Love Train (Axis Powers Hetalia, Ensemble)
So Mith and I had a very silly conversation while I was in Chicago that led to -- well, this. Set in that nebulous period sometime after Self-Evident, aka "England and America are making up for the two-hundred-ish years of sex they missed out on having."
Title: Love Train
Authors: mithrigil and puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble, and a whole bunch of pairings, including: America/England, Germany/Italy, Austria/Hungary, Sweden/Finland, Poland/Lithuania, Sealand/Latvia, Greece/Japan, Spain/Romano, France/Prussia, Russia/China, and Canada/Ukraine. *phew*
Rating: PG-13, for one big long sex joke.
Summary: America and England are That New Couple that can't keep their hands off each other -- and their adventures at a world conference get the other nations thinking about their own love lives.
Love Train
people of the world, join in
Mith and Puel in the Special Hell
Italy leans his cheek into his hand and sighs happily. It's so cute! America and England, that is. They're kicking each other under the table, well, England's kicking but that's because America is trying to slide his foot up England's pants and snap England's sock-garter with his toes. (Italy can see this because it's a U-shaped conference table and America and England are on the other side of the U and America's shoes are in the cup of the U because he's kicked them off. Also his socks are kind of dirty. England's aren't. That must be why he's kicking America.)
"That should conclude today's business," Germany says, and shuffles his big pile of papers into a neat stack, taps it against the edge of the table to smooth out the edges, and slides the whole thing into his briefcase. He clears his throat a little; he's looking at America and England when he does it, and Italy recognizes Germany's cough as one of the Italy this is neither the time nor the place ones. Except he's not reprimanding Italy this time. Because America's looking at Germany and grinning kind of the way Italy does when Italy thinks it is the time or the place. And England's being apologetic and gruff and, well, kind of surly. No, bristly, bristly's better! because his hair is poking out of place like a brush that's been used too much.
And then America grabs him by the tie and starts dragging him out into the hall.
Italy sighs again. "Germany? Germany, do you think the spark's gone out of our relationship?"
Germany drops his briefcase and makes a really funny choking sound in the back of his throat. Well, it would be funny if Italy wasn't worrying that he really couldn't breathe. But he gives a big hacking cough like a cat's and says, "What?"
Italy gets up from the table so he can pick up the briefcase for Germany and explain. (Sometimes it's not that Germany doesn't understand, it's that he's surprised and he doesn't like being caught off guard so the questions just give him more time to think! That's all.) "It's just that we never do things like that anymore."
"Venedig, we have never done things like that."
"But we could have done them!" Italy bursts out. "Except it's always Venedig this is not the time or Venedig I have a headache or Venedig this is undignified or Venedig that is my best tie or Venedig not in front of the troops or Venedig the dogs are watching..."
Germany sighs and wraps an arm around his briefcase, maybe so he doesn't drop it again. "Venedig," he starts to say again and then gets that wait that was a trap and I am playing into it face, which makes him sigh again. "Venedig, if that's what you want, we can do things like it."
"Really? Oh, Germany--"
"--but not at meetings," Germany goes on, lifting the I am being stern! finger, "and nowhere where it would distract us from important matters of national security--"
Italy pouts. Germany's stern finger wavers a little. "But real true passion's supposed to be able to happen at any time! It's the magic of amore!"
"But if it causes an international incident--"
"It'll be okay! Because love's even more powerful than global warming," Italy adds proudly. "Actually love is the better kind of global warming because it makes us all warm on the inside and not the outside and it doesn't take anything away from the ozone either--"
"Venedig."
"Love conquers all! That's what Grandpa always used to say." He said lots of other things, too, but Germany usually turns a milky kind of green when Italy mentions those so he just smiles and pecks Germany on the cheek. "And that's why we shouldn't be afraid to express our love more often."
Germany's cheek is hot! And pink. It's a very nice pink, Italy likes making him blush this kind of pink. "I...suppose you are right."
Italy beams and squeezes Germany's hand, strokes him under the cuff the way America's foot was stroking England's ankle and calf, and leads Germany out of the U-shaped table. "And maybe tonight, we can even leave the lights on!"
-
They are desecrating the hotel piano.
Austria has seen several films and dramatic scenarios which make use of the piano as an erotic object, with some amorous couples even going so far as to make love in proximity to it. No doubt Austria has partaken of similar practices--with Hungary, most notably, a century ago or more--but always with the piano in mind as an equal partner and a precious, respected component of the sexual experience.
Which is to say that he never incorporated the keys into the exercise. Do they have any idea how much it costs to tune a piano?
My god, it sounds like John Cage.
"Do we want to give them their privacy?" Hungary asks him, tugging on his sleeve.
Austria bites his lip, which slips into a grimace and a hiss on the way out. "I am torn between that, and ruining it for them."
"Oh, but they're having such a good time," she says, and Austria has known her long enough to realize that the breath entering her voice isn't entirely from laughter. "A really good time," she continues, her fingers curling tighter. "Look at them go..."
"I would rather not," Austria tells her, and in compliance with that, looks away and folds his arms. "It's an imported Steinway--"
"--ooh, is that a tattoo?"
"What?"
"On America's chest. Look, silly," she says, and steers him in the appropriate direction quite firmly.
Austria opens his eyes only to blink. "What's it of?"
"His flag, I think? -- England's flipped him over now and I can't really see it." She's searching for something, though, if her grip on Austria's wrist is any indication; her nails tap against the heel of his palm in the time signature he's come to recognize as hers.
And rather enjoy, come to think of it.
It has been a while, after all.
"Ungarn," he says, quietly. "How much are you enjoying yourself?"
She guides his hand lower, so his knuckles brush the inside of her thigh. "Do you want to find out?"
He slumps against the wall so he can slide and reach lower, pawing at the button of her slacks with his thumb. "Of course. But the question is, do you want them to hear you watching?"
Hungary strokes his hair, follows the curve of his loose curl with the tips of her fingers. "I don't think they'd mind...I wouldn't, at any rate, if I were them."
So Austria, smirking, unfastens the clasp and slips his hand into Hungary's underwear, sliding his fingertips along the familiar--
"Hey, is that--oh. Oh." Prussia grins, swinging in around the corner of the corridor. "Ha, don't mind me. Got room for one more?"
Austria can't determine what's louder: Hungary's shriek of indignation, the thunk of Prussia's skull colliding with the door, or the piano's sharp discordant groan at the conclusion of the first two.
The poor Steinway.
-
"You're snuggling me, and you're drooling on my toast."
"Not snuggles, England," America says, and not convincingly at all. "Manly embraces."
On the other side of the room, Finland snickers into his coffee, and bats his elbow against Sweden's, narrowly missing the knife that neither of them is using. "Take a look at that."
"Mm. Makes you feel young again," Sweden says, but eyes the two of them over the rim of his cup. Finland smiles; America's chin is perched on England's shoulder, his nose brushing England's jaw. Dark circles ring England's eyes and he's muttering all kinds of blasphemies under his breath, but he's not trying to shove America away, either. England bellows for tea, America sniggers loudly, and Finland thinks it's all rather sweet.
"Yeah. Kind of makes you want to hop into the nearest longboat and pillage the countryside and drag someone back to the fjords by their braids," he says wistfully. "Doesn't it?"
"Mm," Sweden says again, after a pause.
"And maybe burn something too," Finland goes on, "I don't know. That part needs something special--"
Well, England does shove America off, presumably because America just faceplanted into his lap.
"--like that," Finland says. "Ah, young love."
-
"Dude," Poland says, twirling his straw between his fingers. "So it's bad enough that America wanted us to build this huge musclehead guy to block out the sun and like keep all of us from ever getting tan again ever, but now he's seriously slobbering over England all the time and it's just like oh my god, get a room, you two." He jabs at the air with his straw; it's almost a form of punctuation, or as close as Poland ever gets to punctuation. "Okay, so I'm walking back to my room last night, right? And I'm trying to keep France from getting all up in my butt? So I take the elevator and the doors open up and there's the two of them making out like freaking bandits. In an elevator. And I can't even say like "elevator going down!" or something because then England's kneeling and it's not actually a joke if he's, you know, actually doing it -- "
"I get the picture," Lithuania cuts in.
"No, like, you had to see them. Not like they leave much to the imagination." Poland tsks, starts peeling the paper off another straw.
Neither do Poland's descriptions. Lithuania thinks he feels a headache coming on -- well, he's already got a bit of a headache, but this is a fresh one on top of the old throbbing. "The elevator, though?" he asks. "Really?"
"Shyeah, I know, right?" Poland blows on one end of the straw, and the paper wrapper flies off and smacks Lithuania in the nose. "But c'mon, would I lie to you? About that, anyway?"
"No," Lithuania admits. "And it's like America."
--whoops, that might not have been the best thing to say?
"Ha!" Poland crows, confirming Lithuania's suspicions. "I knew it. I so knew it. Knew it!"
"Poland, stop, it's--"
"Dude, it's cool, you can be buttlovers with whoever you want."
Lithuania sputters.
"I mean, if England doesn't mind. He looked kind of grabby, you know?" And again, Poland's gestures leave nothing to the imagination. And the dangling paper from that second straw makes imagining entirely unnecessary. Lithuania does try not to look at it; whether or not he succeeds is a different question.
"Dude, you're watching me jerk off the air."
...so that's a no, then. "Yes," Lithuania says, smiling almost in spite of himself, because where Poland's concerned you have to either smile or sigh and he's done enough of the latter lately. "Yes I am."
And smiling makes Poland smile, too. Deviously. "Wanna watch me jerk off something that's, like, actually got a pulse?"
Lithuania coughs, then checks the clock out of the corner of his eye. Well, they've got another forty-five minutes until everyone reconvenes. He nods, and if he half-shakes his head at himself, it isn't visible. "We might want to stay out of the ballroom, though," he says. "Apparently a lot of people have been, well, visiting it."
Poland laughs. "Yeah, Estonia got it on camera. Why do you think I got back to the room so late?"
-
"Ew!"
"But that's just what I heard, Sealand--"
"I know. But it's like telling me don't think about pink elephants and great, just great, now I'm thinking about pink elephants and England kissing."
"But--but it's just kissing."
"It's England. He's older than money!"
"And Jesus."
"Yeah! And I mean kissing's gross enough but kissing a fossil is double-gross!"
"Well, he's--he's pretty well-preserved? For a fossil..."
"Yeah, well, then hang him in a museum! Museum exhibits don't go around kissing awesome Superpowers like America."
"...um."
"What, Latvia?"
"...n-nothing. Never mind. It's, it's just -- just -- he's kissed worse -- "
"Who, England?"
"Uh. Both of them?"
"--Ew! Eww! They're all spreading cooties! And they'll get everywhere! And we're all gonna die like in Pandemic II! But--but no, no, I won't kiss anyone ever and I'll never get cooties and then when everyone's dead I'll be the biggest Superpower Nation in the whole world! Well. Except Madagascar. Drat that Madagascar."
"Madagascar's nice..."
"Yeah but not if he stands in the way of global domination!"
"...please--please don't say global domination again."
"...ehe. Oops. Sorry, Latvia."
-
"Japan?"
"My apologies," Japan says, sitting up on the futon he's prepared. "I was lost in thought. Was there something Girisha-san wanted?"
Sex would be nice, Greece thinks. He hopes Japan's headache isn't as strong as it was last night. "What were you thinking about?" he asks instead.
"America-san and Igirisu-san." Japan turns to glance out the hotel room door, then back to just below Greece's eyes. "They are very exuberant."
"Yes," Greece agrees.
"It has been a long time coming, and I am happy for them."
Greece nods and hopes this is going somewhere.
"Igirisu-san in particular has been wanting this for many years," Japan says, and this seems like what he was building up to. "His sexual appetite is great."
And with a diverse palate. "So I hear."
Japan levels his eyes at Greece--Greece opens his enough to try and keep it that way, he likes when Japan actually looks at him and not his forehead or his chin.
They stare.
A few minutes pass, and England and America keep doing whatever it is they're doing on the other side of the door.
And then Japan just lies back on his futon. "Well then, good night, Girisha-san."
Greece sighs.
-
"I said you could borrow my towel, America!" Romano screams, hammering on his door. As dense as America might be, some of that sound must be making it through his thick skull -- and even if Spain yanks him back into the hotel room, probably through the walls too. "I didn't say you could DEFILE IT!" he continues, shaking his fist in that imbecile's direction hard enough to rain judgment down on his head.
"Easy," Spain says, putting a palm flat on Romano's back.
"Easy?" Romano repeats. "You don't do that with someone else's towel! Ever!"
"I thought it was a hotel towel." Spain shrugs, and then reopens the door to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.
Too late, Romano's already been disturbed. "That doesn't make it better! What, now unsuspecting hotel staffers have to clean up after his -- moral turpitude?"
"They'll have to change our sheets later too, you know."
Romano hurls the nearest pillow at him before his face colors completely red. Spain catches it easily, hugs it to his chest, and raises his eyebrow over it. Romano huffs and feels the heat rising on the back of his neck now, too. If that bastard so much as makes a single comment about tomatoes...
"--I mean, it's not morally objectionable if you do it too," Spain asks, "right? And I don't think we're going to get up to any different. Well, maybe a few things different," he corrects, dropping the pillow on his way to the bed, where he sprawls with open arms and bent knees. "Since we're both better at it than the English."
Romano hmphs and turns most of his body away so that he's looking at Spain over his shoulder. Flattery, huh? Who does he think he's fooling, with that smile and those arms and the downright sinful way he's arching his hips --
-- oh, fuck.
"You still shouldn't clean up after -- that -- with a towel you borrowed from someone else," he grumbles. "Besides, I was going to use that stupid towel."
That smile on Spain's cheeks widens and brightens. And no, Romano is not smiling back, dammit. "We'll call up for room service. Food too."
"The food's probably horrible," he says as he makes his way over to the bed.
"With towels like these?" Spain shrugs again, and then pats the span of mattress next to him. His hand leaves a dent in the covers. "Maybe. But I don't think there's time to go out, if we take too long. So it's either we try to find good food, or we definitely have good sex."
Romano looks at Spain, then at the door, then at Spain again. "Why can't we have both?"
"Maybe," Spain says again, and he hasn't stopped looking at Romano. "Come here."
-
What are there now, seven bottles stacked in front of Prussia? He cannot seem to decide which beer is most conducive to drunkenness, or perhaps he merely does not care. Regardless, France has determined the number to be seven, which makes it perhaps not the best decision to offer to pay for the next round, as, knowing Prussia, he bought all seven at once.
Ah, but when has France cared?
"There are better troughs to drown your sorrows in," he suggests, sliding onto the stool beside Prussia and covering his hand, consolingly. "I did not consider that being only a guest at these summits was so grating."
"Sorrows?" Prussia slurs, rapping his knuckles on the bar for another round without France having to offer to do so. "Pshyeah right. I--feel--fucking--amazing," he says, carefully enunciating each word as though effort alone will persuade France of the fact. "And there is no--better--trough--" He stumbles over the pronunciation. "Than Heineken."
France laughs, and signals to the barkeep, "Then make your case. If it is beer, how is it not swill?"
"'Cause beer is a man's drink," Prussia says, clapping France somewhere about the shoulder. Doubtless he intended it to be the shoulder, but his hand ends up gripping France's bicep. "Shit's better than--better than water. Hell, remember when they let you drink beer like it was water? Shit, that was like--few centuries ago? You and me and Spain and even old England--heh, man, used to drink with him all the time--"
It is fortunate! that gritting one's teeth and smiling will seem the same to a man as drunk as Prussia. "It is hard to forget," he says, unsubtly. "But now we may all keep better company."
Ah, yes. This is a cue to touch Prussia's hand.
Prussia lurches up at the touch and eyes France unsteadily. "Company--yeah. Y'know, you think--you think you know these guys and you've got this thing worked out with them and then--then they just blow you off, man, like--like you're this big--thingy--"
France slips his fingertips under Prussia's watch. "I know, mon ami."
Something in Prussia's beer-addled brain appears to connect, because he says, "Yeah, you--you're hitting on me. Aren't you." He points at France's nose with his free hand.
"It seems I am caught!" France yields, laughing again. "But it is nothing new, no?"
"Heh. Nnnope. So," he says, attempting to straighten in his seat.
"So," France repeats, and sets enough to cover his tab, and Prussia's, down on the bartop.
"Y'know what?" Prussia snaps his fingers--or would have snapped them, had his finger slid across the correct part of his thumb. It does not, and Prussia repeats the misaimed gesture, frowning. France hopes it is not a harbinger of things to come. "Let's. Let's be even louder than America and friggin' England."
Oh, this is a most fortunate coincidence. But of course, Prussia will always be Prussia.
-
Everybody is very happy at this meeting, and Russia appreciates that. It is good to see so many nations coming together.
Russia does wish they could do it perhaps a little more quietly, though.
"Aiyaaaa," China groans, and muffles his ears with his pillow. "Some of us have to wake up in the morning."
"Yes," Russia agrees solemnly, and listens again. (Granted, it is very hard not to listen, even though Russia and China have secured the doors and turned on the fans.) "I believe most of them do, too."
"--c'mon, c'mon--aw yeah, aw fuckin' hell yeah, who's the meister now--"
"Perhaps not Prussia," Russia amends. "Though it is encouraging to see he has not lost his spirit," he adds, because he should be kind to his former comrades.
"Never mind his spirit," China says, gestures to the door with his fingers and gives it a very baleful look, "I want him to lose his voice."
Russia smiles a little and pets the nape of China's neck; China frowns, but eventually the lines around his mouth relax and he settles against Russia's chest as Russia strokes him, strokes him. The two of them will take tea later, Russia decides. And when they are suffused with its warmth, perhaps other things.
"oh god England--" This time, the noise comes thundering down from above; Russia thinks he also hears a bed rattle, but that might be China sucking the air in through his teeth again. "England--harder, harder, yeah--"
Vodka, Russia concludes. Vodka and then tea. He likes this order very much.
"This is ridiculous," China says.
"They are certainly very exuberant."
"There's a difference between exuberance and disturbing the peace," China says, and rolls over so that he faces the window.
--which is open. That is strange.
And it is stranger that Korea is entering through it.
China sputters and sits up very straight in the bed, so suddenly that Russia himself nearly loses his balance for a moment. "Get out!" China bellows, and Russia must confess that China's contribution to the racket around them is not a small one. Such a large voice ringing from such a small body. It is one of the things Russia likes most about him, that sense of size and scope within.
"Come on, bro, you weren't going to start the party without me--"
"There is no party," China says through gritted teeth.
"Huh? But I thought you were still a Communist--"
"Of course there is that party. But there is no celebration. I am trying to sleep."
Russia pets China's hair consolingly -- or attempts to, as China seems determined to shake him off -- and tells Korea, "We appreciate that so many want to join us, but we shall discuss this in the morning. Not now."
And with that, he plucks Korea up from around the middle and starts towards the door. Korea squirms and wriggles and says "Put me down!" but Russia only smiles and tightens his hold. Russia has had practice with this, after all. He shifts Korea's weight to one arm and unlatches and opens the front door --
"Brother," Belarus says. "Brother, you must not come out here. It would not be appropriate for me to make love to you in the hallway."
Russia blinks, regards Korea for a moment, and flings him out the door so he collides with Belarus and forces her to stumble back. While the two of them are entangled, Russia shuts and locks the door. Perhaps he should put a chair under the handle...
"There is entirely too much sex at this conference," China grumbles.
Russia is inclined to agree.
-
There is no possible way for Canada to sleep.
The noise is pretty bad, but that's not all. Oh, no. It's that the bed, which is rooted to the floor, is being jostled by whatever's going on on the other side of the wall. Which means America is probably topping. Which is more information than Canada wanted. Ever. And the mental image isn't all that conducive to sleeping either, because nightmares about the kind of crap that America and England are getting up to are actually worse than the real thing because the nightmares sometimes involve period clothing, cabbages, or France.
"Who's your daddy, boy?"
"Ah--oh Christ--"
"I asked you a question--"
"--you, you, you, oh Jesus, you're my daddy--harder, Daddy, harder, deeper, yeah--God, your cock, I want it so bad, Daddy--"
--well, Canada was wrong about who's topping.
And the image is a thousand times worse.
He wonders if they can hear him scream. Maybe. So he tries it, grips the covers in his fists and arches back his head and bellows, "Guys, people are trying to sleep! Including me! Take it to the shower or something!"
"Oh--oh--fuck, yes, like that--"
"Yeah, there, there--more, oh--Daddy, more--"
This time when Canada screams it's incoherent and animal, and he throws off the covers, stands on the bed and pounds the wall right back at them. "For the love of god--"
--oh god, no, the hotel staff thinks it's his room, they're knocking on the door. Crap. So Canada steps down from the bed and grabs the bathrobe to cover himself up and tries not to listen to how the bed and wall are still shaking on his way over. He takes a deep breath and opens the door apologetically. "Listen, I'm sorry, I have nothing to do with--"
"You can't sleep, either?" Ukraine asks, smiling ruefully at him.
--Ukraine's nightgown is really cute. And really tight across the top. And kind of thin and white and flimsy and sweet looking and "Uh," Canada says. "Um. My pillows are dirty. I mean not fluffy enough. I mean. Um. Yeah. Can't."
He really should look up. It's kind of hard. To, um. Look up.
"It's all right," she says. "It's hard to hear yourself think with all that noise..." She glances at the room next door, wincing, and that shudder ends up shaking her chest, too. Like the walls. Only those are much nicer than the walls. Quiet. And probably soft. And, um, this isn't appropriate--
"So did you want to stay awake?" Canada asks her.
--oh, smooth, Canada, real smooth, now she thinks you're just like the rest of them--
"Well, now that I'm up, I guess I might as well," she says, looking up at him, then peering over his shoulder into the room, then looking back at him again and shrugging a little, smiling all the while.
She's so--is she-- "...should we go somewhere else?" Canada offers, just to make sure she wants to--
Ukraine nods. "We might have a hard time finding space, though," she says. "It's, um, not just America and England..."
"Oh. Right. Aha." Canada reaches up to rub the back of his neck and fumble with his hair--oh, crap, his hair must be a mess from trying to sleep, but-- "Well, um, if you can't beat them you might as well--" No. No, he did not just say that.
But Ukraine laughs a little, and says, "Shower?"
-
---
-
.
Title: Love Train
Authors: mithrigil and puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble, and a whole bunch of pairings, including: America/England, Germany/Italy, Austria/Hungary, Sweden/Finland, Poland/Lithuania, Sealand/Latvia, Greece/Japan, Spain/Romano, France/Prussia, Russia/China, and Canada/Ukraine. *phew*
Rating: PG-13, for one big long sex joke.
Summary: America and England are That New Couple that can't keep their hands off each other -- and their adventures at a world conference get the other nations thinking about their own love lives.
Love Train
people of the world, join in
Mith and Puel in the Special Hell
Italy leans his cheek into his hand and sighs happily. It's so cute! America and England, that is. They're kicking each other under the table, well, England's kicking but that's because America is trying to slide his foot up England's pants and snap England's sock-garter with his toes. (Italy can see this because it's a U-shaped conference table and America and England are on the other side of the U and America's shoes are in the cup of the U because he's kicked them off. Also his socks are kind of dirty. England's aren't. That must be why he's kicking America.)
"That should conclude today's business," Germany says, and shuffles his big pile of papers into a neat stack, taps it against the edge of the table to smooth out the edges, and slides the whole thing into his briefcase. He clears his throat a little; he's looking at America and England when he does it, and Italy recognizes Germany's cough as one of the Italy this is neither the time nor the place ones. Except he's not reprimanding Italy this time. Because America's looking at Germany and grinning kind of the way Italy does when Italy thinks it is the time or the place. And England's being apologetic and gruff and, well, kind of surly. No, bristly, bristly's better! because his hair is poking out of place like a brush that's been used too much.
And then America grabs him by the tie and starts dragging him out into the hall.
Italy sighs again. "Germany? Germany, do you think the spark's gone out of our relationship?"
Germany drops his briefcase and makes a really funny choking sound in the back of his throat. Well, it would be funny if Italy wasn't worrying that he really couldn't breathe. But he gives a big hacking cough like a cat's and says, "What?"
Italy gets up from the table so he can pick up the briefcase for Germany and explain. (Sometimes it's not that Germany doesn't understand, it's that he's surprised and he doesn't like being caught off guard so the questions just give him more time to think! That's all.) "It's just that we never do things like that anymore."
"Venedig, we have never done things like that."
"But we could have done them!" Italy bursts out. "Except it's always Venedig this is not the time or Venedig I have a headache or Venedig this is undignified or Venedig that is my best tie or Venedig not in front of the troops or Venedig the dogs are watching..."
Germany sighs and wraps an arm around his briefcase, maybe so he doesn't drop it again. "Venedig," he starts to say again and then gets that wait that was a trap and I am playing into it face, which makes him sigh again. "Venedig, if that's what you want, we can do things like it."
"Really? Oh, Germany--"
"--but not at meetings," Germany goes on, lifting the I am being stern! finger, "and nowhere where it would distract us from important matters of national security--"
Italy pouts. Germany's stern finger wavers a little. "But real true passion's supposed to be able to happen at any time! It's the magic of amore!"
"But if it causes an international incident--"
"It'll be okay! Because love's even more powerful than global warming," Italy adds proudly. "Actually love is the better kind of global warming because it makes us all warm on the inside and not the outside and it doesn't take anything away from the ozone either--"
"Venedig."
"Love conquers all! That's what Grandpa always used to say." He said lots of other things, too, but Germany usually turns a milky kind of green when Italy mentions those so he just smiles and pecks Germany on the cheek. "And that's why we shouldn't be afraid to express our love more often."
Germany's cheek is hot! And pink. It's a very nice pink, Italy likes making him blush this kind of pink. "I...suppose you are right."
Italy beams and squeezes Germany's hand, strokes him under the cuff the way America's foot was stroking England's ankle and calf, and leads Germany out of the U-shaped table. "And maybe tonight, we can even leave the lights on!"
-
They are desecrating the hotel piano.
Austria has seen several films and dramatic scenarios which make use of the piano as an erotic object, with some amorous couples even going so far as to make love in proximity to it. No doubt Austria has partaken of similar practices--with Hungary, most notably, a century ago or more--but always with the piano in mind as an equal partner and a precious, respected component of the sexual experience.
Which is to say that he never incorporated the keys into the exercise. Do they have any idea how much it costs to tune a piano?
My god, it sounds like John Cage.
"Do we want to give them their privacy?" Hungary asks him, tugging on his sleeve.
Austria bites his lip, which slips into a grimace and a hiss on the way out. "I am torn between that, and ruining it for them."
"Oh, but they're having such a good time," she says, and Austria has known her long enough to realize that the breath entering her voice isn't entirely from laughter. "A really good time," she continues, her fingers curling tighter. "Look at them go..."
"I would rather not," Austria tells her, and in compliance with that, looks away and folds his arms. "It's an imported Steinway--"
"--ooh, is that a tattoo?"
"What?"
"On America's chest. Look, silly," she says, and steers him in the appropriate direction quite firmly.
Austria opens his eyes only to blink. "What's it of?"
"His flag, I think? -- England's flipped him over now and I can't really see it." She's searching for something, though, if her grip on Austria's wrist is any indication; her nails tap against the heel of his palm in the time signature he's come to recognize as hers.
And rather enjoy, come to think of it.
It has been a while, after all.
"Ungarn," he says, quietly. "How much are you enjoying yourself?"
She guides his hand lower, so his knuckles brush the inside of her thigh. "Do you want to find out?"
He slumps against the wall so he can slide and reach lower, pawing at the button of her slacks with his thumb. "Of course. But the question is, do you want them to hear you watching?"
Hungary strokes his hair, follows the curve of his loose curl with the tips of her fingers. "I don't think they'd mind...I wouldn't, at any rate, if I were them."
So Austria, smirking, unfastens the clasp and slips his hand into Hungary's underwear, sliding his fingertips along the familiar--
"Hey, is that--oh. Oh." Prussia grins, swinging in around the corner of the corridor. "Ha, don't mind me. Got room for one more?"
Austria can't determine what's louder: Hungary's shriek of indignation, the thunk of Prussia's skull colliding with the door, or the piano's sharp discordant groan at the conclusion of the first two.
The poor Steinway.
-
"You're snuggling me, and you're drooling on my toast."
"Not snuggles, England," America says, and not convincingly at all. "Manly embraces."
On the other side of the room, Finland snickers into his coffee, and bats his elbow against Sweden's, narrowly missing the knife that neither of them is using. "Take a look at that."
"Mm. Makes you feel young again," Sweden says, but eyes the two of them over the rim of his cup. Finland smiles; America's chin is perched on England's shoulder, his nose brushing England's jaw. Dark circles ring England's eyes and he's muttering all kinds of blasphemies under his breath, but he's not trying to shove America away, either. England bellows for tea, America sniggers loudly, and Finland thinks it's all rather sweet.
"Yeah. Kind of makes you want to hop into the nearest longboat and pillage the countryside and drag someone back to the fjords by their braids," he says wistfully. "Doesn't it?"
"Mm," Sweden says again, after a pause.
"And maybe burn something too," Finland goes on, "I don't know. That part needs something special--"
Well, England does shove America off, presumably because America just faceplanted into his lap.
"--like that," Finland says. "Ah, young love."
-
"Dude," Poland says, twirling his straw between his fingers. "So it's bad enough that America wanted us to build this huge musclehead guy to block out the sun and like keep all of us from ever getting tan again ever, but now he's seriously slobbering over England all the time and it's just like oh my god, get a room, you two." He jabs at the air with his straw; it's almost a form of punctuation, or as close as Poland ever gets to punctuation. "Okay, so I'm walking back to my room last night, right? And I'm trying to keep France from getting all up in my butt? So I take the elevator and the doors open up and there's the two of them making out like freaking bandits. In an elevator. And I can't even say like "elevator going down!" or something because then England's kneeling and it's not actually a joke if he's, you know, actually doing it -- "
"I get the picture," Lithuania cuts in.
"No, like, you had to see them. Not like they leave much to the imagination." Poland tsks, starts peeling the paper off another straw.
Neither do Poland's descriptions. Lithuania thinks he feels a headache coming on -- well, he's already got a bit of a headache, but this is a fresh one on top of the old throbbing. "The elevator, though?" he asks. "Really?"
"Shyeah, I know, right?" Poland blows on one end of the straw, and the paper wrapper flies off and smacks Lithuania in the nose. "But c'mon, would I lie to you? About that, anyway?"
"No," Lithuania admits. "And it's like America."
--whoops, that might not have been the best thing to say?
"Ha!" Poland crows, confirming Lithuania's suspicions. "I knew it. I so knew it. Knew it!"
"Poland, stop, it's--"
"Dude, it's cool, you can be buttlovers with whoever you want."
Lithuania sputters.
"I mean, if England doesn't mind. He looked kind of grabby, you know?" And again, Poland's gestures leave nothing to the imagination. And the dangling paper from that second straw makes imagining entirely unnecessary. Lithuania does try not to look at it; whether or not he succeeds is a different question.
"Dude, you're watching me jerk off the air."
...so that's a no, then. "Yes," Lithuania says, smiling almost in spite of himself, because where Poland's concerned you have to either smile or sigh and he's done enough of the latter lately. "Yes I am."
And smiling makes Poland smile, too. Deviously. "Wanna watch me jerk off something that's, like, actually got a pulse?"
Lithuania coughs, then checks the clock out of the corner of his eye. Well, they've got another forty-five minutes until everyone reconvenes. He nods, and if he half-shakes his head at himself, it isn't visible. "We might want to stay out of the ballroom, though," he says. "Apparently a lot of people have been, well, visiting it."
Poland laughs. "Yeah, Estonia got it on camera. Why do you think I got back to the room so late?"
-
"Ew!"
"But that's just what I heard, Sealand--"
"I know. But it's like telling me don't think about pink elephants and great, just great, now I'm thinking about pink elephants and England kissing."
"But--but it's just kissing."
"It's England. He's older than money!"
"And Jesus."
"Yeah! And I mean kissing's gross enough but kissing a fossil is double-gross!"
"Well, he's--he's pretty well-preserved? For a fossil..."
"Yeah, well, then hang him in a museum! Museum exhibits don't go around kissing awesome Superpowers like America."
"...um."
"What, Latvia?"
"...n-nothing. Never mind. It's, it's just -- just -- he's kissed worse -- "
"Who, England?"
"Uh. Both of them?"
"--Ew! Eww! They're all spreading cooties! And they'll get everywhere! And we're all gonna die like in Pandemic II! But--but no, no, I won't kiss anyone ever and I'll never get cooties and then when everyone's dead I'll be the biggest Superpower Nation in the whole world! Well. Except Madagascar. Drat that Madagascar."
"Madagascar's nice..."
"Yeah but not if he stands in the way of global domination!"
"...please--please don't say global domination again."
"...ehe. Oops. Sorry, Latvia."
-
"Japan?"
"My apologies," Japan says, sitting up on the futon he's prepared. "I was lost in thought. Was there something Girisha-san wanted?"
Sex would be nice, Greece thinks. He hopes Japan's headache isn't as strong as it was last night. "What were you thinking about?" he asks instead.
"America-san and Igirisu-san." Japan turns to glance out the hotel room door, then back to just below Greece's eyes. "They are very exuberant."
"Yes," Greece agrees.
"It has been a long time coming, and I am happy for them."
Greece nods and hopes this is going somewhere.
"Igirisu-san in particular has been wanting this for many years," Japan says, and this seems like what he was building up to. "His sexual appetite is great."
And with a diverse palate. "So I hear."
Japan levels his eyes at Greece--Greece opens his enough to try and keep it that way, he likes when Japan actually looks at him and not his forehead or his chin.
They stare.
A few minutes pass, and England and America keep doing whatever it is they're doing on the other side of the door.
And then Japan just lies back on his futon. "Well then, good night, Girisha-san."
Greece sighs.
-
"I said you could borrow my towel, America!" Romano screams, hammering on his door. As dense as America might be, some of that sound must be making it through his thick skull -- and even if Spain yanks him back into the hotel room, probably through the walls too. "I didn't say you could DEFILE IT!" he continues, shaking his fist in that imbecile's direction hard enough to rain judgment down on his head.
"Easy," Spain says, putting a palm flat on Romano's back.
"Easy?" Romano repeats. "You don't do that with someone else's towel! Ever!"
"I thought it was a hotel towel." Spain shrugs, and then reopens the door to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.
Too late, Romano's already been disturbed. "That doesn't make it better! What, now unsuspecting hotel staffers have to clean up after his -- moral turpitude?"
"They'll have to change our sheets later too, you know."
Romano hurls the nearest pillow at him before his face colors completely red. Spain catches it easily, hugs it to his chest, and raises his eyebrow over it. Romano huffs and feels the heat rising on the back of his neck now, too. If that bastard so much as makes a single comment about tomatoes...
"--I mean, it's not morally objectionable if you do it too," Spain asks, "right? And I don't think we're going to get up to any different. Well, maybe a few things different," he corrects, dropping the pillow on his way to the bed, where he sprawls with open arms and bent knees. "Since we're both better at it than the English."
Romano hmphs and turns most of his body away so that he's looking at Spain over his shoulder. Flattery, huh? Who does he think he's fooling, with that smile and those arms and the downright sinful way he's arching his hips --
-- oh, fuck.
"You still shouldn't clean up after -- that -- with a towel you borrowed from someone else," he grumbles. "Besides, I was going to use that stupid towel."
That smile on Spain's cheeks widens and brightens. And no, Romano is not smiling back, dammit. "We'll call up for room service. Food too."
"The food's probably horrible," he says as he makes his way over to the bed.
"With towels like these?" Spain shrugs again, and then pats the span of mattress next to him. His hand leaves a dent in the covers. "Maybe. But I don't think there's time to go out, if we take too long. So it's either we try to find good food, or we definitely have good sex."
Romano looks at Spain, then at the door, then at Spain again. "Why can't we have both?"
"Maybe," Spain says again, and he hasn't stopped looking at Romano. "Come here."
-
What are there now, seven bottles stacked in front of Prussia? He cannot seem to decide which beer is most conducive to drunkenness, or perhaps he merely does not care. Regardless, France has determined the number to be seven, which makes it perhaps not the best decision to offer to pay for the next round, as, knowing Prussia, he bought all seven at once.
Ah, but when has France cared?
"There are better troughs to drown your sorrows in," he suggests, sliding onto the stool beside Prussia and covering his hand, consolingly. "I did not consider that being only a guest at these summits was so grating."
"Sorrows?" Prussia slurs, rapping his knuckles on the bar for another round without France having to offer to do so. "Pshyeah right. I--feel--fucking--amazing," he says, carefully enunciating each word as though effort alone will persuade France of the fact. "And there is no--better--trough--" He stumbles over the pronunciation. "Than Heineken."
France laughs, and signals to the barkeep, "Then make your case. If it is beer, how is it not swill?"
"'Cause beer is a man's drink," Prussia says, clapping France somewhere about the shoulder. Doubtless he intended it to be the shoulder, but his hand ends up gripping France's bicep. "Shit's better than--better than water. Hell, remember when they let you drink beer like it was water? Shit, that was like--few centuries ago? You and me and Spain and even old England--heh, man, used to drink with him all the time--"
It is fortunate! that gritting one's teeth and smiling will seem the same to a man as drunk as Prussia. "It is hard to forget," he says, unsubtly. "But now we may all keep better company."
Ah, yes. This is a cue to touch Prussia's hand.
Prussia lurches up at the touch and eyes France unsteadily. "Company--yeah. Y'know, you think--you think you know these guys and you've got this thing worked out with them and then--then they just blow you off, man, like--like you're this big--thingy--"
France slips his fingertips under Prussia's watch. "I know, mon ami."
Something in Prussia's beer-addled brain appears to connect, because he says, "Yeah, you--you're hitting on me. Aren't you." He points at France's nose with his free hand.
"It seems I am caught!" France yields, laughing again. "But it is nothing new, no?"
"Heh. Nnnope. So," he says, attempting to straighten in his seat.
"So," France repeats, and sets enough to cover his tab, and Prussia's, down on the bartop.
"Y'know what?" Prussia snaps his fingers--or would have snapped them, had his finger slid across the correct part of his thumb. It does not, and Prussia repeats the misaimed gesture, frowning. France hopes it is not a harbinger of things to come. "Let's. Let's be even louder than America and friggin' England."
Oh, this is a most fortunate coincidence. But of course, Prussia will always be Prussia.
-
Everybody is very happy at this meeting, and Russia appreciates that. It is good to see so many nations coming together.
Russia does wish they could do it perhaps a little more quietly, though.
"Aiyaaaa," China groans, and muffles his ears with his pillow. "Some of us have to wake up in the morning."
"Yes," Russia agrees solemnly, and listens again. (Granted, it is very hard not to listen, even though Russia and China have secured the doors and turned on the fans.) "I believe most of them do, too."
"--c'mon, c'mon--aw yeah, aw fuckin' hell yeah, who's the meister now--"
"Perhaps not Prussia," Russia amends. "Though it is encouraging to see he has not lost his spirit," he adds, because he should be kind to his former comrades.
"Never mind his spirit," China says, gestures to the door with his fingers and gives it a very baleful look, "I want him to lose his voice."
Russia smiles a little and pets the nape of China's neck; China frowns, but eventually the lines around his mouth relax and he settles against Russia's chest as Russia strokes him, strokes him. The two of them will take tea later, Russia decides. And when they are suffused with its warmth, perhaps other things.
"oh god England--" This time, the noise comes thundering down from above; Russia thinks he also hears a bed rattle, but that might be China sucking the air in through his teeth again. "England--harder, harder, yeah--"
Vodka, Russia concludes. Vodka and then tea. He likes this order very much.
"This is ridiculous," China says.
"They are certainly very exuberant."
"There's a difference between exuberance and disturbing the peace," China says, and rolls over so that he faces the window.
--which is open. That is strange.
And it is stranger that Korea is entering through it.
China sputters and sits up very straight in the bed, so suddenly that Russia himself nearly loses his balance for a moment. "Get out!" China bellows, and Russia must confess that China's contribution to the racket around them is not a small one. Such a large voice ringing from such a small body. It is one of the things Russia likes most about him, that sense of size and scope within.
"Come on, bro, you weren't going to start the party without me--"
"There is no party," China says through gritted teeth.
"Huh? But I thought you were still a Communist--"
"Of course there is that party. But there is no celebration. I am trying to sleep."
Russia pets China's hair consolingly -- or attempts to, as China seems determined to shake him off -- and tells Korea, "We appreciate that so many want to join us, but we shall discuss this in the morning. Not now."
And with that, he plucks Korea up from around the middle and starts towards the door. Korea squirms and wriggles and says "Put me down!" but Russia only smiles and tightens his hold. Russia has had practice with this, after all. He shifts Korea's weight to one arm and unlatches and opens the front door --
"Brother," Belarus says. "Brother, you must not come out here. It would not be appropriate for me to make love to you in the hallway."
Russia blinks, regards Korea for a moment, and flings him out the door so he collides with Belarus and forces her to stumble back. While the two of them are entangled, Russia shuts and locks the door. Perhaps he should put a chair under the handle...
"There is entirely too much sex at this conference," China grumbles.
Russia is inclined to agree.
-
There is no possible way for Canada to sleep.
The noise is pretty bad, but that's not all. Oh, no. It's that the bed, which is rooted to the floor, is being jostled by whatever's going on on the other side of the wall. Which means America is probably topping. Which is more information than Canada wanted. Ever. And the mental image isn't all that conducive to sleeping either, because nightmares about the kind of crap that America and England are getting up to are actually worse than the real thing because the nightmares sometimes involve period clothing, cabbages, or France.
"Who's your daddy, boy?"
"Ah--oh Christ--"
"I asked you a question--"
"--you, you, you, oh Jesus, you're my daddy--harder, Daddy, harder, deeper, yeah--God, your cock, I want it so bad, Daddy--"
--well, Canada was wrong about who's topping.
And the image is a thousand times worse.
He wonders if they can hear him scream. Maybe. So he tries it, grips the covers in his fists and arches back his head and bellows, "Guys, people are trying to sleep! Including me! Take it to the shower or something!"
"Oh--oh--fuck, yes, like that--"
"Yeah, there, there--more, oh--Daddy, more--"
This time when Canada screams it's incoherent and animal, and he throws off the covers, stands on the bed and pounds the wall right back at them. "For the love of god--"
--oh god, no, the hotel staff thinks it's his room, they're knocking on the door. Crap. So Canada steps down from the bed and grabs the bathrobe to cover himself up and tries not to listen to how the bed and wall are still shaking on his way over. He takes a deep breath and opens the door apologetically. "Listen, I'm sorry, I have nothing to do with--"
"You can't sleep, either?" Ukraine asks, smiling ruefully at him.
--Ukraine's nightgown is really cute. And really tight across the top. And kind of thin and white and flimsy and sweet looking and "Uh," Canada says. "Um. My pillows are dirty. I mean not fluffy enough. I mean. Um. Yeah. Can't."
He really should look up. It's kind of hard. To, um. Look up.
"It's all right," she says. "It's hard to hear yourself think with all that noise..." She glances at the room next door, wincing, and that shudder ends up shaking her chest, too. Like the walls. Only those are much nicer than the walls. Quiet. And probably soft. And, um, this isn't appropriate--
"So did you want to stay awake?" Canada asks her.
--oh, smooth, Canada, real smooth, now she thinks you're just like the rest of them--
"Well, now that I'm up, I guess I might as well," she says, looking up at him, then peering over his shoulder into the room, then looking back at him again and shrugging a little, smiling all the while.
She's so--is she-- "...should we go somewhere else?" Canada offers, just to make sure she wants to--
Ukraine nods. "We might have a hard time finding space, though," she says. "It's, um, not just America and England..."
"Oh. Right. Aha." Canada reaches up to rub the back of his neck and fumble with his hair--oh, crap, his hair must be a mess from trying to sleep, but-- "Well, um, if you can't beat them you might as well--" No. No, he did not just say that.
But Ukraine laughs a little, and says, "Shower?"
-
---
-
.