(FIC) Axis Powers Hetalia - EnglandXEveryone, FranceXEveryone, USUK - Love and War
So, a long time ago, I was going through Part One of the Hetalia Kink Meme (hetalia_kink), and I saw this prompt that went something like "England and France comparing conquests, America gaping". I thought, "hey, now, this would be funny! Shame I wouldn't be able to write it." Well, my head had another opinion, the fic was born... And I couldn't find the prompt anymore! U.u I decided to post under my regular pen name, to see if the OP!Anon finds it.
All relations between nations came from research from Wikipedia. Sorry if I got my facts wrong. Also, OP!Anon, if you're out there, sorry this wound up USUK... Hetalia things that I write tend to do that.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Title: Love and War
Author: the_pursuer
Rating: T
Genre: Comedy/Romance
Pairings: England X America, France X Canada, mentions of England X Everyone and France X Everyone.
Spoilers: For the series in general, "Cleaning Up the Storage" arc.
Summary: The ultimate fighting competition, World Meeting Round: who's the nation who's bedded more nations, England or France?
Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia. If I did, I would understand its publishing schedule better.
Love and War
“I don’t think so.”
America raised his eyes from the table, slurping his soda with an interested look, while Canada let out a little sigh at having attention stolen from him once again. A sly smile spread over France’s face as he slowly turned to face his eternal rival.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t think so,” England repeated, smirking. “You’re definitely not the nation that’s bedded more nations.”
He sipped from his tea very calmly, seeming satisfied with leaving them hanging.
France, of course, wasn’t satisfied. “Enlighten me, mon chéri.”
“Why, frog, are you going deaf from old age?” England replied, his smirk growing wider. “I thought I had made myself clear.”
“You have a very poor sense of rhetoric, then, rosbif. Of course, merely insinuating that I am not champion at the art of l’amour among nations is a proof of the utter nonsense that passes itself as your brain, but-”
“Oh, you may have bedded many nations, I acknowledge that,” England interrupted. “But you’re definitely not the champion.”
“Then who is this champion, if I may ask?”
“Me, of course.”
France snorted with laughter, and Canada burst into an honest, if unnoticed, coughing fit. America unglued his lips from the straw for a moment to raise his eyebrows and ask:
“England, have you been drinking?”
“No!” England said. Then he blushed. “And even if I had had some drinks before the world meeting - or during the world meeting… and a few gulps after… it would not mean that I’m wrong!”
“Could you be more pathetic, Angleterre?” If asked, France would deny having done such an unromantic thing as sneering, but there was no other way to describe the expression on his face. “The very idea of you having bedded more nations than me is utterly ridiculous.”
“You are utterly ridiculous,” England retorted. “C’mon, then, I dare you! Tell me the name of a nation you’ve slept with and I haven’t!”
Too distracted by their little brawl, England didn’t see America looking away, nor did he see Canada blushing. France did throw a furtive glance America’s way, but went on:
“Have you slept with… Russia, for example?” He considered having bedded Russia, of all nations - which he had done in 1702, in the very same night his ambassador arrived at Moscow to establish their first diplomatic ties - one of his greatest victories in the name of l’amour.
“Yes,” England said, and America choked on his soda.
Canada went to the other side of the table to help his brother, who had soda coming out from his nose, while France went white.
“When?” the Frenchman managed to utter.
“When we signed the Anglo-Russian Entente,” England said, a delighted smirk on his face. “We all went drinking to celebrate, Scotland passed out, Northern Ireland and Wales took him home, Russia and I were alone and-”
“Russia, England?! Seriously?!” America managed to croak when he finally stopped coughing.
England just shrugged. “He’s good, if you want to know.”
“I-ah-eh!-I definitely didn’t!”
While Canada retreated to his seat and America started sulking, France carefully prepared his next move. It had to be well thought out, now; England had successfully proved him he had been underestimated, and France never made the same mistake twice when it came to the rosbif.
“Have you slept with Spain, then?” the Frenchman asked, no trace of smile now in his face. Spain and England had been enemies for very, very long, but there had been a time when-
“Yes,” England said triumphantly. “During the Napoleonic Wars. Boy, was he upset about Portugal and all the other stuff.”
France waved it off, clearly wanting to go on with the game. “Let the past stay in the past. Seychelles?”
England snorted. “World War Two.” And, then, in a half-indignant tone: “Did you sleep with her?”
“Obviously, Angleterre, or I wouldn’t be asking.” And, before England could open his mouth again: “And, no, I did not do that while she was still a colony of mine. I am not a pedophile.”
England shook his head, smirking. “It’s about the only thing you aren’t.”
“Shut up,” France said. This was proving more difficult than he had thought it would be. “China?”
“You’re not even making an effort,” England scoffed. “Centuries of trade relations and wars - what, did you think the only thing we've ever done was chat over tea? C’mon, France, give me a challenge.”
“If you would just stop talking with that obnoxious voice of yours, then I might be able to think!” France quipped. Canada and America looked at him curiously; they had seen France in various states of distress, but outright irritated was very rare.
England shut his mouth, but his smirk said everything he wanted to.
France stayed silent for a moment. “…Belgium?”
“Right after World War One. About 1920, I reckon. She complained about not having had sex over a year - we were drunk.”
“Austria?”
“During the War of Austrian Succession. He was feeling lonely, we both had had too much wine-”
“Prussia?”
“During the Seven Years War. He was feeling lonely, we both had had too much wine-”
America’s jaw had dropped. He started: “Were you ever sober-,” but was cut off by France’s triumphant scream of “CANADA!”
There was a moment’s pause, in which America stared at Canada unbelievingly, France stared at England exultantly, England just looked at Canada as if consulting him, and Canada wished a hole would open under his feet and he would be swallowed into it.
America broke the silence, of course. “You slept with France?”
Canada spluttered. “Ah - eh - maybe once-”
“But you didn’t sleep with the barbaric Englishman, did you, dearest?” France asked him, in the voice normal people use when talking to children. “No, you wouldn’t betray papa like that, you’ve always been such a good boy.”
“…If it’s not too much trouble - eh - would you mind too much not calling yourself ‘papa’ when you’re discussing sex with me?…”
France didn’t listen to that one; he was looking from England to Canada to England again, figuring out the truth. He went whiter. “Oh my God, Canada, did you-?”
“Yes,” England said with a final quality to it. “Stop bothering him about it.”
America choked on his soda again, while France assumed a deeply betrayed look, handkerchief-biting and all.
“How could you!” he said, pointing a finger at Canada, his eyes full of tears.
Canada, who had crossed the table to help his brother again, mumbled something under his breath, his face as red as a tomato.
“Oi, stop it already, frog!” England said, feeling a bit protective. “It was a long time ago, and Canada was adult enough then to know better. And, to answer your question, America, I wasn’t drunk then.”
America didn’t seem to listen - he was too busy coughing and looking at Canada with wide eyes. “England? I mean - I - you - England?!”
Canada went even redder, if such a thing was possible, and looked to both sides of the room like he wanted to run away. “It was a very long time ago, I swear,” he said despairingly. “Could we please stop discussing my sex life?”
England, who had been looking confusedly at America, sat up straighter at this. “You heard the boy. Come on, France, I’m still waiting.”
France did not rise to the bait right then - he was looking at America too. “…Just let me think.”
Before he could say another name, though, America interrupted them, rising from his seat. “Hey, guys, how about we call it a draw?”
Both England and France shot him such a freezing glare that, had America been any other nation - especially one that had been around to witness the Napoleonic Wars with their very own eyes -, he would have stopped immediately. But, well, he was America, and he went on: “I mean, look, the break’s almost over, and Canada is upset.”
“America-”
“Shhh, Canada, I’m defending you. ‘Sides, I can think right now of a person England never slept with, and I can think of a person France never slept with. It’s easy.”
France was outraged. “Tell me the name of one such person, and I will immediately sleep with them!”
Canada’s meek comment about how that wasn’t really up for France to decide was cut by England’s raucous laugh: “Okay, then, America. Tell me who the frog didn’t have sex with so I can see his white chagrined face.”
“Angleterre, you-”
“Easy! You, England!”
America found himself at the end of two blank stares.
“Man, you too are slow,” he said good-naturedly, not to be deterred by something like "reading the atmosphere". “I mean, you’ve always hated each other since you two were born - like, since the dinosaurs were around.”
The stares were still blank.
“You’re really gonna make me state the obvious, aren’t’cha? Okay, there it goes: You never had sex with each other. There, problem solved, let’s end the stupid contest!”
England and France stared at America, then exchanged a look.
Then they started chuckling.
America looked triumphantly to Canada, who was looking at England and France - who were by then pretty much laughing their asses off -, and frowned; Canada’s expression looked nauseated. “What’s up?”
“Ah - eh - they’re laughing-”
“Yeah, ‘cause the idea of them having sex is so ridiculous they can’t stop laughing! See, I won!”
At this, England and France laughed even harder; England was punching the table and France was howling in a way he would deem inelegant, if he had any control over himself.
America beamed at Canada. “Okay! Since this is obviously over, I’m gonna get some coffee.”
To Canada’s relief, once America walked away, the laughing fit started to cease; bit by bit, England and France regained control, though a few chuckles still escaped them every now and then.
“Now, I haven’t had such a good laugh in months,” France commented, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
England nodded, he himself still giggling. “Okay, frog”, he said, trying to stop, “go on already.”
France chuckled once more, then closed his eyes, slapped his own cheeks very lightly, gave a long sigh, then said: “All right, all right. Netherlands.”
“1824.”
“…Thailand.”
“1612.”
“Portugal!”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“That conniving-”
“I should be saying that - we’ve had an alliance since before I was adult, and he goes around and has sex with you? Honestly.”
“Oh, shut up. Para-”
“What, you’re still playing this game?” America frowned, upon coming back to the table with a cup of coffee in hands. “I thought we had all agreed it’s a stupid game.”
“Shut up, America,” France said. “Paraguay.”
“1853. When we signed that treaty.”
“That cannot be. I had sex with Paraguay when we signed that treaty!”
“Well, I had sex with Paraguay that night. Early in the evening, I recall. And that was him, Uruguay’s got darker hair. Either you’re being delusional, frog, or-”
“I’m not being delusional. I had sex with Paraguay roughly at midnight, I remember. Either you’re lying to me, or-”
They both looked at each other dumbfounded; Canada had to stifle his laughter.
“…Well,” England said, “I - I swear on my honor as a British gentleman.”
“Swearing on something inexistent is of no use,” France quipped, but he actually accepted the words - he too looked a little shaken. “Let’s think of somebody else, then.”
“How about Croatia?”
“I’m the one supposed to suggest the countries! …When?”
“2007. Man,” England laughed, waved a hand, “that was a wild night.”
France fumed. Though he never said “this cannot possibly be happening” - it would have been too vulgar, and he would rather let the comic-book clichés to America - the fact he was thinking exactly that was just about printed on his forehead.
America looked even more upset. “People, can’t we let this go? You two look like children-”
“Well, if France is okay with losing to me…” England said, smirking.
“I have not lost!” France exclaimed. “Czech!”
“Yep.”
“Denmark!”
“Yep.”
“Kosovo!”
“You can bet your ass on it.”
England’s smirk was wider now, and he had the self-conceited air of someone who is one-hundred percent sure of victory; he was even crossing his arms and gloating silently. France did not see those things, because he wasn’t looking at England; his eyes were stuck to the table, in search of a name. It was obvious, from the glistening sweat on his skin, that he was nearing panic; he had fought over land and over power against the rosbif, but never over a matter as important as l’amour, and he could not stand losing.
So France yelled in despair, “Italy!”
There is a common belief out there that, at any party, a lull will come naturally every seven minutes or so, making it perfect for others to hear any embarrassing things one might have said out loud.
Well, even if it isn’t true, France yelled loud enough for everyone to hear it over the noise.
There was a pause of silence, as everyone stared at France in expectation - England fighting France was commonplace; third parties getting involved heightened the chances of the missing being dismissed early due to chaos -, Germany frowned impressively, and Romano crossed his arms in a dangerous way.
“What is it, Big Brother France?” Italy asked, blinking.
France thought of saying something coy, but Germany’s frown - which was growing even more impressive - stopped him short. “Oh, nothing much, Italy dear. I was merely - merely - you know - practicing your name. You know… so when I need to call you, I - I can do it without delay.”
Germany’s frown deepened, if such a thing was possible, and he would probably have gone up to France and demanded explanations if Italy’s answer didn’t throw him off: “Oh, okay! I know how that’s like, I’m always asking for help all the time! I practice yelling Germany’s name every day, I’m doing pretty well by now! Aren’t I, Germany?”
“Italy, you do realize-” but Germany only had to look at the Italian’s face to see that no, he didn’t realize. He sighed. “Yes, you are. You’re an expert in calling me.”
Italy looked touched and promptly hugged Germany - killing two birds with one stone, France thought, realizing that Italy had already forgotten all about his indiscretion, and that Germany had been successfully distracted from murdering him. Sighs were released from everyone in the cafeteria; some sounded kind of disappointed.
Sighing himself, he turned back to look at England… and suddenly realized Italy might have killed three birds with one stone.
“Angleterre? Why are you so pale?” he asked, his voice the voice of one who dares not to hope but hopes anyway.
England, whose skin was just about the color of porridge, opened and closed his mouth a few times. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he settled on, but his voice sounded off.
France looked at Canada, to make sure the sight wasn’t a product of his wishful thinking; Canada was looking very apprehensively at England, so it was probably-
“It cannot be,” France started, his smile gleeful, “that you’ve never had sex with Italy. Italy.”
England laughed a poor job of a laugh, tried to dismiss it with one hand, muttering something that sounded panicked and positively horrified under his breath. “I - I don’t know - he’s always been afraid of me-”
France could not stop himself anymore; he released a long, arrogant noblewoman’s laugh - laughter which he could perform perfectly, despite not being a noblewoman himself. “Really? Italy? I was thinking of Thailand, Russia, Kosovo, and you’ve never had sex with Italy?!” He released another laugh, probably enjoying himself far more than he should. “And to think you’ve actually had me worried for a moment!”
When asked about this later, England would deny having been annoyed by France’s extremely annoying laugh, and it would be the truth: what he experienced in those moments was far more like torture, of the kind China was famous for. He would have nightmares for a week - in which every “ho, ho, ho” felt like it was being driven into his pride, like a chisel to a stone.
It was probably because of this that his despair momentarily overcame his gentlemanly behavior, and he yelled in a rather… France-like fashion: “Romano!”
There was another pause as the other nations turned to see what the Southern Italian would do - and were then disappointed by the fact South Italy had been too busy trying to pull his brother away from Germany to notice England screaming his name.
(Actually, he had noticed. But, unlike Italy, Romano had atmosphere-reading skills, and he remembered the Napoleonic Wars more than he cared for. If France and England were settling something, he would rather stay well out of the way of their shit.)
At England’s table, no one paid attention to any of the others’ reaction; England because he was waiting for France’s answer, and the other three because they were too busy gaping to form a coherent sentence.
“You didn’t.” America broke the silence; his ability to speak had never depended on his ability to form coherent sentences. He sounded rather like a teenage girl who’s just been informed her nerdy best friend made out with the worst delinquent in the school. “No. Way.”
“Not lying,” England said, and his smile was returning - it looked like a Cheshire Cat grin. “Test me with the lie detector, if you want to.”
“When?” France asked. It’s hard to convey that in text, but his tone implied that he had just found out England had stolen one of his twins from his cradle at the time of his birth and placed him in the care of a poor family who lived by the coast - and that the child was now pretending to be his twin, who had apparently died in a freak boat accident.
“After a meeting of the Tsundere Club’s.”
“The what club?”
“Never mind that now. So, frog,” he was grinning even more, “I guess we could call it… even.”
They could almost see the blood draining from France’s face at the mere idea of being even with England in romantic conquests.
“Oh, don’t even think about it! It was a low blow, Angleterre, but I am by no means defeated! Switzerland!”
England bit his lip, but didn’t miss a beat: “Australia!”
“Gabon!”
“New Zealand!”
“Mexico!”
“Barbados!”
“Stop saying all your colonies’s names! Slovenia!”
“Chile!”
“Serbia!”
“Japan!”
“What?!” America gaped.
“Don’t care! Lebanon!”
“Bahrain!”
“Niger!”
“Morocco!”
“America!”
“France!”
The last yell didn’t come from England, nor did it come from France (although France did prefer to think of masturbation as “sex with himself”); it came from a very dismayed America, who had predicted where this was going to end in the beginning.
“France, you - you - you said you were never going to tell!”
“I’m sorry, Amérique,” France said with a grieving air. “You were here, you saw me, I could have ended this - this-” he spouted something harsh-sounding in French, “from the get go. I did try to stand by my promise.”
“The fact that you tried doesn’t make up for the fact that you didn’t!”, America yelled.
“…What.”
Both France and America looked at England (Canada had been observing him from the moment France screamed America’s name), who had muttered the last word in a whispered, downcast tone. There was a deep red blush coming from his neck and going all the way to his ears.
“England,” America said mollifyingly, recognizing the coming of a storm, “you don’t-”
“Yes.” The word was so sharp it almost cut the air. “Yes, I don’t. Care to explain, frog?” And then England's eyes widened in horror: “Was it during the Revolution?”
“No,” France hurried to explain, “Angleterre, it was during-”
England probably never even registered that France had spoken, because, before France could end the sentence, he had jumped across the table and started strangling his arch-enemy, spouting some sort of gibberish that had Denmark, Norway and Sweden turn their heads.
“England! England, stop!”, America shouted, trying to pry England off France (which he could have done easily if France didn’t care about having his head in the right place over his shoulders, but…)
Canada was also trying to pry England off France in his own way: “Please, England, if you could please stop, you’re going to damage France’s vocal chords, and you know how he’s like when he’s hoarse, he keeps whispering in everybody’s ear-”
England turned to Canada with a wild look on his face: “During the Revolution, I was dying inside, the fucking son of a bitch-”
“England, I didn’t sleep with France during the Revolution.”
The sentence was spoken calmly, and the fact that America could even say anything in such a serious, subdued tone seemed to pierce through England’s red veil of anger. The pressure of his fingers upon France’s throat lessened a little bit, and France’s color slowly changed from a worrying blue to a slightly less worrying red.
“…You - didn’t?”, he asked quietly. France made a few croaking sounds.
America rolled his eyes. “Prussia was training me. If I stopped to think about anything else other than training, he’d kick my ass, and, at night, the only thing I could think about was sleeping. ‘Sides, I - I really wasn’t in the mood to think about this kind of stuff back then.”
It was the closest America had ever come to admitting he also had been hurt by the Revolution, and England was so surprised by that that he let go of France’s neck.
“…Then - then when?” he asked in that same quiet, whispered tone, while Canada hurried to assist France in getting up and obtaining enough oxygen.
America gave him a dry look. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“You don’t - oh.” England’s anger was just about gone. He stopped looking at America and set his eyes on the floor. “Okay then.”
If anyone ever wondered how was it that England managed to get laid, what with being so unreasonable and stuffy and prone to explosions, this person had never witnessed England looking like a kicked puppy.
America sighed. “If you really want to know, old man, it was the day France gave me Liberty. The statue, I mean.”
England shuffled his feet, his voice coming out defensive. “I didn’t want to know that.”
“Well, fine, then,” America said sulkily.
“Fine, then,” England said, just as sulkily.
Silence reigned in for a few seconds. The Nordics realized no other bouts of Old Norse were going to come from England’s mouth and turned again to the card game they were playing (Denmark wanted to keep watching, but Norway pulled him by his tie and that was that).
“…I’m going to return to the hotel,” England said, breaking the silence. “I - I left a few documents behind. You won, France. Congratulations, blast you to hell, and all that shit.”
It was clear that he was aiming for a dignified exit, but the effect was ruined by the huge cloud of blue gloom that followed him out the door.
After he left, Canada went to fetch France some water, and America sat back down in a heavy, tired motion. The other nations kept watching for any explosions coming from him - not his usual modus operandi, but, then again, no one but Canada and France had ever seen him looking so bitter - but, as he continued to slurp his soda without so much as raising his eyes from the table, they slowly drew their eyes away.
As he returned with the water and got a look at his brother, Canada sighed. He helped France to his seat, held the glass of water as the Frenchman drank, and, without looking at America, said: “You should go after him.”
America shot him an angry look. “It’s not my fault if he’s all butt-hurt. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Obviously you haven’t,” Canada nodded, holding the glass as France paused to breathe. “But you can see why he’s upset, can’t you?”
“He’s just being a control-freak like always, treating me like a child-”
“Oh, America,” Canada sighed again. He had a feeling he would be doing it a lot that night. “France says he slept with twenty-five different countries, colonies of his included, sixteen of which England had relations with-”
“You kept count? How the hell did you-”
“-and the only thing that bothers England is that France slept with you. What does that say about him?”
America fell silent, and looked away.
France opened his mouth, but Canada shook his head at him; after a pause, he placed his hands over one of his brother’s.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “If you run, you can still catch up with him.”
America nodded, still silent; and then, with a convulsive movement, he got up. When the other nations peered over their shoulders to see what was that noise, he’d reached running speed and was storming off the door, without even looking back to say thanks.
Well, Canada hadn’t expected thanks anyway, so he was quite happy with the fact that, perhaps, this whole Unresolved Sexual Tension thing might get resolved… and he was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice someone creeping up behind him until he heard a hoarse voice whispering in his ear: “So, doesn’t the winner deserve a prize?”
France’s grin was impish, and Canada fought back a shiver. “Not when you sold your soul for it,” he muttered, and he knew the Frenchman couldn’t make out the words.
France seemed to get the spirit of it, though; he stepped back and looked contrite. “I actually won it when I said Veneziano’s name”, he said. “The rest was only a consequence of England being a bad loser.” And, when Canada didn’t look convinced, “Oh, please, mon chéri, give me a chance tonight? I’ll give you extra attention, I promise.”
Canada bit his lip. Extra attention was always nice, and he did feel like he had earned it, from all he had gone through today… Oh, to hell with it. “Okay, then”, he said, sighing, “but you can’t call yourself ‘papa’ in bed. And I mean it.”
“Agreed,” France said, and, smiling, threw an arm around Canada’s shoulders, leaning in to nibble playfully at his ear.
USUK Ending
All relations between nations came from research from Wikipedia. Sorry if I got my facts wrong. Also, OP!Anon, if you're out there, sorry this wound up USUK... Hetalia things that I write tend to do that.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Title: Love and War
Author: the_pursuer
Rating: T
Genre: Comedy/Romance
Pairings: England X America, France X Canada, mentions of England X Everyone and France X Everyone.
Spoilers: For the series in general, "Cleaning Up the Storage" arc.
Summary: The ultimate fighting competition, World Meeting Round: who's the nation who's bedded more nations, England or France?
Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia. If I did, I would understand its publishing schedule better.
Love and War
“I don’t think so.”
America raised his eyes from the table, slurping his soda with an interested look, while Canada let out a little sigh at having attention stolen from him once again. A sly smile spread over France’s face as he slowly turned to face his eternal rival.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t think so,” England repeated, smirking. “You’re definitely not the nation that’s bedded more nations.”
He sipped from his tea very calmly, seeming satisfied with leaving them hanging.
France, of course, wasn’t satisfied. “Enlighten me, mon chéri.”
“Why, frog, are you going deaf from old age?” England replied, his smirk growing wider. “I thought I had made myself clear.”
“You have a very poor sense of rhetoric, then, rosbif. Of course, merely insinuating that I am not champion at the art of l’amour among nations is a proof of the utter nonsense that passes itself as your brain, but-”
“Oh, you may have bedded many nations, I acknowledge that,” England interrupted. “But you’re definitely not the champion.”
“Then who is this champion, if I may ask?”
“Me, of course.”
France snorted with laughter, and Canada burst into an honest, if unnoticed, coughing fit. America unglued his lips from the straw for a moment to raise his eyebrows and ask:
“England, have you been drinking?”
“No!” England said. Then he blushed. “And even if I had had some drinks before the world meeting - or during the world meeting… and a few gulps after… it would not mean that I’m wrong!”
“Could you be more pathetic, Angleterre?” If asked, France would deny having done such an unromantic thing as sneering, but there was no other way to describe the expression on his face. “The very idea of you having bedded more nations than me is utterly ridiculous.”
“You are utterly ridiculous,” England retorted. “C’mon, then, I dare you! Tell me the name of a nation you’ve slept with and I haven’t!”
Too distracted by their little brawl, England didn’t see America looking away, nor did he see Canada blushing. France did throw a furtive glance America’s way, but went on:
“Have you slept with… Russia, for example?” He considered having bedded Russia, of all nations - which he had done in 1702, in the very same night his ambassador arrived at Moscow to establish their first diplomatic ties - one of his greatest victories in the name of l’amour.
“Yes,” England said, and America choked on his soda.
Canada went to the other side of the table to help his brother, who had soda coming out from his nose, while France went white.
“When?” the Frenchman managed to utter.
“When we signed the Anglo-Russian Entente,” England said, a delighted smirk on his face. “We all went drinking to celebrate, Scotland passed out, Northern Ireland and Wales took him home, Russia and I were alone and-”
“Russia, England?! Seriously?!” America managed to croak when he finally stopped coughing.
England just shrugged. “He’s good, if you want to know.”
“I-ah-eh!-I definitely didn’t!”
While Canada retreated to his seat and America started sulking, France carefully prepared his next move. It had to be well thought out, now; England had successfully proved him he had been underestimated, and France never made the same mistake twice when it came to the rosbif.
“Have you slept with Spain, then?” the Frenchman asked, no trace of smile now in his face. Spain and England had been enemies for very, very long, but there had been a time when-
“Yes,” England said triumphantly. “During the Napoleonic Wars. Boy, was he upset about Portugal and all the other stuff.”
France waved it off, clearly wanting to go on with the game. “Let the past stay in the past. Seychelles?”
England snorted. “World War Two.” And, then, in a half-indignant tone: “Did you sleep with her?”
“Obviously, Angleterre, or I wouldn’t be asking.” And, before England could open his mouth again: “And, no, I did not do that while she was still a colony of mine. I am not a pedophile.”
England shook his head, smirking. “It’s about the only thing you aren’t.”
“Shut up,” France said. This was proving more difficult than he had thought it would be. “China?”
“You’re not even making an effort,” England scoffed. “Centuries of trade relations and wars - what, did you think the only thing we've ever done was chat over tea? C’mon, France, give me a challenge.”
“If you would just stop talking with that obnoxious voice of yours, then I might be able to think!” France quipped. Canada and America looked at him curiously; they had seen France in various states of distress, but outright irritated was very rare.
England shut his mouth, but his smirk said everything he wanted to.
France stayed silent for a moment. “…Belgium?”
“Right after World War One. About 1920, I reckon. She complained about not having had sex over a year - we were drunk.”
“Austria?”
“During the War of Austrian Succession. He was feeling lonely, we both had had too much wine-”
“Prussia?”
“During the Seven Years War. He was feeling lonely, we both had had too much wine-”
America’s jaw had dropped. He started: “Were you ever sober-,” but was cut off by France’s triumphant scream of “CANADA!”
There was a moment’s pause, in which America stared at Canada unbelievingly, France stared at England exultantly, England just looked at Canada as if consulting him, and Canada wished a hole would open under his feet and he would be swallowed into it.
America broke the silence, of course. “You slept with France?”
Canada spluttered. “Ah - eh - maybe once-”
“But you didn’t sleep with the barbaric Englishman, did you, dearest?” France asked him, in the voice normal people use when talking to children. “No, you wouldn’t betray papa like that, you’ve always been such a good boy.”
“…If it’s not too much trouble - eh - would you mind too much not calling yourself ‘papa’ when you’re discussing sex with me?…”
France didn’t listen to that one; he was looking from England to Canada to England again, figuring out the truth. He went whiter. “Oh my God, Canada, did you-?”
“Yes,” England said with a final quality to it. “Stop bothering him about it.”
America choked on his soda again, while France assumed a deeply betrayed look, handkerchief-biting and all.
“How could you!” he said, pointing a finger at Canada, his eyes full of tears.
Canada, who had crossed the table to help his brother again, mumbled something under his breath, his face as red as a tomato.
“Oi, stop it already, frog!” England said, feeling a bit protective. “It was a long time ago, and Canada was adult enough then to know better. And, to answer your question, America, I wasn’t drunk then.”
America didn’t seem to listen - he was too busy coughing and looking at Canada with wide eyes. “England? I mean - I - you - England?!”
Canada went even redder, if such a thing was possible, and looked to both sides of the room like he wanted to run away. “It was a very long time ago, I swear,” he said despairingly. “Could we please stop discussing my sex life?”
England, who had been looking confusedly at America, sat up straighter at this. “You heard the boy. Come on, France, I’m still waiting.”
France did not rise to the bait right then - he was looking at America too. “…Just let me think.”
Before he could say another name, though, America interrupted them, rising from his seat. “Hey, guys, how about we call it a draw?”
Both England and France shot him such a freezing glare that, had America been any other nation - especially one that had been around to witness the Napoleonic Wars with their very own eyes -, he would have stopped immediately. But, well, he was America, and he went on: “I mean, look, the break’s almost over, and Canada is upset.”
“America-”
“Shhh, Canada, I’m defending you. ‘Sides, I can think right now of a person England never slept with, and I can think of a person France never slept with. It’s easy.”
France was outraged. “Tell me the name of one such person, and I will immediately sleep with them!”
Canada’s meek comment about how that wasn’t really up for France to decide was cut by England’s raucous laugh: “Okay, then, America. Tell me who the frog didn’t have sex with so I can see his white chagrined face.”
“Angleterre, you-”
“Easy! You, England!”
America found himself at the end of two blank stares.
“Man, you too are slow,” he said good-naturedly, not to be deterred by something like "reading the atmosphere". “I mean, you’ve always hated each other since you two were born - like, since the dinosaurs were around.”
The stares were still blank.
“You’re really gonna make me state the obvious, aren’t’cha? Okay, there it goes: You never had sex with each other. There, problem solved, let’s end the stupid contest!”
England and France stared at America, then exchanged a look.
Then they started chuckling.
America looked triumphantly to Canada, who was looking at England and France - who were by then pretty much laughing their asses off -, and frowned; Canada’s expression looked nauseated. “What’s up?”
“Ah - eh - they’re laughing-”
“Yeah, ‘cause the idea of them having sex is so ridiculous they can’t stop laughing! See, I won!”
At this, England and France laughed even harder; England was punching the table and France was howling in a way he would deem inelegant, if he had any control over himself.
America beamed at Canada. “Okay! Since this is obviously over, I’m gonna get some coffee.”
To Canada’s relief, once America walked away, the laughing fit started to cease; bit by bit, England and France regained control, though a few chuckles still escaped them every now and then.
“Now, I haven’t had such a good laugh in months,” France commented, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
England nodded, he himself still giggling. “Okay, frog”, he said, trying to stop, “go on already.”
France chuckled once more, then closed his eyes, slapped his own cheeks very lightly, gave a long sigh, then said: “All right, all right. Netherlands.”
“1824.”
“…Thailand.”
“1612.”
“Portugal!”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“That conniving-”
“I should be saying that - we’ve had an alliance since before I was adult, and he goes around and has sex with you? Honestly.”
“Oh, shut up. Para-”
“What, you’re still playing this game?” America frowned, upon coming back to the table with a cup of coffee in hands. “I thought we had all agreed it’s a stupid game.”
“Shut up, America,” France said. “Paraguay.”
“1853. When we signed that treaty.”
“That cannot be. I had sex with Paraguay when we signed that treaty!”
“Well, I had sex with Paraguay that night. Early in the evening, I recall. And that was him, Uruguay’s got darker hair. Either you’re being delusional, frog, or-”
“I’m not being delusional. I had sex with Paraguay roughly at midnight, I remember. Either you’re lying to me, or-”
They both looked at each other dumbfounded; Canada had to stifle his laughter.
“…Well,” England said, “I - I swear on my honor as a British gentleman.”
“Swearing on something inexistent is of no use,” France quipped, but he actually accepted the words - he too looked a little shaken. “Let’s think of somebody else, then.”
“How about Croatia?”
“I’m the one supposed to suggest the countries! …When?”
“2007. Man,” England laughed, waved a hand, “that was a wild night.”
France fumed. Though he never said “this cannot possibly be happening” - it would have been too vulgar, and he would rather let the comic-book clichés to America - the fact he was thinking exactly that was just about printed on his forehead.
America looked even more upset. “People, can’t we let this go? You two look like children-”
“Well, if France is okay with losing to me…” England said, smirking.
“I have not lost!” France exclaimed. “Czech!”
“Yep.”
“Denmark!”
“Yep.”
“Kosovo!”
“You can bet your ass on it.”
England’s smirk was wider now, and he had the self-conceited air of someone who is one-hundred percent sure of victory; he was even crossing his arms and gloating silently. France did not see those things, because he wasn’t looking at England; his eyes were stuck to the table, in search of a name. It was obvious, from the glistening sweat on his skin, that he was nearing panic; he had fought over land and over power against the rosbif, but never over a matter as important as l’amour, and he could not stand losing.
So France yelled in despair, “Italy!”
There is a common belief out there that, at any party, a lull will come naturally every seven minutes or so, making it perfect for others to hear any embarrassing things one might have said out loud.
Well, even if it isn’t true, France yelled loud enough for everyone to hear it over the noise.
There was a pause of silence, as everyone stared at France in expectation - England fighting France was commonplace; third parties getting involved heightened the chances of the missing being dismissed early due to chaos -, Germany frowned impressively, and Romano crossed his arms in a dangerous way.
“What is it, Big Brother France?” Italy asked, blinking.
France thought of saying something coy, but Germany’s frown - which was growing even more impressive - stopped him short. “Oh, nothing much, Italy dear. I was merely - merely - you know - practicing your name. You know… so when I need to call you, I - I can do it without delay.”
Germany’s frown deepened, if such a thing was possible, and he would probably have gone up to France and demanded explanations if Italy’s answer didn’t throw him off: “Oh, okay! I know how that’s like, I’m always asking for help all the time! I practice yelling Germany’s name every day, I’m doing pretty well by now! Aren’t I, Germany?”
“Italy, you do realize-” but Germany only had to look at the Italian’s face to see that no, he didn’t realize. He sighed. “Yes, you are. You’re an expert in calling me.”
Italy looked touched and promptly hugged Germany - killing two birds with one stone, France thought, realizing that Italy had already forgotten all about his indiscretion, and that Germany had been successfully distracted from murdering him. Sighs were released from everyone in the cafeteria; some sounded kind of disappointed.
Sighing himself, he turned back to look at England… and suddenly realized Italy might have killed three birds with one stone.
“Angleterre? Why are you so pale?” he asked, his voice the voice of one who dares not to hope but hopes anyway.
England, whose skin was just about the color of porridge, opened and closed his mouth a few times. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he settled on, but his voice sounded off.
France looked at Canada, to make sure the sight wasn’t a product of his wishful thinking; Canada was looking very apprehensively at England, so it was probably-
“It cannot be,” France started, his smile gleeful, “that you’ve never had sex with Italy. Italy.”
England laughed a poor job of a laugh, tried to dismiss it with one hand, muttering something that sounded panicked and positively horrified under his breath. “I - I don’t know - he’s always been afraid of me-”
France could not stop himself anymore; he released a long, arrogant noblewoman’s laugh - laughter which he could perform perfectly, despite not being a noblewoman himself. “Really? Italy? I was thinking of Thailand, Russia, Kosovo, and you’ve never had sex with Italy?!” He released another laugh, probably enjoying himself far more than he should. “And to think you’ve actually had me worried for a moment!”
When asked about this later, England would deny having been annoyed by France’s extremely annoying laugh, and it would be the truth: what he experienced in those moments was far more like torture, of the kind China was famous for. He would have nightmares for a week - in which every “ho, ho, ho” felt like it was being driven into his pride, like a chisel to a stone.
It was probably because of this that his despair momentarily overcame his gentlemanly behavior, and he yelled in a rather… France-like fashion: “Romano!”
There was another pause as the other nations turned to see what the Southern Italian would do - and were then disappointed by the fact South Italy had been too busy trying to pull his brother away from Germany to notice England screaming his name.
(Actually, he had noticed. But, unlike Italy, Romano had atmosphere-reading skills, and he remembered the Napoleonic Wars more than he cared for. If France and England were settling something, he would rather stay well out of the way of their shit.)
At England’s table, no one paid attention to any of the others’ reaction; England because he was waiting for France’s answer, and the other three because they were too busy gaping to form a coherent sentence.
“You didn’t.” America broke the silence; his ability to speak had never depended on his ability to form coherent sentences. He sounded rather like a teenage girl who’s just been informed her nerdy best friend made out with the worst delinquent in the school. “No. Way.”
“Not lying,” England said, and his smile was returning - it looked like a Cheshire Cat grin. “Test me with the lie detector, if you want to.”
“When?” France asked. It’s hard to convey that in text, but his tone implied that he had just found out England had stolen one of his twins from his cradle at the time of his birth and placed him in the care of a poor family who lived by the coast - and that the child was now pretending to be his twin, who had apparently died in a freak boat accident.
“After a meeting of the Tsundere Club’s.”
“The what club?”
“Never mind that now. So, frog,” he was grinning even more, “I guess we could call it… even.”
They could almost see the blood draining from France’s face at the mere idea of being even with England in romantic conquests.
“Oh, don’t even think about it! It was a low blow, Angleterre, but I am by no means defeated! Switzerland!”
England bit his lip, but didn’t miss a beat: “Australia!”
“Gabon!”
“New Zealand!”
“Mexico!”
“Barbados!”
“Stop saying all your colonies’s names! Slovenia!”
“Chile!”
“Serbia!”
“Japan!”
“What?!” America gaped.
“Don’t care! Lebanon!”
“Bahrain!”
“Niger!”
“Morocco!”
“America!”
“France!”
The last yell didn’t come from England, nor did it come from France (although France did prefer to think of masturbation as “sex with himself”); it came from a very dismayed America, who had predicted where this was going to end in the beginning.
“France, you - you - you said you were never going to tell!”
“I’m sorry, Amérique,” France said with a grieving air. “You were here, you saw me, I could have ended this - this-” he spouted something harsh-sounding in French, “from the get go. I did try to stand by my promise.”
“The fact that you tried doesn’t make up for the fact that you didn’t!”, America yelled.
“…What.”
Both France and America looked at England (Canada had been observing him from the moment France screamed America’s name), who had muttered the last word in a whispered, downcast tone. There was a deep red blush coming from his neck and going all the way to his ears.
“England,” America said mollifyingly, recognizing the coming of a storm, “you don’t-”
“Yes.” The word was so sharp it almost cut the air. “Yes, I don’t. Care to explain, frog?” And then England's eyes widened in horror: “Was it during the Revolution?”
“No,” France hurried to explain, “Angleterre, it was during-”
England probably never even registered that France had spoken, because, before France could end the sentence, he had jumped across the table and started strangling his arch-enemy, spouting some sort of gibberish that had Denmark, Norway and Sweden turn their heads.
“England! England, stop!”, America shouted, trying to pry England off France (which he could have done easily if France didn’t care about having his head in the right place over his shoulders, but…)
Canada was also trying to pry England off France in his own way: “Please, England, if you could please stop, you’re going to damage France’s vocal chords, and you know how he’s like when he’s hoarse, he keeps whispering in everybody’s ear-”
England turned to Canada with a wild look on his face: “During the Revolution, I was dying inside, the fucking son of a bitch-”
“England, I didn’t sleep with France during the Revolution.”
The sentence was spoken calmly, and the fact that America could even say anything in such a serious, subdued tone seemed to pierce through England’s red veil of anger. The pressure of his fingers upon France’s throat lessened a little bit, and France’s color slowly changed from a worrying blue to a slightly less worrying red.
“…You - didn’t?”, he asked quietly. France made a few croaking sounds.
America rolled his eyes. “Prussia was training me. If I stopped to think about anything else other than training, he’d kick my ass, and, at night, the only thing I could think about was sleeping. ‘Sides, I - I really wasn’t in the mood to think about this kind of stuff back then.”
It was the closest America had ever come to admitting he also had been hurt by the Revolution, and England was so surprised by that that he let go of France’s neck.
“…Then - then when?” he asked in that same quiet, whispered tone, while Canada hurried to assist France in getting up and obtaining enough oxygen.
America gave him a dry look. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“You don’t - oh.” England’s anger was just about gone. He stopped looking at America and set his eyes on the floor. “Okay then.”
If anyone ever wondered how was it that England managed to get laid, what with being so unreasonable and stuffy and prone to explosions, this person had never witnessed England looking like a kicked puppy.
America sighed. “If you really want to know, old man, it was the day France gave me Liberty. The statue, I mean.”
England shuffled his feet, his voice coming out defensive. “I didn’t want to know that.”
“Well, fine, then,” America said sulkily.
“Fine, then,” England said, just as sulkily.
Silence reigned in for a few seconds. The Nordics realized no other bouts of Old Norse were going to come from England’s mouth and turned again to the card game they were playing (Denmark wanted to keep watching, but Norway pulled him by his tie and that was that).
“…I’m going to return to the hotel,” England said, breaking the silence. “I - I left a few documents behind. You won, France. Congratulations, blast you to hell, and all that shit.”
It was clear that he was aiming for a dignified exit, but the effect was ruined by the huge cloud of blue gloom that followed him out the door.
After he left, Canada went to fetch France some water, and America sat back down in a heavy, tired motion. The other nations kept watching for any explosions coming from him - not his usual modus operandi, but, then again, no one but Canada and France had ever seen him looking so bitter - but, as he continued to slurp his soda without so much as raising his eyes from the table, they slowly drew their eyes away.
As he returned with the water and got a look at his brother, Canada sighed. He helped France to his seat, held the glass of water as the Frenchman drank, and, without looking at America, said: “You should go after him.”
America shot him an angry look. “It’s not my fault if he’s all butt-hurt. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Obviously you haven’t,” Canada nodded, holding the glass as France paused to breathe. “But you can see why he’s upset, can’t you?”
“He’s just being a control-freak like always, treating me like a child-”
“Oh, America,” Canada sighed again. He had a feeling he would be doing it a lot that night. “France says he slept with twenty-five different countries, colonies of his included, sixteen of which England had relations with-”
“You kept count? How the hell did you-”
“-and the only thing that bothers England is that France slept with you. What does that say about him?”
America fell silent, and looked away.
France opened his mouth, but Canada shook his head at him; after a pause, he placed his hands over one of his brother’s.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “If you run, you can still catch up with him.”
America nodded, still silent; and then, with a convulsive movement, he got up. When the other nations peered over their shoulders to see what was that noise, he’d reached running speed and was storming off the door, without even looking back to say thanks.
Well, Canada hadn’t expected thanks anyway, so he was quite happy with the fact that, perhaps, this whole Unresolved Sexual Tension thing might get resolved… and he was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice someone creeping up behind him until he heard a hoarse voice whispering in his ear: “So, doesn’t the winner deserve a prize?”
France’s grin was impish, and Canada fought back a shiver. “Not when you sold your soul for it,” he muttered, and he knew the Frenchman couldn’t make out the words.
France seemed to get the spirit of it, though; he stepped back and looked contrite. “I actually won it when I said Veneziano’s name”, he said. “The rest was only a consequence of England being a bad loser.” And, when Canada didn’t look convinced, “Oh, please, mon chéri, give me a chance tonight? I’ll give you extra attention, I promise.”
Canada bit his lip. Extra attention was always nice, and he did feel like he had earned it, from all he had gone through today… Oh, to hell with it. “Okay, then”, he said, sighing, “but you can’t call yourself ‘papa’ in bed. And I mean it.”
“Agreed,” France said, and, smiling, threw an arm around Canada’s shoulders, leaning in to nibble playfully at his ear.
USUK Ending