How it used to be.doc

England and France look into each other’s eyes, blushing and tentative. They’re young; mere teenagers, and they have precious little history between them. Later, they will fight. Later, they will hate each other. There will be Waterloo, there will be Trafalgar, but for now, there is just France, and just England.

They kiss gently, and England – slightly older – pulls France closer, into his arms, touching his body through his loose clothes. The embers glow in the fireplace, casting just enough light to see by. England cups France’s cheeks in his hands, resting their foreheads together. There isn’t a frown on his face, just as there isn’t a smirk on France’s. They are new, full of potential, full of inquisitiveness and hope.

They kiss again, bowing to the rush of urgency and desire that fills them, pressing hard against each other and moaning softly as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. They start to rock together instinctively, gasping and blushing and embarrassed to find their bodies doing this, to hear blood pounding in their ears as desperate longing floods over them.

France’s arms are tight around England’s shoulders as he is pulled into the other nation’s lap. He whimpers; the feeling is new and wonderful and he hasn’t the words to describe it, but it gets stronger and stronger as England kisses and licks at the hollow of his throat and their bodies move together.

England’s hands rest firmly on France’s hips, but soon they’re exploring between his legs and France’s surprised flurry of movement sends him falling back onto the mattress, blushing harder than ever.

France is on his back, now, and England settles himself over him, kissing him hard and fumbling with the tie of France’s trousers. The feeling of Arthur’s smooth, cool hand on his piece makes France cry out and jerk, and he wonders what will happen next. England doesn’t know any more than he knows; what if something bad happens?

He voices the fear and England shakes his head, working his hand slowly and making France arch and moan, reaching for him desperately and tangling his fingers in England’s fine, beautiful hair. They kiss once more, and between that and the things England’s hand is making him feel, France is lost.

Passion builds inside of him like water pushing at a dam, and England kisses his neck again, and his cheek, and England touches him and smiles softly at him and…and then the dam breaks, and there is only pleasure.

France is dimly aware of England panting close by, but most of his attention is on the rush of feelings swamping his body. He feels more alive than he ever has before, for those few precious seconds, before he opens his eyes and looks into England’s.

Without speaking – because he still hasn’t words for what has happened – he pulls England into his arms, endeavouring to give his friend – yes, for now, his friend – the same gift as he has just been given.