being expected to be proper, and come up with immediately do-able brilliant ideas, and always be there on time-
Alfred cupped his hands around the coffee cup, staring at the white lid, at the remains of his food. He should finish that burger, and get another cup of coffee before heading out to find a museum or something to wander through while making up whatever story he was going to tell the others. Then tonight he could head home, and maybe distract himself with video games, or a movie, or-
But for today, France and England had a history that wound through each other's at times, and it'd be difficult not to find a museum that had no relevance to either, however. The science museum might be an all-right deal- not the gardens with their roses that made him homesick and lovesick at the same time. Just like the rose that was being laid across the remains of his lunch by-
His head flew up, as England withdrew his hand, leaving the flower.
"May I sit down?" Arthur was looking as awkward as Alfred felt right now- and was that a blush?
"Um." Al blinked a bit at being asked, but nodded. England was being polite. And careful to keep his hands visible- "I thought you didn't like this place."
"I don't mind it on occasion, everyday, however-" There was the familiar frown. Alfred turned back to his coffee cup, finishing the dregs, before resuming the gloomy stare- though that rose distracted him now. "However that is not why I'm here, Alfred."
"Um." He was articulate today, wasn't he? Letting his tongue tie itself in knots, instead of rambling on about the burgers, how drunk he'd been last night- "Oh. I... uh. Guess I was a little drunk last night. I'm... sorry if I said anything that... well..."
At least Mattie wouldn't have to remind him this time, right?
"You don't have anything to apologize for, you- Alfred." There was a hesitant hand on his chin that gently pulled upwards so that he would have to meet those green eyes. "I should have never let things go as far as they did. I took advantage of your lowered inhibitions, knowing that you might not otherwise …."
England's face turned a deeper shade of pink, and Alfred couldn't look away.
"But I-"
"Please let me finish, love. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you like that, and I am very sorry. It was a stupid stupid mistake."
It was what he'd feared. England didn't-
Alfred could feel tears starting, Again. Damnit, was he just a kid or something? Where was that mask that he'd had just an hour ago? Broken, of course.
"It wasn't..." He tried not to let his voice catch. Failed spectacularly. "Nothing to apologize for... I-"
"Oh love," Delicate hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing the path of the tears he was trying so hard to suppress. "Why are you crying? What did I say wrong?"
"Nothing. I- just wanted..." Heroes can be frightened, just not show it- some hero he was, certain that the massive lump of fear in his gut was showing on his face.
Sometimes it can work against you, if you don't tell someone what you want...
"I just wanted to be with you." Alfred blurted out, "I l-love you, and I was afraid- when you were gone this morning-"
"Oh love," England sighed, not sounding a bit like his normal grumpy self, when America said something stupid. So maybe he hadn't, for a change. "I- I had to do some thinking, and didn't want to disturb you while you were sleeping. And I was afraid that you..."
"England..." Alfred watched the other man smile at him, feeling that usual warm ball of - well- goodness welling up in the place that had contained the fear before. He didn't have time to say anything more before England's lips were on his own, the taste of tea, and ocean, and Arthur.
"I love you too, idiot." said Arthur, once they'd pulled away to breathe. There was applause from the other patrons, and two employees that were now watching- while England was blushing a deep red. The insult sounded more like an endearment now. "You've put away the pretend, and aren't drunk. I think we need to talk in a bit more privacy."
"But the meeting-" England wanted him in privacy, and - Arthur to himself for any length of time right now was just-
"They can do without us. Francis has already told them that we'd be late. Just not how late."
Alfred could only agree, only just managing to grab the rose, before Arthur lead him out of the restaurant, and back towards the hotel.
*V*^*V*^
England and America were three hours late to the world meeting in Paris.
If anyone noticed that England's hair was a little messier than usual, that his tie was just a shade crooked... no one said a word.
Likewise, if America's presentations (Late, but still allowed his allotted time) were just a shade less insane than usual, if there were sudden pauses in his speech when blue eyes met faintly smiling green, no one seemed to notice.
The fights between the two seemed to not have any sort of vicious edge to them, and perhaps, just perhaps someone noticed that when America said something that seemed rather stupid, even for him, the responding slap to the back of the head from England wasn't as sharp, and might just have lingered a little longer than was completely necessary.
Russia now looked at Canada, wondering how someone so scary could have allowed him to (mistakenly) sit on his lap for an entire meeting without the larger nation noticing- He'd have to rethink any plans that involved going anywhere near North America now.
Only France, with his self satisfied smirk, elbowed Canada, and pointed out that England's apology had obviously been accepted, and both seemed to be happier, so could he please just smile, and stop scaring Russia?
(America didn't make it home for another week after the meeting, leaving his northern twin with an absence of late night phone calls, borrowed power tools, and too-loud music. It was the best week Canada had had in years.)
Still ratings for language in effect, and consequences of dubcon.
*V*^*V*^
Arthur sipped his tea, relishing the early morning quiet of the hotel's cafe, and the small breakfast in front of him.
It was always like this the morning after one of Francis' parties, hence business being delayed until afternoon, when most of the attendees would have recovered from their hangovers, and such. For once, he wasn't among that number. Not that Arthur wanted to be among those who were missing a good chunk of their evening, or hiding under the blankets with a massive headache, and perhaps massive regrets.
Not that one had to have been in their cups to be stewing in regret and shame.
England didn't really hold much hope that America would remember anything about last night, or, if he found out, that Alfred wouldn't be horrified. He'd been completely shattered, and Arthur should have run as soon as the boy was safely in his hotel room, should never have kissed-
The memory of that kiss distracted him from the misery of his thoughts for a moment.
He called America an idiot so often, but England knew that he was the fool for yearning for someone who had thrown himself out of reach long ago.
God. Things were fucked. And complicated, but mostly just fucked.
He'd left while Alfred was still sleeping. Drew the drapes so that the other nation wouldn't have to deal with the punishing light upon awakening, left a glass of water and some paracetamol next to the spectacles he'd tossed on the nightstand, and slipped out the door (half dressed) to find his own room, and some tea. Because he was England, and tea would settle the ball of nerves, and longing, and sorrow so much better than whiskey and rye.
He'd forced himself not to brush a kiss on the sleeping forehead. Ignored the urge to run his fingers through mussed locks. Arthur didn't deserve it- it would only make things worse, in the end. He would only end up wanting to stay, and settle back down next to Alfred, listen to the steady beats of his heart as America slept, feel the warmth of the arm that had been thrown over him, and the way their legs tangled beneath the sheets-
Instead, he was here, wondering about the uncertainties that alcohol and his own libido had inserted into his life. England told himself that leaving had been for the best, to delay the arguing and yelling- he wasn't avoiding the issue. He hadn't run away from the sheer terror that America might awaken, and that soft innocent look would turn to one of confusion and betrayal.
That Alfred didn't really lo-
For a French cafe, this place certainly had some very nice tea.
The stirring of air as someone slipped into the seat across from him roused him from his gloomy thoughts. The tall blond, pushed his spectacles, as he gave Arthur a shy smile. Alfr- no.
"Good morning, Matthew." The blond's smile widened, as he hugged his bear friend. As though beyond pleased that Arthur had remembered his name.
"Good morning, England. I hope Alfred didn't give you too much trouble last night."
Fuck. Matthew was going to kill him for taking advantage last night. He should have been thinking of that, instead of the way that Alfred's skin was hot and smooth under his touch, as they pressed closely to each other-
England found himself choking on his tea, and futilely hoping that his face wasn't as red as he imagined it.
"No. No trouble at all."
"Good." Matthew nodded, trying to order something from a passing waitress. Pancakes? Predictable. Just like the way he could be counted on to defend his twin, even after making America cry. "It's usually harder than that to get him to go lie down when he's been drinking. Not that he really causes trouble or anything- it's just a little more difficult to move him once he's passed out. He's pretty heavy- but you know that."
"Did he really drink all of Francis' cointreau?" Arthur couldn't help but wonder.
Matthew laughed.
"No, he just got one bottle. Spilled a bunch of it on himself. That irritated Francis, and I figured it was better to cut him off there, or there'd be more international incidents than him and France arguing about wasting booze."
"If he doesn't cause trouble, why would there be an incident?" Arthur frowned. The Frog had been angry with Alfred- maybe his actions hadn't been so benevolent after all. It was Francis' fault- but no. He couldn't blame France for his own actions.
"Well, he doesn't do it deliberately. It's just that..." Matthew shrugged, face turning a bit pink. "I think some of his self filtering turns off. No- seriously. He has one, it's just- weird. When he's drunk, though, he's mellow enough so that his guard is down, and he doesn't feel like he has to be putting on the usual 'I'm a hero, watch me' show. It makes him... well almost brutally honest if you ask a question. All we'd need is some other drunk with a bad temper asking the wrong question, and boom. Flattened Al. Picking buckshot out of Al's ass once is bad enough, I'd hate for him to accidentally insult Vash a second time."
Arthur could only stare.
"He didn't say anything stupid to you, did he? There won't be sanctions or anything, right?"
"No..." Arthur didn't need to feel nervous, not with a calm Matthew who didn't know yet. Words that were brutally honest. But last night... Last night-
Love you, always wanted...
Last night, America's words had been soft. There'd been no real arguments. He told England that he loved him, that he'd always wanted-
It still didn't excuse anything.
"How much do you suppose he'll remember?"
Matthew squinted at him.
"England, It's not like he does that regularly. He's been much drunker than that, and still remembered everything in the morning. He doesn't black out. Why is your face so red?"
"So he wasn't-"
"He was pretty well trashed, if he was leaning on you, though. He usually tries to avoid being drunk around you for some reason. Tried asking once, but he just fake-laughed, and mumbled something about lowered inhibitions, and not wanting to end up in a hospital." Matthew continued to stare, "So. What did he say that has you so upset? I can get him to apologize."
Damn but Canada had always been so much more observant than his twin. What could he say?
"It... it was personal." England admitted finally, and it was the truth. "I don't think most of it bears repeating-"
His breakfast had grown cold, not that Arthur was finding much of an appetite. He glowered at it, then finished his tea. He had time before the afternoon's meeting, and right now a long walk seemed more to his liking than icy eggs. He needed to think. To move. To figure out exactly where he'd gone wrong. (England knew it was wrong when he'd lost track of how many times their lips had met in the rush and tingle of pleasure at kissing America, but he leaned in to steal another anyway.)
"I need to take a walk," England managed to say, pushing away from the table.
"See you at the meeting-" Matthew was half turned to talk to someone else standing over the table. Who? It didn't really matter- but he recognized Francis' blond mop as he pushed by, on his way out the door.
Vaguely he heard his name called, but couldn't find it in himself to respond. England didn't want to talk to France- he might be angry at the enabling, the little push- but he knew it wouldn't last.
Everything was broken, and he didn't know how to fix it.
*V*^*V*
The headache greeted him with all the promised power of several tons of explosives confined to his skull, set off at once, and creating an enormous desert in the middle of his mouth.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He made the mistake of saying 'fuck' aloud, and regretted it immediately and several minutes after, as the echo grabbed him by the ear and yanked what was left of his brain out the orifice with cleats. Alfred groaned, and buried his face back into the comfort of his pillow.
For a minute he just breathed the mingled smells of tobacco, orange, and sweat.
But he hadn't smoked in a few years, so why-
England inhaling a cigarette out on a cool balcony, looking mildly annoyed at the party, but still so wonderful, that Alfred just had to watch the sky, the city, or he'd do something he regretted-
Oh.
The citrus-y smell made his stomach turn as the evening's activities came back into mind. What he'd said. How he'd acted-
Arthur's lips on his, their hands clasped as England-
Oh god.
Alfred lurched for the bathroom as the contents of his stomach finally decided they'd had enough of the inside of America, and wanted out. The twinges of pain in his body were explained by memories that popped up whenever one made itself known. Like how his ass and lower back were aching as he leaned over the commode brought the way that Arthur had stretched him with a familiar tenderness, then fucked him soundly.
Despite the hangover and the persistent ache, not all of his body was objecting to that memory. Blood was still rushing south at the thought of England... It hadn't been another fantasy to accompany another session of frustrated self-loving. It had been real, and good, and he'd finally told England how he-
Alfred froze, feeling his face alternately heat and cool. He'd told...
He wiped his mouth with a bare hand, and stumbled back to confirm the impression that the bed had already been empty when he'd awakened. In the dim light allowed in by the drawn curtains, he could see only the vague impression of sheets that had been tangled and slept in.
His glasses were on the nightstand where he vaguely remembered that England had put them when-
Echoes of the kiss thrummed through his naked body, giving him the bitter-sweet thrill. He'd asked for last night. Al had nearly begged for it, and England had obliged, proving that his imagination had been so inadequate-
Alfred sat on the bed, absently drinking the glass of water that had been so thoughtfully left for him- and the aspirin. If his head would stop throbbing, maybe he could understand. He'd asked Arthur to stay- half remembered waking in the night to the warmth of another body in his bed- and this morning... nothing.
Maybe what he'd heard was right, and sex in Europe was completely meaningless. Like the cheek-kissing custom, or a handshake. It happened, both parties cleaned up, moved on like it was no big deal. Casual. A good screwing once in a while to take care of pent up sexual frustration. England had wanted him, but that didn't mean he lo- cared.
It had meant more to him than that. Alfred wasn't a part of Europe. He dreamed in movies with happy endings, and rainbows, and -
God. He'd fucked up. Fucked himself up.
England had left him again.
Would he act differently during the meetings, now that he knew that Al didn't mind the yelling, the cuffing-
He fucked up long before this, by being drunk around Francis, and getting involved in a conversation about what sort of things they both imagined while getting off. Al had blushed heavily, and simply said 'England.' - but that conversation had never been brought up again, at least not until last night.
The heels of his hands rubbed against his painful eyes, finding them a bit damp.
He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't crying. Seriously. It's not like he was some lovesick girl. He'd just have to get over it, and be exactly the same fluff-brained idiot they all expected.
Fucking headache.
The door flew open, and Alfred realized that the pounding hadn't all been in his head. Matthew still held the extra keycard to his room, as he stared for a minute.
"Al, are you ok?" Matthew's voice was almost the right pitch to not provoke his headache further. "It's getting late. We should be-"
The light was turned on, making Alfred flinch away. (Though the aches were lessening now that he'd taken something.)
"Al..." Matthew was still staring, and suddenly America was very aware of the fact that he was naked and probably a bit disheveled. "What happened last night?"
There was no arguing with the firm tone that Canada was taking.
"Nothing." Alfred said carefully, realizing that there was something wrong with the answer when Matthew started to protest. Did he really look that bad this morning? "Gotta hangover. I'll be dressed in a minute."
The twinge of abused muscles didn't stop him as he grabbed clothing, and dove into the bathroom under the concerned violet gaze.
The mirror gave him a final clue as to why Mattie was asking that particular question. A purpling mark on his neck- little red ones along his shoulder. Finger-shaped bruises on his left hip- the way his lower lip was still a little swollen from where it had been bitten and sucked on.
Man, he looked as though he'd been... well he had been well fucked, and enjoyed it.
The sounds of an argument came through the thin bathroom walls, as he cleaned himself up, trying to hide the mark on his neck with the collar of his shirt, but realizing that it wasn't going to remain hidden the entire time, unless he was going to sit still as a statue.
Francis must have been with Mattie- they usually hung out a lot at these things. They didn't usually argue though-
Fuck what people thought about the marks, anyway. They'd just chalk it up to more of his stupidity, and that was fine with him. Because that was what it was-
A loud smacking sound from outside, and America put on a big smile, cleared his eyes of the swirl of raw emotions that were still unsettling his stomach. Mask firmly in place, he walked back out to find France reeling and holding his face, Mattie looking absolutely furious, and-
"Hey guys, I'm ready to go." He ignored the obvious tension between the two. Whatever it was, they needed to go work it out elsewhere, and not while he was still hung over. "C'mon. I need coffee."
The knowing (one-eyed) look that France was giving him was also ignored- particularly the one that most likely was taking in the edge of the bruise on his neck. Fuck, he might as well just call it a hickey and get it over with. Mattie was looking as though he wanted to ask more questions, or demand something- but Alfred really wasn't in the mood to think right now.
"Coffee." He used the whining, wheedling voice that he knew always irritated the hell right out of half the countries, and pushed past the silent pair. He really did need coffee now. And to get away from this room with it's orange hazed memories.
Maybe caffeine would help him think, and figure out what the fuck he was going to do now.
*V*^
Paris was different in the daylight. Less glitter, more dirt- but still, it held a beauty that called to an artist's soul.
Arthur was no artist, however, and his trek through the streets was with eyes that could only pick out the little things that reminded him of Alfred. This might be France's capitol, but that didn't stop the memories from being snatched to the front of his mind.
A market down the street with a pile of oranges in a bin reminded England of the taste of lips crashing against his own, sparking heat- the shiny apples in the next container, of a brilliant smile offering him a pastry made with the sweet-tart fruit picked in his own orchards- A florist sold roses in hues of red and deep pink, like the flush that colored the boyish face when he had bitten at his neck -
A tall blond in a brown jacket linked arms with a ebony haired woman, and their laughter trailed back through the streets.
The scrawny teenager that excitedly bounced around the entrance to a museum, taking pictures of his tour group in the midst of reading brochures, waking up, or generally doing nothing exciting- suddenly becoming the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen because this was Paris, and wasn't it awesome?
England settled next to the Seine, leaning on the edge of a stone bridge, ignoring the foot traffic, opting instead to study the way the water carried boats downriver, trying to ignore the reflection of the perfect blue sky above.
Rivers couldn't change their flow any more than time could be reversed. England would that it could, and he would go back to last night, and run from the hotel room while he had a chance. Or better, given Alfred to his brother's care, rather than even run the risk of letting his baser instincts take over. Anything-
But last night, Alfred had told Arthur that he loved him. Even if it was only the alcohol talking, for just one moment, England had been loved by someone whom he hadn't expected any such feelings from.
He called Alfred an idiot at every opportunity, yelled at him, was rude, nasty, and tried to hurt him on more than one occasion- but Arthur had been loved anyway. Wanted, despite the way that he cuffed the back of the blond head when he said something utterly ridiculous- and regardless of the history that had come between them, this morning, he'd awakened to find the boy's limbs intertwined with his own, a faint smile on his face.
America had produced his own share of rudeness, fought against things that England believed to be correct- but always, always tried to make certain that Arthur was safe, and treated well by allies. Tried so hard to win his approval-
Perhaps it hadn't just been the booze speaking.
It hadn't been. Couldn't have been- Matthew said that in essence all masks were down, and the man he had been with, made love to-
God. England pressed his face into his hands. He's loved me all this time, and I never noticed. And last night...
He'd taken advantage of a trusting, loving young nation, who had opened his heart, and spilled his feelings out in a drunken haze, while England had fucked him, only thinking of the moment's pleasure, and how sweet America's lips and body were, rather keeping what was right firmly in mind. He'd hurt Alfred, as sure as if he'd fired a gun at him.
The itching behind Arthur's eyes turned to salt-tears, with nobody he knew to see them, they fell freely, dropping into the river below.
He ran away from that hotel room, because he didn't want to see the pain that he'd caused. The mistrust that would surely now be in those sky-coloured eyes. England deserved whatever Matthew would do when he found out, because he knew Alfred wouldn't do anything- couldn't...
No more than Arthur could, if their positions had been reversed.
He'd always been weak, when it came to America, when it came to Alfred. The young colony who had looked to him for guidance with rapt attention at times, and a wandering one at others. The one who had brought him the first flowers of spring, clung to him, needed him- and much later shown him the beauty in his gray-skied world. Brought an energy and enthusiasm that had died away in many of the old world nations long ago.
The mask of unintelligence and obliviousness that Alfred wore much of the time had made him forget the person underneath. Kind, strong, intelligent- and brave.
"Oh god, I do love him." Arthur told the Seine. "I love him so much, that my heart aches at the very idea of losing him again. But he's not mine to keep in a cage... He would hate me for that, and I would hate to see it all go wrong again, and the light would fade from his eyes-"
"Monsieur? Êtes vous bien?"
Arthur looked up to see a young lady with an arm full of roses watching him with a concerned hazel gaze. How long had he been mooning here, like some teenager- he was a Nation, for god's sake.
"Monsieur?"
"Eh..." England searched for the words under ancient Gaulish, he remembered- not that he cared to admit to knowing the language. "Il suffait du penser. J'ai fait du tort à celui qui... j'aime."
Thinking about how he'd wronged the one he loved- was Arthur well? Not really.
"Ah, L'amour." A wry smile curled the girl's lips, "Nous avons toujours mal ceux que nous aimon, que nous le veuillent ou non."
You always hurt the ones you love- willingly or no. It wasn't just some tired old clichè- England and America had been hurting each other in little ways for a long time. But now-
"That's true, but..." England swallowed hard, "I've done something-"
"If you love each other," She interrupted, separating one blushing rose from her bundle, and held it out to him. "You can forgive anything. That is the nature of love. Give this to your lover. It's one way to say 'I am sorry, please forgive me.' From there, you must work on fixing whatever problems that remain- but together."
A moment later, she was gone, leaving Arthur standing in the middle of the bridge, staring at a single red rose.
*V*^*V*^
Francis was waiting for him in the lobby of the conference centre. Or more correctly, Francis was lounging in one of the overstuffed chairs facing the doorway, one hand holding what looked like an ice pack to the side of his face.
"Ah, Angleterre." Yes. Yes that was an ice pack. That was also a nice black eye that was revealed when France leaped out of the chair, almost blocking the way to the lift. "You- it might be a very good idea to take a tour of the Louvre before we begin the meeting."
"Shut it, Frog." England scowled, "Or I'll make both sides of your face match- and the meeting is in ten minutes. The Louvre takes at least two hours to see the decent works, rather than all the French crap. I take it Alfred is awake, and told Matthew what happened last night."
"He has said nothing. I am only concerned for your safety, mon ami. Matthieu-"
"As you were last evening, I'm certain." Arthur moved around France. "While you were interfering in things that weren't any of your damned business."
"I was merely-"
"Encouraging actions that you knew fell into a morally gray- if not wrong- area." England again found his way blocked by Francis. "Frog, you might have acquired a certain reputation for romance, however this... Let me go."
Instead, Arthur found himself grabbed, and roughly yanked aside by the taller man.
"Arthur." Francis asked, his bruised face close to England's own. "I have been watching the two of you for years. Decades. You dance around each other, always missing slip-ups, to obliviously go back to your mutual games of pretend. It has ceased to be amusing, and has become tiring, and very painful to watch. Mon cher, it is long past time for you two to halt the games."
"Belt up, Frog." England bit out the insult halfheartedly. "I don't care if Matthew wants to kill me. What I need to do is apologize for my actions, and hope that Alfred can forgive me."
"He has not arrived yet," The grip on his collar relaxed. "America has evaded both myself and Canada in a quest for what he termed, and I quote, 'The absolute perfect cup of coffee and a giant honking doughnut to make the world stop being so weird.'"
"And Matthew?"
"Is upstairs, scaring Russia with his angry face." Francis frowned, apparently only now registering the rose in Arthur's hand. "What is that?"
"Again, none of your business." England snapped, not allowing himself to notice the faint blush that had to be coloring his cheeks.
"I will tell the others that you will both be late, and to not wait." Francis smiled, without a leer, for once, and let him go. "I am sure either I, or one of the others can calm Canada discretely."
"Whatever, Frog." Arthur was stalking towards the door once more. He almost thought he heard France wishing him good luck, as he fled back into the busy Parisian streets.
*V*^*V*^
Coffee was helpful, and so was the grease-soaked burger that lay half-eaten on his tray.
Somehow, Alfred had realized, the greasier the food he ate the day after drinking, the faster he felt better. Weird logic, but watching some of the college students and binge drinkers around one of his capitols, he had found that it was true.
Al still had that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach though- and he knew no amount of grease, antacids, or hangover remedies would take care of it. It had more to do with today's meeting- the one he was going to be late to- where he'd have to see, to sit next to England, as though nothing had happened. Pretend they were still awkward allies, instead of awkward lov-
God, he didn't know if he could do this.
Maybe he should just skip it, and tell Mattie and the others that he got distracted by... something. And forgot. America knew they'd probably buy the story- after all, he'd built up the reputation of being a complete airhead at times. That way, he wouldn't disappoint Engl- anyone as badly as if he were being expected to be proper, and come up with immediately do-able brilliant ideas, and always be there on time-
Alfred cupped his hands around the coffee cup, staring at the white lid, at the remains of his food. He should finish that burger, and get another cup of coffee before heading out to find a museum or something to wander through while making up whatever story he was going to tell the others. Then tonight he could head home, and maybe distract himself with video games, or a movie, or-
But for today, France and England had a history that wound through each other's at times, and it'd be difficult not to find a museum that had no relevance to either, however. The science museum might be an all-right deal- not the gardens with their roses that made him homesick and lovesick at the same time. Just like the rose that was being laid across the remains of his lunch by-
His head flew up, as England withdrew his hand, leaving the flower.
"May I sit down?" Arthur was looking as awkward as Alfred felt right now- and was that a blush?
"Um." Al blinked a bit at being asked, but nodded. England was being polite. And careful to keep his hands visible- "I thought you didn't like this place."
"I don't mind it on occasion, everyday, however-" There was the familiar frown. Alfred turned back to his coffee cup, finishing the dregs, before resuming the gloomy stare- though that rose distracted him now. "However that is not why I'm here, Alfred."
"Um." He was articulate today, wasn't he? Letting his tongue tie itself in knots, instead of rambling on about the burgers, how drunk he'd been last night- "Oh. I... uh. Guess I was a little drunk last night. I'm... sorry if I said anything that... well..."
At least Mattie wouldn't have to remind him this time, right?
"You don't have anything to apologize for, you- Alfred." There was a hesitant hand on his chin that gently pulled upwards so that he would have to meet those green eyes. "I should have never let things go as far as they did. I took advantage of your lowered inhibitions, knowing that you might not otherwise …."
England's face turned a deeper shade of pink, and Alfred couldn't look away.
"But I-"
"Please let me finish, love. It was wrong of me to take advantage of you like that, and I am very sorry. It was a stupid stupid mistake."
It was what he'd feared. England didn't-
Alfred could feel tears starting, Again. Damnit, was he just a kid or something? Where was that mask that he'd had just an hour ago? Broken, of course.
"It wasn't..." He tried not to let his voice catch. Failed spectacularly. "Nothing to apologize for... I-"
"Oh love," Delicate hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing the path of the tears he was trying so hard to suppress. "Why are you crying? What did I say wrong?"
"Nothing. I- just wanted..." Heroes can be frightened, just not show it- some hero he was, certain that the massive lump of fear in his gut was showing on his face.
Sometimes it can work against you, if you don't tell someone what you want...
"I just wanted to be with you." Alfred blurted out, "I l-love you, and I was afraid- when you were gone this morning-"
"Oh love," England sighed, not sounding a bit like his normal grumpy self, when America said something stupid. So maybe he hadn't, for a change. "I- I had to do some thinking, and didn't want to disturb you while you were sleeping. And I was afraid that you..."
"England..." Alfred watched the other man smile at him, feeling that usual warm ball of - well- goodness welling up in the place that had contained the fear before. He didn't have time to say anything more before England's lips were on his own, the taste of tea, and ocean, and Arthur.
"I love you too, idiot." said Arthur, once they'd pulled away to breathe. There was applause from the other patrons, and two employees that were now watching- while England was blushing a deep red. The insult sounded more like an endearment now. "You've put away the pretend, and aren't drunk. I think we need to talk in a bit more privacy."
"But the meeting-" England wanted him in privacy, and - Arthur to himself for any length of time right now was just-
"They can do without us. Francis has already told them that we'd be late. Just not how late."
Alfred could only agree, only just managing to grab the rose, before Arthur lead him out of the restaurant, and back towards the hotel.
*V*^*V*^
England and America were three hours late to the world meeting in Paris.
If anyone noticed that England's hair was a little messier than usual, that his tie was just a shade crooked... no one said a word.
Likewise, if America's presentations (Late, but still allowed his allotted time) were just a shade less insane than usual, if there were sudden pauses in his speech when blue eyes met faintly smiling green, no one seemed to notice.
The fights between the two seemed to not have any sort of vicious edge to them, and perhaps, just perhaps someone noticed that when America said something that seemed rather stupid, even for him, the responding slap to the back of the head from England wasn't as sharp, and might just have lingered a little longer than was completely necessary.
Russia now looked at Canada, wondering how someone so scary could have allowed him to (mistakenly) sit on his lap for an entire meeting without the larger nation noticing- He'd have to rethink any plans that involved going anywhere near North America now.
Only France, with his self satisfied smirk, elbowed Canada, and pointed out that England's apology had obviously been accepted, and both seemed to be happier, so could he please just smile, and stop scaring Russia?
(America didn't make it home for another week after the meeting, leaving his northern twin with an absence of late night phone calls, borrowed power tools, and too-loud music. It was the best week Canada had had in years.)