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roesslyngTitle: Oh won't you come around again
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/France
Rating: 18+
Length: 4k
Summary: Time has a way of passing by unnoticed, and England realizes that it's been far too long since he and France spent some time together.
Other: Written for Cristieanne/Anneimator for FTH 2021! Thank you!
Many thanks to Meegs for helping with the proofreading. :)
Oh won't you come around again
The contents piled up on the top shelf of the bookcase tumbled to the floor, sending a cloud of dust rising into the air. It danced merrily in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, unwilling to settle.
England sneezed, muttered a curse, sneezed again, and bent to pick up the mess.
It certainly was a mess. Papers were scattered every which way; old envelopes, postcards, and packets of letters tied haphazardly together sat strewn about on the floor. For years he'd had it stacked on the top shelf, putting it out of his way and out of his mind. But one must tidy things now and then, mustn't one, and eventually the state of his office had become so impossible that he had no other choice but to put it in order.
England had been at it all morning and was beginning to regret the decision.
He set the pile of letters down on the desk, stared at it for a moment, and tried to remember why he'd kept them. With a frown, he picked one of them up and looked over it.
The flowery, ostentatious handwriting was familiar, as was the greeting.
My dear England –
Oh, no.
Well. That explained why the stack had been dumped without any sense of good order. France's letters were hardly deserving of anything more than that.
England looked at the pile for a long moment, unsure what to do. He was sorely tempted to sweep them up, dust and all, into the paper recycling. They'd been sitting there for years, and to what end?
And yet.
He looked at the letter in his hands again, ran his fingers over the penwork with a sigh, then reached for a storage box and dumped all of them in.
Then he took them up, heading toward the kitchen. It was time for a cup of tea.
Tea, of course, wouldn't make the matter of sorting through France's letters any less of a trial, but it would make it more tolerable. England settled himself at the table, where the open window let in a breeze and the sunlight spilled into the room.
He thought once again of the recycling.
There would be nothing important in that disorganized mess. State matters were sent through official channels and dealt with in a distinctly organized and bureaucratic way. Anything of actual consequence would not be scribbled on postcards or stray sheets of paper, shoved in a corner of his home office, left to crumble to dust.
It wasn't that there was bad blood between the two of them, England thought as he picked up a packet of letters and began thumbing through them. Well – France had been, at various points in England's relations with him, an utter nuisance. A pebble in his shoe. Both a night of too much drink and the utter headache that came the morning after.
But he had also been other things.
My dear England, I have been months without your company. You truly must rectify this situation at once. This summer has been frightfully boring, and there is no excuse for you to sit there across the channel when I might die of ennui at any moment. Surely nothing is so pressing that you can't divert your attention over here for a few weeks.
Over a century since, the elegant writing was faded but still legible. And those few weeks...
He'd gone to him, taking up the invitation despite knowing there was a chance he'd regret it, and he hadn't regretted it at all. They had gone to a village by the sea. The water on their feet was cold, and the nights close and sticky. Even when France had teased him about making the journey so eagerly, at his beck and call, England hadn't had misgivings. It had been a good summer.
At his best, France was like an old wool jumper, well-worn and comfortable. But wool could be itchy if worn too close to the skin. France was no better.
There had to be a measure of distance between them.
A postcard: Watercolours of lavender fields, dated decades ago.
I find that I keep recalling the evening we spent last year – do you remember? We had a night of drunken debauchery and in the morning you missed your train. I demanded that you stay another week, and you were in such a state that you had no choice but to give in. It was a minor victory, but nevertheless delightful.
It had been too long. England brushed dust from another package, sneezed, then arranged them tidily and put them back in the box. The recent years had passed so quickly, and they had... Not fallen apart, but simply not made time. It was always one thing or another.
I should call him, England thought. But somehow even that seemed too rushed, too modern. Too impersonal.
The answer was simple, then.
It had been a number of years since he had last sent a personal letter, but the paper and envelopes still sat where they always had in the drawer of his writing desk. Upon retrieving them from his office, now turned upside down, he thought for a moment of making another cup of tea. Or – this might be the kind of task that would call for something stronger.
No, England told himself. It was nothing but a letter to that ridiculous frog, and he wasn't going to give it any more fuss than it deserved.
Right. Best get on with it.
Dear France –
I must admit that I'm not in the habit of writing to you any more, but the less said of that, the better. While cleaning, I found some letters and postcards that you sent me over the years.
England paused, frowning for a moment as he read over what he wrote. No, it wouldn't do to go into more detail about them. Any more of that, and it would go to France's head.
They were bundled along with some letters from other nations that I'd set aside for reference. I don't know why on earth I decided to save yours too.
Assuming we're still on for the meeting next month, perhaps you would be willing to join me for a few days after. It has been a while since I've enjoyed the pleasure of your company, you know.
'The pleasure of your company'? It was too much, England thought. And depending on various factors – including but not limited to France's whims, the day's weather, and the phase of the moon – France could be anything but pleasant.
Still. With France, flattery was never amiss if one wanted certain results. And England found, much to his surprise, that those results were exactly what he wanted.
The question was, would he feel that way in a month?
The reply, when he received it, had been just as excessive as he expected, and just as France as France ever was.
The creamy, heavy-weighted paper France had used to write his reply must have been lurking in a drawer for half a century. As England carefully unfolded it, he caught a familiar scent. For a moment, he was unable to place it, and at first he thought he'd imagined it. But when he pressed his nose to the paper and gave it a suspicious sniff, he knew for certain.
It wasn't his imagination. He'd recognize France's cologne anywhere.
Knowing France, that had been deliberate.
Of course he would do something so cliche, so frivolous, so ridiculous. More likely than not, he'd laughed to himself while writing the thing.
England hardly read the letter. Merely skimming it, he searched for the 'yes' that he had hoped for amid all of the exaltations of 'My dear England' and the insufferable curlicues of France's handwriting. Finally, he found it, unsurprised to see it phrased in the most obnoxious way possible.
Since you're desperate enough to beg for my company, then I simply must accept. If I didn't know better, I would think your cleaning ventures were all in the service of getting your home presentable enough for my visit. But you wouldn't go to such trouble, would you?
Certainly not.
Ever since receiving that letter, England had anticipated France's visit with slowly increasing eagerness. This, of course, was not something England would admit even under the most dire of circumstances, but nevertheless he looked forward to seeing him.
When the day came, England found himself feeling surprisingly frazzled. Breakfast was rushed and he barely tasted it. For the briefest of moments he considered giving more thought to his appearance than usual, but quickly came to his senses. No meeting with France was worth that kind of fuss, no matter if he happened to look forward to what would come after. To suffer a touch of nerves on account of France was ridiculous – even if it had been rather a while since they'd last had personal time together.
That didn't stop him from tying and re-tying his tie three times in order to ensure that, at least, would be immaculate.
Westminster settled his nerves.
The very air of the place sent a wash of calm over him as he walked up familiar busy steps, making his way through halls that he could have navigated blindfolded. This was a part of his inner workings, and even if the trivial matter of his personal relationships had left him feeling frazzled, being in a location where he felt so much himself was soothing.
Everything was fine until he was finally face to face with France.
The last time they had seen one another on business had only been a matter of months previous, and the sight of him shouldn't have been so startling. But after the letters, it was one thing to expect it, another thing to look at him, and a third thing altogether to see that familiar smug smile spread over his face.
"My dear England! So nice to see you." Grasping his hand, France leaned in close, as if to kiss his cheek. To England's relief he only added quietly – "May I speak with you in private?"
"Ah – yes?" As carefully as he could without the appearance of rudeness, England detached himself and withdrew. "Is this about anything important?"
"Of course not!" France gave a laugh, tossing his hair. "I merely wish to have a personal word with you before we attend to less interesting matters. A tête-à-tête, if you will." Still standing far too close for propriety, France added, "Besides, there is quite a bit of time before we must start. Do you want to spend it surrounded by humans, awkwardly waiting and pretending indifference, when you could be speaking freely with me instead?"
Letting out a long sigh, England turned and led him along.
There was a small, quiet room nearby, the sort that didn't quite fit any specific purpose and so had been awkwardly crammed with potted plants and stiff furniture to make a space for one-on-one discussions. They slipped in together without a word and England suspected that, for a short time at least, they would not be missed.
"Now, what's all this, then?" England asked as he pressed the door shut.
"Why, I imagine that you can guess." France smiled broadly. There was some softness in his face that hadn't been there earlier. "Did you forget that charming letter you sent me?"
Oh, no. Not for the first time, England regretted the entire thing. I should have texted him instead, he thought. Or perhaps it would be better to have done nothing at all. "It was just a whim," he said, shrugging the matter off like an old coat. "Don't overthink it."
"If that were true, you wouldn't have invited me to stay with you." With a step, France closed the distance between them.
"I don't think –" England began, fully intending to explain himself properly, but France's hands cupped his face, and a second later France's lips were on his. Whatever he had been trying to say disappeared for the moment.
At least they weren't in public. For that, England decided, he would reserve his complaints.
Still, when they finally separated, he cleared his throat and swept his hand through his hair, trying not to look as flustered as he felt. "That was entirely unnecessary," he said.
"Not at all," France replied. He was smiling, and England suspected that he would keep smiling for all the rest of the day. "Mon cher, if you won't admit that you have missed me terribly, then you simply must make it clear to me later."
England could feel an inconvenient blush creeping over his cheeks. There was something about that look – France's words were as pompous as ever, but there was no mistaking the fondness in them. "Quite," was all he managed. A part of him wanted more; to say more, or to pull him close again. The kiss had been too brief and he had, in fact, enjoyed it a good deal, but he could hear voices in the hallway and knew they were short on time.
"Let's get this over with, then." There would be plenty of time for that later.
It was late in the evening when they returned together to England's home.
Business was dealt with and, for the time being, they wouldn't have to give it thought. After a day of sitting through talks and trying to concentrate on matters of international cooperation – while France looked at England with a knowing smile on his face for what seemed the entire duration – they'd gone out together.
It was a somewhat regrettable decision. England had committed himself to an evening of France, and that meant an evening of France's "my dear"s, his foot brushing under the table, and still that smile.
Far too much and far too tempting, and all of it leading to this.
And yet, there wasn't truly a part of him that would want it otherwise.
The house was warm. In his rush to leave that morning, England had not drawn the curtains or closed the blinds. The day had been hot and the air was stuffy and close. France kept near him, trailing a hand along his arm as they made their way to the bedroom.
"Now, tell me," France said, "did you go to the trouble of making your abode presentable?"
England let out a huff of a laugh as he pressed the bedroom door open and drew him in. "Not in the least."
Though in fact he had changed the sheets. There was that. "Do you really think I'd go to any sort of trouble for you?" England continued as he helped France shrug off his suit jacket.
"Mon dieu, certainly not. But one can live in hope." He took hold of England's hands and pulled him close, kissing him before he could get another word out, just as he had done earlier that day.
England considered pulling away, if only to tell him how predictable he was, but decided against it.
The suit jacket slipped from England's fingers, falling to the floor. Neither of them made any move to retrieve it.
As France's hands moved to his hair, gripping at it, England let out an involuntary groan. He found himself pushing him back until he had him against the dresser and could go no further.
Perhaps it wasn't the gentlest, most romantic way to go about things, England thought as his teeth sank into France's lower lip. But then again, despite the recent fuss with the letters, they weren't really the sort.
He struggled with France's clothing, managing to loosen his tie, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, but it was far too much effort and took far too much time. His hands were much too unsteady and his partner's impatience certainly wasn't helping. France rocked against him and pulled him closer, and England could feel the shameless fullness of his cock through layers of fabric. He gasped, and got a mouth full of tongue for it.
Ah. Well. If France was going to be so eager, he might as well oblige. After all, England told himself as his hands dropped to make quick work of France's belt, after all – he had invited him in, hadn't he?
It wasn't until he had a hand down France's trousers that France broke the kiss.
"My! So forward!"
"You started this," England pointed out.
France seemed to take a moment to consider that. Ridiculous though this was, with his cheeks flushed and his lips bitten to redness, his clothing in disarray and his trousers slipping to the floor, he looked as if he was giving that some serious thought. A wide, sly smile spread across his face. "I did. Am I to assume you intend to finish it?"
"Of course." England decided not to add that things often turned out that way. He gave him a squeeze, then withdrew his hand. "Turn around."
If they were going to rush rather than take their time, he might as well do as he pleased.
In no time he had him with his trousers around his ankles, palms flat on the dresser. France was vocal as England eased slick fingers into him, voice breathy and desperate. "Oh, yes – keep going, you're taking too long –"
"And you're impatient," England muttered. "Did you consider that?" France laughed, and England felt his body tense around his fingers.
"Me?" Another soft chuckle. "And which of us was the one sending love letters, hmm? Who of the two of us was saying 'Ah, mon cher, it has been far too long, I miss you terribly'?"
England huffed. "Well, that certainly wasn't me," he said as he removed his fingers from France's ass and got into position behind him. "But if that's how you feel –"
"Oh, do shut up and put it in, won't you?"
France's long-suffering sigh made it tempting to refuse. Perhaps he could change his mind; the thought of leaving him to get himself off, frustrated and protesting, flitted through England's mind. But France wasn't the only one who wanted it, and as much as he would have liked to make him beg, England's own needs were becoming impossible to ignore. He gave in.
It was satisfying to have him as he was, bent over the dresser, long hair falling in his face. England gripped France's hips, rocking into him rough and deep, earning him a sharp, satisfying gasp.
"My word!"
"You did say," England panted as he bent to kiss France's shoulder, "that you wanted me to stick it in."
"Ah, yes." France gave a laugh, followed by a sharp intake of breath as England buried himself to the hilt. "I did, didn't I? How obliging of you."
France lifted his head to look at the reflection of the two of them in the dresser mirror. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, and there was a familiar smile on his face, that smug sort of expression that England both loved and hated. As their gazes met in the reflection and France realized that England was looking, that smile broadened. It was a look he had seen a million times before.
Reaching out, England took France's hair in his hands, sweeping it into his grip to draw it away from his face. He slowed, the better to bend over his back, and kept close.
France was cooperative enough to twist to meet him, catching England's mouth in a rushed, clumsy, desperate kiss.
"More," France gasped against his lips. "You beast, don't make me wait like this! Keep going."
There was an exaggerated note in his voice, but even with all that foolishness, it wasn't as if England didn't feel the same. With a roll of his eyes, England let go of him and got to it.
In the mirror, France grinned at him. With the way they were positioned, neither could properly reach down to get France off.
That proved to be unnecessary. He came hard and entirely unassisted, flushed and moaning as England thrust into him.
At the end of it, they were both an undignified mess. Not at all according to the original plan, England thought as he pressed his face to France's shoulder, recalling his thoughts of doing this slowly, comfortably, in bed.
Nonetheless, it had been more than satisfying.
Rain pattered against the windows and cool air slipped into the room, the window having been nudged open far enough to allow it.
"Here," England said, setting an ash tray on the night table. "If you insist."
France's lighter flickered, brightening the dim room as he lit a cigarette. "Of course I do. How kind of you to accommodate me."
"As if you wouldn't smoke whether I did or not." England sank down onto the mattress with a sigh.
"Mon dieu, no." France made a wide gesture with his hand, exasperated, before taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Not in any age. Do you think me so uncivilized?"
"Right, well. There was a time when you wouldn't hesitate to get ashes all over my bed."
France looked toward him. His brows were raised, face partially hidden by the tangle of sex-mussed hair falling in his face, looking unfairly good in spite of it. "Perhaps." There was a long pause. "Would you go back to those days?"
"Absolutely not."
A laugh. "You're getting sentimental in your old age."
England huffed. "Not in the least! I just happen to like modernity, thank you very much."
They both knew there was more to it than that.
For a long moment, they were both quiet. England watched as France smoked, his expression quiet, his body casting shadows on the wall. The light brushed gold into his hair and his eyes had the familiar relaxed, satisfied look that England had seen on him so many times. He would never tire of seeing it, just as he would never tire of the sharp grin he'd seen on him in the mirror as he'd fucked him from behind.
"You are not the only one who is sentimental and nostalgic, you know."
"I'm not in the least." The words popped out before England could stop them. He frowned at his carelessness, then frowned more deeply at the amused glance France sent him before he put the cigarette to his lips once again.
But he didn't want to argue. Now was not the time. Shifting onto his side so he could look at him better, England asked, "What did you mean, exactly?"
"Only that after I received your charming billet-doux, I took stock of my own papers. And do you know what I found?" France huffed, ashed his cigarette, then turned to look out the window, as if he couldn't stand to say it unless he wasn't looking at him. "More letters from you than I care to think about."
"I see." England considered that. "It doesn't surprise me, actually."
"Oh? You think I kept them tenderly, hm? Read them to myself every night?"
"It stands to rights that you'd have some sitting around. I can't imagine you keeping anything organized. You never throw anything out, to say nothing of dusting."
France let out a bark of a laugh. "My god, no. You are quite correct." He stubbed out the cigarette, then moved to nestle against England in a way that was far too good, far too familiar, yet somehow just right. "But the point is that I spent an afternoon reading them, and did not regret it at all."
"Perhaps you didn't have anything more pressing that needed your attention."
"I think not." France brushed a kiss against his cheek, then gave a theatrical sigh. "What a pair, the two of us!"
"Sentimental, do you mean?" England smiled.
"And nostalgic!"
"And dramatic, don't forget."
"Yes, of course! And I know you think it's just me, but I assure you, you're as guilty of all of it as I am – but lacking certain elements of artistic flair."
There was teasing in France's voice. At certain times, in certain places, England would not have had the patience for it.
Tonight, however, he did.
"Perhaps you're right," England said, coiling a soft strand of France's hair around his fingers.
"Of course I'm right. But which part do you mean, specifically?"
"Everything," he said, and let his eyes fall shut.
Here and now he had the patience for him. Here and now it was perfect.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/France
Rating: 18+
Length: 4k
Summary: Time has a way of passing by unnoticed, and England realizes that it's been far too long since he and France spent some time together.
Other: Written for Cristieanne/Anneimator for FTH 2021! Thank you!
Many thanks to Meegs for helping with the proofreading. :)
Oh won't you come around again
The contents piled up on the top shelf of the bookcase tumbled to the floor, sending a cloud of dust rising into the air. It danced merrily in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, unwilling to settle.
England sneezed, muttered a curse, sneezed again, and bent to pick up the mess.
It certainly was a mess. Papers were scattered every which way; old envelopes, postcards, and packets of letters tied haphazardly together sat strewn about on the floor. For years he'd had it stacked on the top shelf, putting it out of his way and out of his mind. But one must tidy things now and then, mustn't one, and eventually the state of his office had become so impossible that he had no other choice but to put it in order.
England had been at it all morning and was beginning to regret the decision.
He set the pile of letters down on the desk, stared at it for a moment, and tried to remember why he'd kept them. With a frown, he picked one of them up and looked over it.
The flowery, ostentatious handwriting was familiar, as was the greeting.
My dear England –
Oh, no.
Well. That explained why the stack had been dumped without any sense of good order. France's letters were hardly deserving of anything more than that.
England looked at the pile for a long moment, unsure what to do. He was sorely tempted to sweep them up, dust and all, into the paper recycling. They'd been sitting there for years, and to what end?
And yet.
He looked at the letter in his hands again, ran his fingers over the penwork with a sigh, then reached for a storage box and dumped all of them in.
Then he took them up, heading toward the kitchen. It was time for a cup of tea.
Tea, of course, wouldn't make the matter of sorting through France's letters any less of a trial, but it would make it more tolerable. England settled himself at the table, where the open window let in a breeze and the sunlight spilled into the room.
He thought once again of the recycling.
There would be nothing important in that disorganized mess. State matters were sent through official channels and dealt with in a distinctly organized and bureaucratic way. Anything of actual consequence would not be scribbled on postcards or stray sheets of paper, shoved in a corner of his home office, left to crumble to dust.
It wasn't that there was bad blood between the two of them, England thought as he picked up a packet of letters and began thumbing through them. Well – France had been, at various points in England's relations with him, an utter nuisance. A pebble in his shoe. Both a night of too much drink and the utter headache that came the morning after.
But he had also been other things.
My dear England, I have been months without your company. You truly must rectify this situation at once. This summer has been frightfully boring, and there is no excuse for you to sit there across the channel when I might die of ennui at any moment. Surely nothing is so pressing that you can't divert your attention over here for a few weeks.
Over a century since, the elegant writing was faded but still legible. And those few weeks...
He'd gone to him, taking up the invitation despite knowing there was a chance he'd regret it, and he hadn't regretted it at all. They had gone to a village by the sea. The water on their feet was cold, and the nights close and sticky. Even when France had teased him about making the journey so eagerly, at his beck and call, England hadn't had misgivings. It had been a good summer.
At his best, France was like an old wool jumper, well-worn and comfortable. But wool could be itchy if worn too close to the skin. France was no better.
There had to be a measure of distance between them.
A postcard: Watercolours of lavender fields, dated decades ago.
I find that I keep recalling the evening we spent last year – do you remember? We had a night of drunken debauchery and in the morning you missed your train. I demanded that you stay another week, and you were in such a state that you had no choice but to give in. It was a minor victory, but nevertheless delightful.
It had been too long. England brushed dust from another package, sneezed, then arranged them tidily and put them back in the box. The recent years had passed so quickly, and they had... Not fallen apart, but simply not made time. It was always one thing or another.
I should call him, England thought. But somehow even that seemed too rushed, too modern. Too impersonal.
The answer was simple, then.
It had been a number of years since he had last sent a personal letter, but the paper and envelopes still sat where they always had in the drawer of his writing desk. Upon retrieving them from his office, now turned upside down, he thought for a moment of making another cup of tea. Or – this might be the kind of task that would call for something stronger.
No, England told himself. It was nothing but a letter to that ridiculous frog, and he wasn't going to give it any more fuss than it deserved.
Right. Best get on with it.
Dear France –
I must admit that I'm not in the habit of writing to you any more, but the less said of that, the better. While cleaning, I found some letters and postcards that you sent me over the years.
England paused, frowning for a moment as he read over what he wrote. No, it wouldn't do to go into more detail about them. Any more of that, and it would go to France's head.
They were bundled along with some letters from other nations that I'd set aside for reference. I don't know why on earth I decided to save yours too.
Assuming we're still on for the meeting next month, perhaps you would be willing to join me for a few days after. It has been a while since I've enjoyed the pleasure of your company, you know.
'The pleasure of your company'? It was too much, England thought. And depending on various factors – including but not limited to France's whims, the day's weather, and the phase of the moon – France could be anything but pleasant.
Still. With France, flattery was never amiss if one wanted certain results. And England found, much to his surprise, that those results were exactly what he wanted.
The question was, would he feel that way in a month?
The reply, when he received it, had been just as excessive as he expected, and just as France as France ever was.
The creamy, heavy-weighted paper France had used to write his reply must have been lurking in a drawer for half a century. As England carefully unfolded it, he caught a familiar scent. For a moment, he was unable to place it, and at first he thought he'd imagined it. But when he pressed his nose to the paper and gave it a suspicious sniff, he knew for certain.
It wasn't his imagination. He'd recognize France's cologne anywhere.
Knowing France, that had been deliberate.
Of course he would do something so cliche, so frivolous, so ridiculous. More likely than not, he'd laughed to himself while writing the thing.
England hardly read the letter. Merely skimming it, he searched for the 'yes' that he had hoped for amid all of the exaltations of 'My dear England' and the insufferable curlicues of France's handwriting. Finally, he found it, unsurprised to see it phrased in the most obnoxious way possible.
Since you're desperate enough to beg for my company, then I simply must accept. If I didn't know better, I would think your cleaning ventures were all in the service of getting your home presentable enough for my visit. But you wouldn't go to such trouble, would you?
Certainly not.
Ever since receiving that letter, England had anticipated France's visit with slowly increasing eagerness. This, of course, was not something England would admit even under the most dire of circumstances, but nevertheless he looked forward to seeing him.
When the day came, England found himself feeling surprisingly frazzled. Breakfast was rushed and he barely tasted it. For the briefest of moments he considered giving more thought to his appearance than usual, but quickly came to his senses. No meeting with France was worth that kind of fuss, no matter if he happened to look forward to what would come after. To suffer a touch of nerves on account of France was ridiculous – even if it had been rather a while since they'd last had personal time together.
That didn't stop him from tying and re-tying his tie three times in order to ensure that, at least, would be immaculate.
Westminster settled his nerves.
The very air of the place sent a wash of calm over him as he walked up familiar busy steps, making his way through halls that he could have navigated blindfolded. This was a part of his inner workings, and even if the trivial matter of his personal relationships had left him feeling frazzled, being in a location where he felt so much himself was soothing.
Everything was fine until he was finally face to face with France.
The last time they had seen one another on business had only been a matter of months previous, and the sight of him shouldn't have been so startling. But after the letters, it was one thing to expect it, another thing to look at him, and a third thing altogether to see that familiar smug smile spread over his face.
"My dear England! So nice to see you." Grasping his hand, France leaned in close, as if to kiss his cheek. To England's relief he only added quietly – "May I speak with you in private?"
"Ah – yes?" As carefully as he could without the appearance of rudeness, England detached himself and withdrew. "Is this about anything important?"
"Of course not!" France gave a laugh, tossing his hair. "I merely wish to have a personal word with you before we attend to less interesting matters. A tête-à-tête, if you will." Still standing far too close for propriety, France added, "Besides, there is quite a bit of time before we must start. Do you want to spend it surrounded by humans, awkwardly waiting and pretending indifference, when you could be speaking freely with me instead?"
Letting out a long sigh, England turned and led him along.
There was a small, quiet room nearby, the sort that didn't quite fit any specific purpose and so had been awkwardly crammed with potted plants and stiff furniture to make a space for one-on-one discussions. They slipped in together without a word and England suspected that, for a short time at least, they would not be missed.
"Now, what's all this, then?" England asked as he pressed the door shut.
"Why, I imagine that you can guess." France smiled broadly. There was some softness in his face that hadn't been there earlier. "Did you forget that charming letter you sent me?"
Oh, no. Not for the first time, England regretted the entire thing. I should have texted him instead, he thought. Or perhaps it would be better to have done nothing at all. "It was just a whim," he said, shrugging the matter off like an old coat. "Don't overthink it."
"If that were true, you wouldn't have invited me to stay with you." With a step, France closed the distance between them.
"I don't think –" England began, fully intending to explain himself properly, but France's hands cupped his face, and a second later France's lips were on his. Whatever he had been trying to say disappeared for the moment.
At least they weren't in public. For that, England decided, he would reserve his complaints.
Still, when they finally separated, he cleared his throat and swept his hand through his hair, trying not to look as flustered as he felt. "That was entirely unnecessary," he said.
"Not at all," France replied. He was smiling, and England suspected that he would keep smiling for all the rest of the day. "Mon cher, if you won't admit that you have missed me terribly, then you simply must make it clear to me later."
England could feel an inconvenient blush creeping over his cheeks. There was something about that look – France's words were as pompous as ever, but there was no mistaking the fondness in them. "Quite," was all he managed. A part of him wanted more; to say more, or to pull him close again. The kiss had been too brief and he had, in fact, enjoyed it a good deal, but he could hear voices in the hallway and knew they were short on time.
"Let's get this over with, then." There would be plenty of time for that later.
It was late in the evening when they returned together to England's home.
Business was dealt with and, for the time being, they wouldn't have to give it thought. After a day of sitting through talks and trying to concentrate on matters of international cooperation – while France looked at England with a knowing smile on his face for what seemed the entire duration – they'd gone out together.
It was a somewhat regrettable decision. England had committed himself to an evening of France, and that meant an evening of France's "my dear"s, his foot brushing under the table, and still that smile.
Far too much and far too tempting, and all of it leading to this.
And yet, there wasn't truly a part of him that would want it otherwise.
The house was warm. In his rush to leave that morning, England had not drawn the curtains or closed the blinds. The day had been hot and the air was stuffy and close. France kept near him, trailing a hand along his arm as they made their way to the bedroom.
"Now, tell me," France said, "did you go to the trouble of making your abode presentable?"
England let out a huff of a laugh as he pressed the bedroom door open and drew him in. "Not in the least."
Though in fact he had changed the sheets. There was that. "Do you really think I'd go to any sort of trouble for you?" England continued as he helped France shrug off his suit jacket.
"Mon dieu, certainly not. But one can live in hope." He took hold of England's hands and pulled him close, kissing him before he could get another word out, just as he had done earlier that day.
England considered pulling away, if only to tell him how predictable he was, but decided against it.
The suit jacket slipped from England's fingers, falling to the floor. Neither of them made any move to retrieve it.
As France's hands moved to his hair, gripping at it, England let out an involuntary groan. He found himself pushing him back until he had him against the dresser and could go no further.
Perhaps it wasn't the gentlest, most romantic way to go about things, England thought as his teeth sank into France's lower lip. But then again, despite the recent fuss with the letters, they weren't really the sort.
He struggled with France's clothing, managing to loosen his tie, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, but it was far too much effort and took far too much time. His hands were much too unsteady and his partner's impatience certainly wasn't helping. France rocked against him and pulled him closer, and England could feel the shameless fullness of his cock through layers of fabric. He gasped, and got a mouth full of tongue for it.
Ah. Well. If France was going to be so eager, he might as well oblige. After all, England told himself as his hands dropped to make quick work of France's belt, after all – he had invited him in, hadn't he?
It wasn't until he had a hand down France's trousers that France broke the kiss.
"My! So forward!"
"You started this," England pointed out.
France seemed to take a moment to consider that. Ridiculous though this was, with his cheeks flushed and his lips bitten to redness, his clothing in disarray and his trousers slipping to the floor, he looked as if he was giving that some serious thought. A wide, sly smile spread across his face. "I did. Am I to assume you intend to finish it?"
"Of course." England decided not to add that things often turned out that way. He gave him a squeeze, then withdrew his hand. "Turn around."
If they were going to rush rather than take their time, he might as well do as he pleased.
In no time he had him with his trousers around his ankles, palms flat on the dresser. France was vocal as England eased slick fingers into him, voice breathy and desperate. "Oh, yes – keep going, you're taking too long –"
"And you're impatient," England muttered. "Did you consider that?" France laughed, and England felt his body tense around his fingers.
"Me?" Another soft chuckle. "And which of us was the one sending love letters, hmm? Who of the two of us was saying 'Ah, mon cher, it has been far too long, I miss you terribly'?"
England huffed. "Well, that certainly wasn't me," he said as he removed his fingers from France's ass and got into position behind him. "But if that's how you feel –"
"Oh, do shut up and put it in, won't you?"
France's long-suffering sigh made it tempting to refuse. Perhaps he could change his mind; the thought of leaving him to get himself off, frustrated and protesting, flitted through England's mind. But France wasn't the only one who wanted it, and as much as he would have liked to make him beg, England's own needs were becoming impossible to ignore. He gave in.
It was satisfying to have him as he was, bent over the dresser, long hair falling in his face. England gripped France's hips, rocking into him rough and deep, earning him a sharp, satisfying gasp.
"My word!"
"You did say," England panted as he bent to kiss France's shoulder, "that you wanted me to stick it in."
"Ah, yes." France gave a laugh, followed by a sharp intake of breath as England buried himself to the hilt. "I did, didn't I? How obliging of you."
France lifted his head to look at the reflection of the two of them in the dresser mirror. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, and there was a familiar smile on his face, that smug sort of expression that England both loved and hated. As their gazes met in the reflection and France realized that England was looking, that smile broadened. It was a look he had seen a million times before.
Reaching out, England took France's hair in his hands, sweeping it into his grip to draw it away from his face. He slowed, the better to bend over his back, and kept close.
France was cooperative enough to twist to meet him, catching England's mouth in a rushed, clumsy, desperate kiss.
"More," France gasped against his lips. "You beast, don't make me wait like this! Keep going."
There was an exaggerated note in his voice, but even with all that foolishness, it wasn't as if England didn't feel the same. With a roll of his eyes, England let go of him and got to it.
In the mirror, France grinned at him. With the way they were positioned, neither could properly reach down to get France off.
That proved to be unnecessary. He came hard and entirely unassisted, flushed and moaning as England thrust into him.
At the end of it, they were both an undignified mess. Not at all according to the original plan, England thought as he pressed his face to France's shoulder, recalling his thoughts of doing this slowly, comfortably, in bed.
Nonetheless, it had been more than satisfying.
Rain pattered against the windows and cool air slipped into the room, the window having been nudged open far enough to allow it.
"Here," England said, setting an ash tray on the night table. "If you insist."
France's lighter flickered, brightening the dim room as he lit a cigarette. "Of course I do. How kind of you to accommodate me."
"As if you wouldn't smoke whether I did or not." England sank down onto the mattress with a sigh.
"Mon dieu, no." France made a wide gesture with his hand, exasperated, before taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Not in any age. Do you think me so uncivilized?"
"Right, well. There was a time when you wouldn't hesitate to get ashes all over my bed."
France looked toward him. His brows were raised, face partially hidden by the tangle of sex-mussed hair falling in his face, looking unfairly good in spite of it. "Perhaps." There was a long pause. "Would you go back to those days?"
"Absolutely not."
A laugh. "You're getting sentimental in your old age."
England huffed. "Not in the least! I just happen to like modernity, thank you very much."
They both knew there was more to it than that.
For a long moment, they were both quiet. England watched as France smoked, his expression quiet, his body casting shadows on the wall. The light brushed gold into his hair and his eyes had the familiar relaxed, satisfied look that England had seen on him so many times. He would never tire of seeing it, just as he would never tire of the sharp grin he'd seen on him in the mirror as he'd fucked him from behind.
"You are not the only one who is sentimental and nostalgic, you know."
"I'm not in the least." The words popped out before England could stop them. He frowned at his carelessness, then frowned more deeply at the amused glance France sent him before he put the cigarette to his lips once again.
But he didn't want to argue. Now was not the time. Shifting onto his side so he could look at him better, England asked, "What did you mean, exactly?"
"Only that after I received your charming billet-doux, I took stock of my own papers. And do you know what I found?" France huffed, ashed his cigarette, then turned to look out the window, as if he couldn't stand to say it unless he wasn't looking at him. "More letters from you than I care to think about."
"I see." England considered that. "It doesn't surprise me, actually."
"Oh? You think I kept them tenderly, hm? Read them to myself every night?"
"It stands to rights that you'd have some sitting around. I can't imagine you keeping anything organized. You never throw anything out, to say nothing of dusting."
France let out a bark of a laugh. "My god, no. You are quite correct." He stubbed out the cigarette, then moved to nestle against England in a way that was far too good, far too familiar, yet somehow just right. "But the point is that I spent an afternoon reading them, and did not regret it at all."
"Perhaps you didn't have anything more pressing that needed your attention."
"I think not." France brushed a kiss against his cheek, then gave a theatrical sigh. "What a pair, the two of us!"
"Sentimental, do you mean?" England smiled.
"And nostalgic!"
"And dramatic, don't forget."
"Yes, of course! And I know you think it's just me, but I assure you, you're as guilty of all of it as I am – but lacking certain elements of artistic flair."
There was teasing in France's voice. At certain times, in certain places, England would not have had the patience for it.
Tonight, however, he did.
"Perhaps you're right," England said, coiling a soft strand of France's hair around his fingers.
"Of course I'm right. But which part do you mean, specifically?"
"Everything," he said, and let his eyes fall shut.
Here and now he had the patience for him. Here and now it was perfect.
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