SOY: I don't know why this threesome or this plot wanted to be written so much, but there you have it. A threesome three–shot fic. The chapters will be kind of short, I'm sorry, but I hope you will still come to enjoy the fic!

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Rating: R for mentions of past sex

Warnings: threesome, mentions of sex, England. Romano. France.

Pairings: France/England/Italy, mentions of Spain/Romano.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Shot of Honesty

Chapter 01: Waking up…

The first thing England was aware of as his consciousness slowly resurfaced was warmth; his whole body was tired and warm, that sort of cosy, languid feeling of waking up after having done something tiring but satisfying.

For a while, he simply sighed, allowing his thoughts to wander, but the more he woke up, the stranger the warmth felt. As if something was supposed to click, yet it wasn't.

What had happened the previous night?

Blinking and finally opening his eyes, he realised that the room he was in was quite large, and was definitely not his own; the first thought was that he had crashed at somebody's house for the night, but that made him wonder again what he'd done.

He vaguely remembered being upset, and then meeting France. The French frog had been… equally upset, and moody, in his usual dramatic, melancholic way to be sad that always granted to England's nerves.

Somehow, instead of their banter, they had moved to the other usual thing they did together –drinking alcohol in a pub to drown away their sorrows.

Why had they started their drinking again?

Forcing his still fuzzy brain to recall everything was hard, so he allowed his eyes to travel around the room instead.

Football.

The thought hit him with the strength of a mallet; his team had lost the game. He'd been terribly depressed, seeing them not allowed to get further in the competition. The thought stung, and it hurt.

France had been also depressed, because his own team had acted horribly, too, and everybody was discussing and insulting them over and over. Laughing stock.

They had shared a drink for problems far bigger than those, but it was still a sore point for both. They hated losing, and they loved football.

England curled more into the warmth, absently holding closer what he had in his arms.

Then, right when his eyes fell on the mop of brown hair right in front of his eyes, he remembered something else.

Before they could even take the first sip, Italy had joined them, equally depressed about his own loss. He'd been overly sad and angered, eyes filled with resentment at the mean words everybody had for his team –the disappointment that the former champions of the world had lost so early in the tournament was a burning shame for him.

He'd joined them, sour and grumpy.

Then, England could remember nothing –just a blur of…

His eyes finally focused on the hair a few inches from his face, and froze.

Sleep vanished from his mind and he was suddenly completely alert.

There was a body in his arms. Limbs. A soft breath against his neck, the steady, slow heartbeat of a person into a deep sleep. Brown, soft–looking hair. Arms loosely wrapped around his midsection.

A strand of hair poking from one side and curling in the air.

Slowly, really slowly, he stared down at the person that was snuggled against his chest.

His worst nightmares were right in front of him.

There, completely naked and asleep and clutching at his –equally naked– body, was Italy.

England, once an Empire, retired fearless pirate, magic user, finally knew what true terror really felt.

How the hell had this happened?

Going from drinking to… this?

With Italy, of all Nations? They had never been that close –the Italian man was cute and silly, and always had nice words ready for everything (except England's food, of course), and England had sometimes allowed his thoughts to wander where they were not supposed to –he was a closet pervert, after all. Not that this was an excuse– but…

From that to this…

Had it been France, then it would have been understandable, common –many times they had ended sharing a bed after having shared a glass of alcohol, a different kind of battle and yet a battle nonetheless, but this was different.

France was one thing.

They were rivals, they loved spitting insults and jibes at each other, they liked to fight and dance one against the other, and they were used to bringing this one step further if need aroused.

What existed between himself and France was complex, but familiar. Usual. Expected.

But… not this.

Italy…

He couldn't believe this.

What had he done?

Guilt racked through him. He knew how imposing and forceful he became when drunk. France had complained more than once about his rough attitude in bed after one drink too many; had he forced Italy into this?

He would have never wanted to do this to him. Italy was not naïve despite his age –and one tended to forget that the Italian nation was just as old as England himself was– but he certainly was one of the brightest, most innocent nations still around.

Candidly admitting of having never thought about doing anything more than flirting with girls for fun, not even interested in anything more than just that, not even simple romance, nor sex, completely uncaring of France's advances, of Spain's attempts at badtouching, of Prussia's date requests…

It was not a secret –no matter how embarrassing it was to admit that to oneself– that the Italian was also a virgin, and had been so by his own choice.

At least until now.

England felt a wave of shame wash over him, taking his breath away; he was close to panicking.

How could he remedy to something like that?

Was there even a way to?

What would he do once Italy was awake? Just look into his eyes and beg his forgiveness? And what would Italy do? Cry? Beg him not to hurt him again?

Oh, god, what if England had hurt him?

Clenching his jaw and feeling his teeth hurt with the strength he was gritting them, England shifted slowly in bed, grabbing the blanket with one hand and moving it up a bit; he was expecting to see anything –semen, blood, the sign of his abuse on Italy's naked body underneath the covers– but a hand moved onto his own, stopping him.

And scaring him shitless.

He almost jumped out of bed, but an arm that also was around his waist kept him completely still.

"Shhh… do you want to wake him up, mon cher?" a deep voice laced with amusement breathed into his ear.

Twisting his neck so hard it almost cracked, England looked behind and found himself with France's face inches away from his own.

"Fran–"

The Frenchman's blue eyes turned glacial at England's high–pitched tone, and he fell into silence, feeling Italy shift into his arms; he froze, panic filling him again, but the Italian simply snuggled more against his chest, sighing happily and still asleep.

England refused to allow his muscles to relax, looking at France again.

By what he could see from his uncomfortable position, France was just as naked as he and Italy were.

The implications of that sent even more dread dancing with his guilt and his panic.

"Francis… what the hell did we do?"

The wall was too far away to be able to slam his head on it, and he inwardly cursed.

"I think the answer is rather simple, Angleterre," France's voice was dripping sarcasm, but England realised that if he wanted to hit him, he'd have to let go of Italy's shoulders, and he didn't want to do that.

What if Italy woke up?

Besides, a part of him was still feeling the warmth, and sleeping so close to another human being was definitely soothing to him –so used to sleeping alone in a cold, empty bed, and even when waking up after one of his drunken nights, things had never been like that.

"W–what are we going to do?" he screeched. "What happened?"

"Don't you really remember?" more sceptical than anything, France leaned forwards a bit, staring at England in the eyes. "You always do, at least, enough to be satisfied".

England didn't really want to remember –after the many drinks, everything was a blur of confusion, but the fear of what could have happened, of the things he'd done to Italy…

He did not want to confront these memories.

Yet, his brain was working against him.

What he remembered was…

Brown eyes staring mournfully at a glass of wine… France chuckling humourlessly… England's hands playfully tugging at Italy's curl, and then–

Blurred memories –clothes flying everywhere… hands on his body, France's lips on his neck, his own hands coaxing Italy forth and down on the mattress…

'No!'

Eyes wide, England stopped the confused river of images, shivering and biting down on his lower lip, trying to keep calm. He couldn't remember if Italy had been entirely consentient, but how could he have been? He'd surely been drunk, just like him and France…

And France, of all people! He knew he could take advantage of a drunken England, just like the Englishman knew that he could do the same to France; it was their unspoken agreement.

But Italy… Italy had been untouched for centuries. That had to be for a reason. He'd surely gone to drink out with Nations other times, and yet… the dreadful thing had only happened when going out drinking with England for the first time.

England had standards. Morals, too. they could be strange, and sometimes twisted –after all, no sane person could manage to work out with having been a pirate, an Empire, a punk and a wild child and being now a gentleman in everything and anything– but he had always prided himself to have never done anything without consent of the other party.

And now… and now…

France held him tight against his chest, shocking England by gently nipping at his collarbone, shaking him out of his thoughts.

England fought against the urge to elbow him in the stomach.

"S–stop! The hell are you doing? Don't you have a minimum of decorum?"

"We're still in bed together, Arthur," and oh, how lewd his name sounded on those French lips. "You're still holding Feli's deliciously spent body in your arms, too. So don't deny me this, at least".

"I–it's not the same, damn it! I… him… I would have never… and you!" rage suddenly filled all his veins. "He considers you his big brother, right? And you allowed me to do that… to him… to ra–"

France's lips gently pressed on his own. England spluttered, livid with rage, and met an equally enraged pair of blue eyes.

The blond Frenchman hissed in displeasure, "don't you dare say that word".

"But that was exactly what happened, Francis! We were all drunk, but you've got more control than that! Why didn't you stop me? I can't even… oh, God, I don't even remember what I did, and yet… shit…"

France bit back the retort he wanted to say, and took a deep, calming breath.

"What we did was completely consensual. On all parts" he assured, voice cold and low. "He liked it. We made sure he did" he added, lips twitching upwards in barely repressed satisfaction. "Many times, actually".

England's cheeks turned crimson at the rude words. His lecherous mind flashed with images again, and he groaned, feeling himself growing hard despite himself.

His own reaction filled him with shame.

There was something erotic with knowing he (and France, but England was trying to forget about him) had been the one to claim something so precious and protected, even if he didn't remember about doing it (nor did he want to).

That was the part of England that he hadn't been able to suppress, the Empire in him, the pirate in him.

But the other part of him was ashamed and disgusted, especially by what he was thinking.

"How can you say that… you… I…" he had to leave.

He couldn't talk in this situation, not with Italy still in his arms, definitely not with France pressed flush against his back, tickling his shoulder with that stupid stub of a beard…

France seemed to understand, because he chuckled lowly and finally shifted away from him. England felt the bed creak, then the French Nation was standing up. He refused to turn around and look at him, knowing that was exactly what France was hoping for.

"Come on, let's get some breakfast ready for when he wakes up," he leered. "Not that I don't find this picture of you two arousing, so if you want to stay like this some more…"

"How the hell am I supposed to move, you git!"

"Little Feli is tired enough not to wake up," was the answer he got.

Anger boiled in England's veins again, but he calmed down and gently shifted backwards. Italy's arms fell limp on the mattress and he scrunched up his face, but otherwise didn't show any indication that he was going to wake up, murmuring something under his breath that England, despite the closeness, did not hear.

Still moving slowly, he managed to get off the bed, and he finally breathed out in relief, hands clenched into fists.

It was then that he finally recognised France's room around him. They always ended up at his house because it was the closest one.

On the bed, Italy's sleeping form looked even smaller than usual, pale against France's dark sheets.

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"You fucking bastard! Git! Bloody hell, what did we do?"

"Arthur… mon dieu, will you please sit down?"

The two Nations had closed the door of France's bedroom and had moved to the kitchen, where France had prepared some strong coffee for both, and some fresh croissants for when the Italian nation would join them.

England couldn't stay still, shifting on his seat then standing up and pacing around, only to sit back down with a grimace.

"How can I stay calm? It's all easy for you, you're the lecherous one, you are the one who keeps molesting people, it's obvious you would not think much about this… but I can't! What I've done… oh, bloody hell. Feliciano… how could I use him like that?"

"Arthur! Stop saying idiocies! You're underestimating Feli if you think he would allow you to take advantage of him without doing anything…" rolling his eyes, France sipped his coffee, a sneer on his lips. "Don't you think he wanted that, too?"

"We were all drunk! I can't think straight when I'm drunk, and you're just the same, and probably he is, too… could there be a worst way to lose your virginity to someone?"

Hiding his face in his hands, England slumped onto the table.

"You're thinking too hard over this. If you could just straighten up and concentrate, you'd remember what has happened, and–"

"And what? I will remember what I've done to him? What we've done? Did I leave marks on him? Did you? What will happen if I remember? Will the problems disappear, then? Or the fact that I've fucked that poor boy, probably raw?"

"Oh, Angleterre, don't be an idiot! I would never allow anyone to 'fuck', as you put it, with my cher little brother. And definitely not 'raw', either," France shook his head. "It seems impossible you don't remember what happened at all, as you usually never forget even the smallest details…"

"Shut up! Do you find all of this funny? Is it a joke to you? Ah, I know you love to see me so low, but… that is Feliciano! It's not something that can be remedied with just begging for forgiveness!"

France finally lost his smug smirk and calmed down, realising that England's panic was definitely authentic.

"You're really… this really bothers you, Arthur".

"O–of course! You fucking frog!" England's hands were trembling. He wanted alcohol, but everything had happened because of it in the end, right?

He'd been drinking too much, and had brought Italy down with him.

"Arthur… what do you remember of yesterday?" it was only France's serious tone that convinced England to actually think back. He was staring at him, chin on his hand, blue eyes narrowed, and England shivered at the sight, looking away before the other could take advantage of that.

There were times when England wondered if fighting and having drunken sex was even enough, but he never allowed those thoughts to last enough.

What did he remember from the previous night?

England couldn't deny something had happened, not if he wanted to take responsibility for what he'd done, but…

More than anything, he wanted to refuse remembering, because part of him wanted to know, and that part was not guilty in the least.

"Come on, Arthur," France poked at his arm with a finger.

"I…"

Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, England forced himself to remember.

Yes, they had been drinking together. Italy had been moping on how football was one of the very few things everybody agreed his Nation was good for, how everything else he did was never enough, and that now… now they had lost so early, and all he got was insults and laughter.

France had been gloomily sipping his wine, depressed because he had barely passed the qualifications, and he'd showed just how badly he could lose, despite all the expectations his people had for the team.

England had grunted, agreeing wholeheartedly with both, downing glass after glass of whisky.

It hadn't been that happy grouping at all.

As far as it concerned him, England had always been a chatty drunkard; he became touchy and open, and he could vaguely remembered patting Italy on the back, feeling sad for the poor moping Italian.

Then… he didn't remember… there were various holes in his memory, fuzzy and empty and… they had talked, probably being gloomy together, the three of them, and then…

Somehow… Italy had smiled.

England couldn't for the life of him remember why, or what the cause for that smile had been, but he'd been a sight to behold –cheeks flushed with the wine he'd been sipping, tears in his eyes, Italy had smiled at him.

A beautiful smile.

After that, England's already confusing memories turned into…

Naked skin pressed against naked skin, lips and tongues dancing together, France's arms around his waist, hands slipping lower as he leaned forwards, dragging Italy closer, holding him…

"Damn it…" he hissed, shaking himself out of those thoughts.

No, he didn't want to remember more than that.

He knew enough.

"How will I explain that to him? I didn't mean to have my way with him… we were all drunk… how can I… and you… how can you be this calm?"

France looked at him, eyes narrowed. "It might be a problem, indeed," he mused, but his tone of voice had England wonder if he wasn't referring to something else instead.

"Are you going to deny any responsibility?" he grunted, angered and upset.

He had thought France wasn't like that –that despite their sort of agreement, and his lecherous ways, he would realise when he'd done something inexcusable.

And yet…

"Mais non!" at least France had the decency to look offended. "But you won't be able to make any progress unless you remember exactly everything that has happened yesterday, Arthur. And I don't mean us three making–"

"Oh, shut your trap. It's not like it will help… It will do nothing good to that poor lad!"

"Stop assuming things before knowing all the details, Angleterre…"

"What? How do you think I feel? Why are you so calm? It will be me having to explain Feliciano that all that happened was wrong, that I didn't mean anything I did and said! I was drunk! I didn't want anything of that! It was all a huge mistake! I'm… so… disgusted…"

So lost in his yelling, England didn't notice the small gasp on the other side of the door, and with France once again trying to calm him down, glaring at him as if he couldn't really get it, the following fight drowned out all the noise outside the room.

When France finally managed to calm the Englishman down, more than ten minutes of ranting later (the longest in his life, if he had to be honest), he was close to yelling himself.

How could he make that damn English Nation understand?

Yet, if he still could not remember anything except short flashes, the first thing they had to do was wake up Italy and have England shut up; the Italian Nation would surely be better at soothing England's overwhelming reactions.

Thinking about his little Italy made France smile fondly. He had hoped for things to evolve down a similar path for years to come, but he would never have expected them to end so perfectly. Now, if only England stopped being a dramatic idiot, then maybe…

"Francis".

The Frenchman blinked and shook himself out of his trance to stare at England, who on his own was unable to look away from the bedroom.

France shifted to look inside, too.

The bed was empty.

"Feli?" cautiously entering in the room, France looked around.

Maybe he'd been awoken by their yelling? Was he in the bathroom?

"Feli…? We need to talk!"

England remained frozen on the spot, holding the frame of the door with both of his hands, knuckles white.

He didn't want to face Italy, but at the same time, he had to. All his fault…

"Arthur, Feliciano's clothes are not here".

England blinked and stepped into the room, looking around.

When he and France had left the room, they had both grabbed their pants from the floor, and he remembered seeing Italy's shirt and pants there as well.

Now, he could only see his shirt close to the bed, and France's shirt on the nearby chair.

France was right. Where were Italy's clothes?

"He's… did he run away?" filled with dread, England held tightly onto the headboard, hiding his face in one hand.

"Ce n'est pas possible…" France murmured, face showing uncertainty.

After all, he knew that Italy would never run away like this, not if…

Was it possible that he didn't remember anything from the previous night, either? But he was sure that the Italian had a good hold on his liquor… then what did this mean?

"Oh, God… Feliciano…" England slumped down on the bed, overwhelmed by self disgust once again.

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SOY: there you have, the first chapter. Please drop me a comment to let me know if you liked! Next chapter will be up soon, I promise :D

mon cher (French) – my dear

Angleterre (French) – England

mon dieu (French) – My god

mais non (French) – of course not (slang)

Ce n'est pas possible (French) – this is not possible