[APH] Is That Alcohol, or Are You Just Happy To See Me? [USUK]
Title: Is That Alcohol, or Are You Just Happy To See Me?
Genre: Romance, fluff, nonsense, general shenanigans
Rating: PG-13 just to be safe.
Characters: America, England, Japan, the Italies, Bad Touch Trio. Good times. (USUK)
Warnings: Drunk people making out.
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, 1948, everyone's drunk, England has some unrequited feelings and America has a LOT of alcohol.
Notes: This is my first prompt fill for the usxuk Spring Fever Art/Ficathon! Yaaaay I'm so excited to participate this year. Anyway I came up with this instead of studying one day. I just edited it but it still may be bad. Well anyway. I hope you enjoy it. :)
Original prompt: First kiss.
It was the year 1948. And for the first time since the turn of the century, all the nations were together, on New Year’s Eve, in a huge house.
Drunk.
“What, is that scotch?” France asked, wincing as he dropped into the seat next to England. England was leaning back, one leg kicked over the other, a squat glass in hand. He looked at the glass, looked back at France, who had so rudely decided to join him without asking, and shrugged.
“I think so. Tastes funny though. I just drink whatever people pour in here,” England offered, his words slurring together. France raised his eyebrows.
“I see. How drunk are you?”
“Enough,” England responded, and threw back the rest of the clear liquid that was sitting in his glass. His eyes wandered through the smoky haze to the nearest wooden table, where eight others were sitting in a circle, playing a bizarre combination of Go Fish and poker. With partners.
It was the first social event that all nations-Allies and Axis alike-had attended. The war had been over for nearly three years now, and with reconstruction in Europe, growing industrialization and of course the slowly-growing threat of nuclear warfare (America and Russia were pretty much banned from the same part of the room), all of them were tired, stressed out, and very willing to be as drunk as possible heading into the tail end of the 1940s.
At the table, England had a clear view of America, who was partnered with Japan. There were bottles and glasses littering the table, and even though he was still recovering from his injuries, it was quite obvious that America had gotten Japan rather inebriated. His cheeks were pink, he had a goofy smile on his face and he was almost (if it were possible) as loud as America. He didn’t even seem to notice that his right arm was still in a sling or that he had a gash across his face that was still healing. He and America exchanged excited looks and laid down some of their cards, accusing Romano and Veneziano of something across the table.
Romano blew a smoke ring into their faces, dropping his cigarette back into the ashtray and taking a swig out of a flask.
The table erupted into yells and laughter as Veneziano somehow drew a bad card, and America and Japan high-fived, took two of the bottles on the table, and each took a considerably-sized gulp-although Japan’s wasn’t nearly as large as the one America downed.
America wiped his mouth on his arm, caught England’s eye, and gave him a bizarre look. It was almost like a wink, but his mouth seemed to twitch into a half-smile and his eyes glinted. England blinked and looked away, his face flushed. France was still sitting with England, having lit his own cigarette, and watched the silent interaction with great interest.
“What is this?” he cooed, and England placed his glass down and shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a light-blue button-down underneath that was rolled to his elbows. He glared at France as he went to refill his glass.
“Nothing is this,” he responded, practically wobbling his way to the bar. Spain was behind the counter for now, doling out all the liquor that the various nations had contributed. Of course, Spain himself was as drunk as the rest, as he was leaning on the counter more for support than anything. England motioned to the bottle of gin that was on the back shelf, and Spain retrieved it (with some difficulty). He was about to pour some into another glass when England swiped the entire bottle and went back to his seat, Spain shrugging in response.
“Hey-Romanoooooo!” Spain called over the calamity of the room. “England took your gin.”
“Fuck it, I’m busy,” Romano responded, waving a hand at Spain. Spain shrugged again and had his attention diverted as Belgium began chatting with him at the bar.
England sat down again in time for America to glance over at him again, and this time he did in fact wink, and England just frowned at him, but allowed the wink to travel throughout his entire body like a fever.
“Okay, I definitely saw that,” France said, taking the bottle from England (and drinking directly from it). England sighed heavily, and then coughed a bit as he breathed in a considerable amount of the smoke dangling in the room.
“S’nothing,” he muttered. “America, he always gets affectionate when he’s drunk.”
“How affectionate?” France asked, a smirk spreading across his face. But England wasn’t paying attention; he’d gone back to watching America with increased interest.
Truthfully, the other nation had been plaguing his mind since they first became Allies. The boy had grown into a considerable man, an adult, and he was as handsome as he was foolish. He was powerful, and England couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride that he had helped such a nation to blossom (even if it was because America had fought against him.)
But America was more than that. He had sunny blonde hair that came just above his ears(the boy was in need of a haircut), and eyes that sparkled whenever he spoke, hidden by the frames of his glasses. He was lean, he was tall, his muscles curved well to the bones in his body, with long fingers and a trim waist. He had a rosy tinge to his cheeks that made him seem like he was constantly flushing, although England knew better. He was charming and handsome and friendly and powerful. He had extended every effort to help (once he’d finally bothered to enter the bloody war) and was now helping to rebuild what the war had damaged.
England didn’t even realize that he began biting his lower lip while watching the young man. France continued to drink from the dark bottle, cringing and glancing at the label, finding he couldn’t read it, shrugging, and continuing on.
“He’s teasing you,” France offered finally, snapping England out of his thoughts. “He knows how attracted you are to him.”
“I-what-you-“ England stammered, clutching the edge of his chair. But he stole another glance at America, who was now high-fiving everyone at the table, and wrapping his arms loosely around Japan, laying a chaste kiss to his temple. The table sniggered and he threw a bottle at Romano, who dodged it and allowed it to hit Greece in the back of the head.
The night wore on, and everything started becoming much hazier. Time slipped by and England didn’t even realize it, until he finally noticed that his tongue wasn’t stinging from whatever he was drinking. He sniffed his cup and realized-he was drinking water. He lowered the cup and noticed that America was now throwing the cards into the table and was standing up, and coming over to him-
America grabbed his cup and drank long from it, sighing contentedly after he was finished.
“You wanna play?” America asked, gesturing to the table. “Our game ended. I think.”
“Not sure if I can stand,” England answered. “But I don’t, really.”
“You were sure interested before,” America said, raising an eyebrow. “Unless it was just me you were watchin’ so closely.” America’s pressed Oxford was unbuttoned all the way down his chest, revealing a white wife beater and his dog tags, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He rubbed his eyes and pushed his glasses up onto his head.
Alcohol and close quarters made nations do crazy things. As much as they were, in a sense, immortal and above human needs, they were still susceptible to base human instincts. Such as friendship, hate, anger, sorrow, love, pain, elation, and especially, arousal.
America dropped into England’s lap, and England jolted at the sudden weight. America draped his arms on England’s shoulders and leaned in close to him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes hazy, and leaned in so close to England’s neck that his breath tickled England’s skin.
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” America whispered into his ear. England could smell the beer on his breath. Before England could react, America’s lips were on his, pushing against him, fingers running light touches on the back of his neck. America crossed his legs and leaned against England’s shoulder, turning his head, as if trying to devour as much of England as he could get.
England blinked in surprise, but his body was urging him to stop sitting there like an idiot and do something, so he settled his hands on America’s hips. That seemed to be an encouraging motion, for America wiggled his shoulders and moaned lightly into his lips, a smile forming across his face. England closed his eyes and allowed this to continue-he’d never realized how badly he’d wanted something like this.
About a million and a half questions ran through England’s drunken haze of a brain. What is going on? Why are we snogging on a chair? What is happening? Is this America or alcohol talking?... is this me or alcohol RESPONDING? But the more America caressed his neck and shoulders, and the more he explored his upper lip with his tongue, the less England thought, and the more he felt. This wouldn’t be the first time two nations had hooked up randomly, but normally it was two nations that did this regularly. England had been rather chaste in his last few hundred years, and America was still practically a child. He could tell as they kissed how inexperienced (yet eager) America was.
They broke apart for a moment after a particularly wet kiss, America laying kisses to his upper lip and the corner of his mouth. They hadn’t said anything with words, and England wasn’t even sure how much time had gone by. His hands had migrated from his hips to on hand on America’s back, to the other on his thigh, right above his knee.
“What’re you doing,” England muttered, more of a statement than an inquiry. America fell back to his lips, shifting a bit closer, their chests practically touching.
“Iunno,” America muttered back once he pulled away, licking the thin trail of saliva away that was hanging between their mouths. “You want me to stop?”
“Hell no,” England responded, and pulled America back in. He didn’t even notice the sharp whistle (France? Spain? Prussia? Probably all three of them actually) as people began noticing their actions. But England hardly noticed. He was too busy being electrified on every part of his body from America’s touch. He had always been aware of his attraction to America, but this just solidified it. Every brush of his fingertips, every lick of his tongue-it all made England swoon.
America’s glasses fell off his head onto England’s forehead, and England grabbed them clumsily and dropped them to the table, leaning over America, contorting their bodies into an almost-but-not-really-lying position, breathing in his scent.
He hoped America was deriving just as much pleasure as he was during all this. It would be all the sweeter to know that, even if America’s feelings weren’t genuine and he was just acting on some drunk, horny impulse, that he was at least enjoying the ride.
America’s only vocalizations were soft moans and slight giggles, and England wondered just how far his drunken mind would take this-
And suddenly it was over. And he was sopping wet. The two jerked apart as they were both covered in freezing cold water, and America hopped off his lap, wiping his wet hair out of his eyes. England looked up to see Prussia standing over him, holding a metal bucket in his hands. Spain was beside him, holding a beer, another bucket hanging from the crook of his elbow. England glanced past the two and saw France beside the icebox that was located behind the counter, gesturing to the (now empty) container that held ice. France slammed the door closed and grinned.
“You assholes-“ England started, but America just grabbed his classes, picked up a beer bottle and threw it at Prussia. Prussia dodged the bottle and it ricocheted from the counter onto the floor where it smashed.
“What the fuck was that? Was that a throw?” Prussia challenged, and America snickered.
“You wanna see a throw? I’ll throw you out the Goddamn window!” America proclaimed, and he was now chasing Prussia throughout the (den? Was that where they were? They were somewhere in France’s ridiculously-sized mansion) room and into another room.
England stood up, ringing out his shirt, flustered and confused and aroused and freaking wet. He turned and glared at Spain.
“What the bloody hell was that for?” he exclaimed. Spain shrugged.
“You looked a little hot,” Spain offered. “Your cheeks, they’re all red. Get a little sunburnt?” and Spain just laughed as England, flustered beyond belief, stalked over to the bar, grabbed the first bottle of clear liquid he saw, and stormed away to be distracted by the amusing, drunken interactions of China and Lichtenstein.
He didn’t see America for the rest of the night.
--
The next time he came across America, it was sometime between eight and nine a.m. England was sitting out on one of France’s higher balconies, back to the cool brick of the building, waiting for something to happen. The sun was just throwing streaks through the dark blue of the sky, and England was sporting a throbbing headache, part of a black eye and a long-awaited smoke.
He stared upwards, the roof just above his view, watching as the sun snaked its way into the morning. His brain was fuzzy with the activities of the evening, but as far as he had heard, no one was stabbed or shot this year, which was a step up from the last time they held a giant party like this.
The cool rush of morning air caressed his face. He was still a little warm from being so drunk, and he was sure his hangover would become stronger over the course of the day. But for now he could enjoy the silence, until he had to face the rest of the world.
And, of course, Ame-
“I see I’m not the only early bird today,” a voice said, piercing his thoughts. England glanced to his left and took a sharp breath as America climbed out the window England had used to get out onto the balcony. America’s hair was a mess, and he had lost his button-down shirt, wearing only the wife beater and his dark blue pants. His cheeks were more flushed than usual, but he appeared to be sober-his eyes were much clearer. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Be my guest,” England said, but it came out more of a mumble. America gingerly sat down, frowning slightly at England’s cigarette, but said nothing. He winced as he settled himself and put a hand to his head, also suffering the effects of a hangover. The air between them hung heavy with tension as the minutes dragged on. He wanted to say something to America-oh hey, sorry about getting so carried away last night, did you know how close I was to shagging you?-but he refrained. He was afraid he’d say something foolish if he spoke. Or even cry, for he knew that last night was only a taste of something that would never be.
Finally, America spoke.
“Sorry about last night.”
“About what?” England asked, choosing the innocent route. America sighed.
“About... about the kissing and stuff.”
“Oh... oh. That.”
“Yeah.” America shifted uncomfortably, drawing his legs into his chest with a shiver. “S’okay if you’re annoyed or somethin’, it was pretty-pretty stupid of me to do.”
So that’s what America thinks of kissing me, England thought dumbly. He did his best to contain his obvious disappointment and snubbed out the rest of his cigarette on the cement. He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I didn’t mind,” England said, speaking from a place that wanted America to feel less guilty. It was only after he spoke that it dawned on him what he was saying, and America’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Y-you didn’t?” America stammered. England laid his head back against the side of the house and put a hand to his face.
“No, I-I didn’t mean it like that-“
“So... you didn’t like me... me kissing you?” America said, his voice tentative. England was beet red, although America was equally as red.
“No, I mean... it was....” he just stared at America. He found his mouth moving without any sound, and he finally continued. “...it was nice.”
“Really?” America asked, and he perked up, just a little bit. “Because, um, I didn’t really hate it either.” The silence pervaded, although the tension lessened. England crossed his legs and looked at America, who was looking at his knees.
“Why did you do it?” England asked suddenly. America glanced at England and then looked back down at his knees.
“I... I saw you looking over at the table, and I thought-I thought maybe, you... I was drunk,” America admitted. “And, you, I don’t know, your face, and... I...” he was stumbling over his words, and avoiding England’s gaze. Was... was America actually embarrassed about something? “...I just wanted to kiss you, I guess.”
There was a tightness in England’s chest. He leaned over a little bit, placing his hand on America’s arm. He remembered the spark, the lightening, the electricity that went with every single one of America’s touches, and not just the night before, but whenever they touched, even if it was in passing, a brief tap of the arm. America looked up again and met with England’s gaze.
“So... do you still... want to?” he asked. America blinked and swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we try, then?” England offered. America glanced out into the sky, then looked back at England, took a breath, and nodded.
England bit his lower lip and looked up at America, wanting to avoid his eyes but finding himself unable. America dropped his arms from around his legs and leaned over, leaning on one arm, and stopped right before England. They stared at each other for a moment, and as if searching for a hint of regret, and then moved forward, closing their eyes at the same time, and allowing their lips to fall together.
This kiss was much more tentative then the ones they shared the night before-no open-mouthed tongue-waltzing, just slight pressure applied to the lips, heads turned just enough so they weren’t banging their noses together. England felt his heart racing in his chest, and there it was again-heat raced through his body at America’s touch. He was just enamored. He was especially delighted by the way that America tasted this morning-like cinnamon and old leather, a hint of cologne still lingering along his neck. His lips were sweet, most likely from all of the sugar he consumed on a daily basis.
America was the first to pull back, and England remained where he was, slowly opening his eyes. He expected America to reel away, to leave, or even to be disgusted with himself-kissing England, what a notion-
America leaned in again, faster this time, turning his head more, and kissed him again. England was taken aback and nearly fell over in surprise, and America pulled back, putting a hand over his mouth. He reached out and pulled England back into a sitting position.
“Oi, England, what-“
“I’m alright,” England muttered. He looked back at America. “You just surprised me.”
“...well?” America asked slowly. “What did you, um, think of that?” England licked his lips and smiled.
“I really liked it that time,” he said, and inwardly he chided himself for how foolish he sounded. What are you, a teenage girl? he thought to himself. America smiled.
“I really liked it, too,” America replied. “...I really like you.”
“Oh,” was all England could say. "I..." His voice died in his throat. He wanted to say a million things to America, but none of them could be voiced coherently. So he extended his hand to America, hoping his open palm would signify everything he wished he could say.
America took it, squeezing it gently, and smiled up at England, a smile that spread from his lips all the way around his entire face.
“... can we pretend that kiss just then was our first?” America asked. England raised his eyebrows at the beaming American.
“Why?”
“Drunken making out isn’t very romantic,” America said, and England laughed. Of course, Mr. Hollywood would choose the perfect approach to a romance. England scooted closer to America, until he was close enough to lean his head on his shoulder, their hands clasped in their laps.
They stayed that way for a long time, waiting until they were bathed in sunlight to climb back inside the house, share another kiss, lace their hands tighter and greet the rest of their hung-over friends, ready for a new year.
--
What is this I don't even.
Genre: Romance, fluff, nonsense, general shenanigans
Rating: PG-13 just to be safe.
Characters: America, England, Japan, the Italies, Bad Touch Trio. Good times. (USUK)
Warnings: Drunk people making out.
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, 1948, everyone's drunk, England has some unrequited feelings and America has a LOT of alcohol.
Notes: This is my first prompt fill for the usxuk Spring Fever Art/Ficathon! Yaaaay I'm so excited to participate this year. Anyway I came up with this instead of studying one day. I just edited it but it still may be bad. Well anyway. I hope you enjoy it. :)
Original prompt: First kiss.
It was the year 1948. And for the first time since the turn of the century, all the nations were together, on New Year’s Eve, in a huge house.
Drunk.
“What, is that scotch?” France asked, wincing as he dropped into the seat next to England. England was leaning back, one leg kicked over the other, a squat glass in hand. He looked at the glass, looked back at France, who had so rudely decided to join him without asking, and shrugged.
“I think so. Tastes funny though. I just drink whatever people pour in here,” England offered, his words slurring together. France raised his eyebrows.
“I see. How drunk are you?”
“Enough,” England responded, and threw back the rest of the clear liquid that was sitting in his glass. His eyes wandered through the smoky haze to the nearest wooden table, where eight others were sitting in a circle, playing a bizarre combination of Go Fish and poker. With partners.
It was the first social event that all nations-Allies and Axis alike-had attended. The war had been over for nearly three years now, and with reconstruction in Europe, growing industrialization and of course the slowly-growing threat of nuclear warfare (America and Russia were pretty much banned from the same part of the room), all of them were tired, stressed out, and very willing to be as drunk as possible heading into the tail end of the 1940s.
At the table, England had a clear view of America, who was partnered with Japan. There were bottles and glasses littering the table, and even though he was still recovering from his injuries, it was quite obvious that America had gotten Japan rather inebriated. His cheeks were pink, he had a goofy smile on his face and he was almost (if it were possible) as loud as America. He didn’t even seem to notice that his right arm was still in a sling or that he had a gash across his face that was still healing. He and America exchanged excited looks and laid down some of their cards, accusing Romano and Veneziano of something across the table.
Romano blew a smoke ring into their faces, dropping his cigarette back into the ashtray and taking a swig out of a flask.
The table erupted into yells and laughter as Veneziano somehow drew a bad card, and America and Japan high-fived, took two of the bottles on the table, and each took a considerably-sized gulp-although Japan’s wasn’t nearly as large as the one America downed.
America wiped his mouth on his arm, caught England’s eye, and gave him a bizarre look. It was almost like a wink, but his mouth seemed to twitch into a half-smile and his eyes glinted. England blinked and looked away, his face flushed. France was still sitting with England, having lit his own cigarette, and watched the silent interaction with great interest.
“What is this?” he cooed, and England placed his glass down and shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a light-blue button-down underneath that was rolled to his elbows. He glared at France as he went to refill his glass.
“Nothing is this,” he responded, practically wobbling his way to the bar. Spain was behind the counter for now, doling out all the liquor that the various nations had contributed. Of course, Spain himself was as drunk as the rest, as he was leaning on the counter more for support than anything. England motioned to the bottle of gin that was on the back shelf, and Spain retrieved it (with some difficulty). He was about to pour some into another glass when England swiped the entire bottle and went back to his seat, Spain shrugging in response.
“Hey-Romanoooooo!” Spain called over the calamity of the room. “England took your gin.”
“Fuck it, I’m busy,” Romano responded, waving a hand at Spain. Spain shrugged again and had his attention diverted as Belgium began chatting with him at the bar.
England sat down again in time for America to glance over at him again, and this time he did in fact wink, and England just frowned at him, but allowed the wink to travel throughout his entire body like a fever.
“Okay, I definitely saw that,” France said, taking the bottle from England (and drinking directly from it). England sighed heavily, and then coughed a bit as he breathed in a considerable amount of the smoke dangling in the room.
“S’nothing,” he muttered. “America, he always gets affectionate when he’s drunk.”
“How affectionate?” France asked, a smirk spreading across his face. But England wasn’t paying attention; he’d gone back to watching America with increased interest.
Truthfully, the other nation had been plaguing his mind since they first became Allies. The boy had grown into a considerable man, an adult, and he was as handsome as he was foolish. He was powerful, and England couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride that he had helped such a nation to blossom (even if it was because America had fought against him.)
But America was more than that. He had sunny blonde hair that came just above his ears(the boy was in need of a haircut), and eyes that sparkled whenever he spoke, hidden by the frames of his glasses. He was lean, he was tall, his muscles curved well to the bones in his body, with long fingers and a trim waist. He had a rosy tinge to his cheeks that made him seem like he was constantly flushing, although England knew better. He was charming and handsome and friendly and powerful. He had extended every effort to help (once he’d finally bothered to enter the bloody war) and was now helping to rebuild what the war had damaged.
England didn’t even realize that he began biting his lower lip while watching the young man. France continued to drink from the dark bottle, cringing and glancing at the label, finding he couldn’t read it, shrugging, and continuing on.
“He’s teasing you,” France offered finally, snapping England out of his thoughts. “He knows how attracted you are to him.”
“I-what-you-“ England stammered, clutching the edge of his chair. But he stole another glance at America, who was now high-fiving everyone at the table, and wrapping his arms loosely around Japan, laying a chaste kiss to his temple. The table sniggered and he threw a bottle at Romano, who dodged it and allowed it to hit Greece in the back of the head.
The night wore on, and everything started becoming much hazier. Time slipped by and England didn’t even realize it, until he finally noticed that his tongue wasn’t stinging from whatever he was drinking. He sniffed his cup and realized-he was drinking water. He lowered the cup and noticed that America was now throwing the cards into the table and was standing up, and coming over to him-
America grabbed his cup and drank long from it, sighing contentedly after he was finished.
“You wanna play?” America asked, gesturing to the table. “Our game ended. I think.”
“Not sure if I can stand,” England answered. “But I don’t, really.”
“You were sure interested before,” America said, raising an eyebrow. “Unless it was just me you were watchin’ so closely.” America’s pressed Oxford was unbuttoned all the way down his chest, revealing a white wife beater and his dog tags, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He rubbed his eyes and pushed his glasses up onto his head.
Alcohol and close quarters made nations do crazy things. As much as they were, in a sense, immortal and above human needs, they were still susceptible to base human instincts. Such as friendship, hate, anger, sorrow, love, pain, elation, and especially, arousal.
America dropped into England’s lap, and England jolted at the sudden weight. America draped his arms on England’s shoulders and leaned in close to him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes hazy, and leaned in so close to England’s neck that his breath tickled England’s skin.
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” America whispered into his ear. England could smell the beer on his breath. Before England could react, America’s lips were on his, pushing against him, fingers running light touches on the back of his neck. America crossed his legs and leaned against England’s shoulder, turning his head, as if trying to devour as much of England as he could get.
England blinked in surprise, but his body was urging him to stop sitting there like an idiot and do something, so he settled his hands on America’s hips. That seemed to be an encouraging motion, for America wiggled his shoulders and moaned lightly into his lips, a smile forming across his face. England closed his eyes and allowed this to continue-he’d never realized how badly he’d wanted something like this.
About a million and a half questions ran through England’s drunken haze of a brain. What is going on? Why are we snogging on a chair? What is happening? Is this America or alcohol talking?... is this me or alcohol RESPONDING? But the more America caressed his neck and shoulders, and the more he explored his upper lip with his tongue, the less England thought, and the more he felt. This wouldn’t be the first time two nations had hooked up randomly, but normally it was two nations that did this regularly. England had been rather chaste in his last few hundred years, and America was still practically a child. He could tell as they kissed how inexperienced (yet eager) America was.
They broke apart for a moment after a particularly wet kiss, America laying kisses to his upper lip and the corner of his mouth. They hadn’t said anything with words, and England wasn’t even sure how much time had gone by. His hands had migrated from his hips to on hand on America’s back, to the other on his thigh, right above his knee.
“What’re you doing,” England muttered, more of a statement than an inquiry. America fell back to his lips, shifting a bit closer, their chests practically touching.
“Iunno,” America muttered back once he pulled away, licking the thin trail of saliva away that was hanging between their mouths. “You want me to stop?”
“Hell no,” England responded, and pulled America back in. He didn’t even notice the sharp whistle (France? Spain? Prussia? Probably all three of them actually) as people began noticing their actions. But England hardly noticed. He was too busy being electrified on every part of his body from America’s touch. He had always been aware of his attraction to America, but this just solidified it. Every brush of his fingertips, every lick of his tongue-it all made England swoon.
America’s glasses fell off his head onto England’s forehead, and England grabbed them clumsily and dropped them to the table, leaning over America, contorting their bodies into an almost-but-not-really-lying position, breathing in his scent.
He hoped America was deriving just as much pleasure as he was during all this. It would be all the sweeter to know that, even if America’s feelings weren’t genuine and he was just acting on some drunk, horny impulse, that he was at least enjoying the ride.
America’s only vocalizations were soft moans and slight giggles, and England wondered just how far his drunken mind would take this-
And suddenly it was over. And he was sopping wet. The two jerked apart as they were both covered in freezing cold water, and America hopped off his lap, wiping his wet hair out of his eyes. England looked up to see Prussia standing over him, holding a metal bucket in his hands. Spain was beside him, holding a beer, another bucket hanging from the crook of his elbow. England glanced past the two and saw France beside the icebox that was located behind the counter, gesturing to the (now empty) container that held ice. France slammed the door closed and grinned.
“You assholes-“ England started, but America just grabbed his classes, picked up a beer bottle and threw it at Prussia. Prussia dodged the bottle and it ricocheted from the counter onto the floor where it smashed.
“What the fuck was that? Was that a throw?” Prussia challenged, and America snickered.
“You wanna see a throw? I’ll throw you out the Goddamn window!” America proclaimed, and he was now chasing Prussia throughout the (den? Was that where they were? They were somewhere in France’s ridiculously-sized mansion) room and into another room.
England stood up, ringing out his shirt, flustered and confused and aroused and freaking wet. He turned and glared at Spain.
“What the bloody hell was that for?” he exclaimed. Spain shrugged.
“You looked a little hot,” Spain offered. “Your cheeks, they’re all red. Get a little sunburnt?” and Spain just laughed as England, flustered beyond belief, stalked over to the bar, grabbed the first bottle of clear liquid he saw, and stormed away to be distracted by the amusing, drunken interactions of China and Lichtenstein.
He didn’t see America for the rest of the night.
--
The next time he came across America, it was sometime between eight and nine a.m. England was sitting out on one of France’s higher balconies, back to the cool brick of the building, waiting for something to happen. The sun was just throwing streaks through the dark blue of the sky, and England was sporting a throbbing headache, part of a black eye and a long-awaited smoke.
He stared upwards, the roof just above his view, watching as the sun snaked its way into the morning. His brain was fuzzy with the activities of the evening, but as far as he had heard, no one was stabbed or shot this year, which was a step up from the last time they held a giant party like this.
The cool rush of morning air caressed his face. He was still a little warm from being so drunk, and he was sure his hangover would become stronger over the course of the day. But for now he could enjoy the silence, until he had to face the rest of the world.
And, of course, Ame-
“I see I’m not the only early bird today,” a voice said, piercing his thoughts. England glanced to his left and took a sharp breath as America climbed out the window England had used to get out onto the balcony. America’s hair was a mess, and he had lost his button-down shirt, wearing only the wife beater and his dark blue pants. His cheeks were more flushed than usual, but he appeared to be sober-his eyes were much clearer. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Be my guest,” England said, but it came out more of a mumble. America gingerly sat down, frowning slightly at England’s cigarette, but said nothing. He winced as he settled himself and put a hand to his head, also suffering the effects of a hangover. The air between them hung heavy with tension as the minutes dragged on. He wanted to say something to America-oh hey, sorry about getting so carried away last night, did you know how close I was to shagging you?-but he refrained. He was afraid he’d say something foolish if he spoke. Or even cry, for he knew that last night was only a taste of something that would never be.
Finally, America spoke.
“Sorry about last night.”
“About what?” England asked, choosing the innocent route. America sighed.
“About... about the kissing and stuff.”
“Oh... oh. That.”
“Yeah.” America shifted uncomfortably, drawing his legs into his chest with a shiver. “S’okay if you’re annoyed or somethin’, it was pretty-pretty stupid of me to do.”
So that’s what America thinks of kissing me, England thought dumbly. He did his best to contain his obvious disappointment and snubbed out the rest of his cigarette on the cement. He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I didn’t mind,” England said, speaking from a place that wanted America to feel less guilty. It was only after he spoke that it dawned on him what he was saying, and America’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Y-you didn’t?” America stammered. England laid his head back against the side of the house and put a hand to his face.
“No, I-I didn’t mean it like that-“
“So... you didn’t like me... me kissing you?” America said, his voice tentative. England was beet red, although America was equally as red.
“No, I mean... it was....” he just stared at America. He found his mouth moving without any sound, and he finally continued. “...it was nice.”
“Really?” America asked, and he perked up, just a little bit. “Because, um, I didn’t really hate it either.” The silence pervaded, although the tension lessened. England crossed his legs and looked at America, who was looking at his knees.
“Why did you do it?” England asked suddenly. America glanced at England and then looked back down at his knees.
“I... I saw you looking over at the table, and I thought-I thought maybe, you... I was drunk,” America admitted. “And, you, I don’t know, your face, and... I...” he was stumbling over his words, and avoiding England’s gaze. Was... was America actually embarrassed about something? “...I just wanted to kiss you, I guess.”
There was a tightness in England’s chest. He leaned over a little bit, placing his hand on America’s arm. He remembered the spark, the lightening, the electricity that went with every single one of America’s touches, and not just the night before, but whenever they touched, even if it was in passing, a brief tap of the arm. America looked up again and met with England’s gaze.
“So... do you still... want to?” he asked. America blinked and swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we try, then?” England offered. America glanced out into the sky, then looked back at England, took a breath, and nodded.
England bit his lower lip and looked up at America, wanting to avoid his eyes but finding himself unable. America dropped his arms from around his legs and leaned over, leaning on one arm, and stopped right before England. They stared at each other for a moment, and as if searching for a hint of regret, and then moved forward, closing their eyes at the same time, and allowing their lips to fall together.
This kiss was much more tentative then the ones they shared the night before-no open-mouthed tongue-waltzing, just slight pressure applied to the lips, heads turned just enough so they weren’t banging their noses together. England felt his heart racing in his chest, and there it was again-heat raced through his body at America’s touch. He was just enamored. He was especially delighted by the way that America tasted this morning-like cinnamon and old leather, a hint of cologne still lingering along his neck. His lips were sweet, most likely from all of the sugar he consumed on a daily basis.
America was the first to pull back, and England remained where he was, slowly opening his eyes. He expected America to reel away, to leave, or even to be disgusted with himself-kissing England, what a notion-
America leaned in again, faster this time, turning his head more, and kissed him again. England was taken aback and nearly fell over in surprise, and America pulled back, putting a hand over his mouth. He reached out and pulled England back into a sitting position.
“Oi, England, what-“
“I’m alright,” England muttered. He looked back at America. “You just surprised me.”
“...well?” America asked slowly. “What did you, um, think of that?” England licked his lips and smiled.
“I really liked it that time,” he said, and inwardly he chided himself for how foolish he sounded. What are you, a teenage girl? he thought to himself. America smiled.
“I really liked it, too,” America replied. “...I really like you.”
“Oh,” was all England could say. "I..." His voice died in his throat. He wanted to say a million things to America, but none of them could be voiced coherently. So he extended his hand to America, hoping his open palm would signify everything he wished he could say.
America took it, squeezing it gently, and smiled up at England, a smile that spread from his lips all the way around his entire face.
“... can we pretend that kiss just then was our first?” America asked. England raised his eyebrows at the beaming American.
“Why?”
“Drunken making out isn’t very romantic,” America said, and England laughed. Of course, Mr. Hollywood would choose the perfect approach to a romance. England scooted closer to America, until he was close enough to lean his head on his shoulder, their hands clasped in their laps.
They stayed that way for a long time, waiting until they were bathed in sunlight to climb back inside the house, share another kiss, lace their hands tighter and greet the rest of their hung-over friends, ready for a new year.
--
What is this I don't even.