~ x ~ x ~ x ~

[Day 7]

"Valentine's Day"

LOVE HAS A FLAVOR

Everybody knows that England likes to play hard-to-get. Of course, he will never admit to it, no matter how coaxing and bribing and seducing he's had to endured from his former lovers — France, Prussia, Austria, Portugal, India, Japan, and probably a few others that he can't remember at the moment. He has an over-a-thousand-year-old image — and an equally ancient reputation — to uphold, after all.

So it's only natural that he scowls when America shows up on his doorstep at seven in the evening with a suitcase and a dozen roses (and it's also natural that he turns away to keep him from seeing his cherry-red blush and the smile that threatens to overturn his frown). It's natural that he gets upset when he realizes one of the roses is crafted from crimson, man-made cloth instead of nature's smooth velvet (even though he knows what it means, and his heart throbs beautifully with the knowledge). And it's natural that when America hastily explains the reason behind the faux rose — he'd read somewhere on the internet that a guy gave his girlfriend a similar bouquet, saying, "I'll love you until the last rose dies" to immortalize his feelings for her — England is inclined to scoff at his sentimental silliness . . . even as his eyes begin to prick with tears, even as he wants to fling himself into America's arms and kiss him senseless and hold on for dear life (and dear heart).

He covers up his watery eyes by fussing over the elegant flowers, cutting the stems, finding a vase, and arranging the gift on his dining room table. He hides the fact that, despite the wild roses growing in his backyard by the hundreds, he treasures these store-bought, ribbon-bound ones more than any others he has ever seen.

When he comes back into the hall, America sweeps him up into a dizzying kiss that leaves them both gasping for breath, and thus England misses seeing the red-and-white box that America has secretly set aside on the tiny shelf near the door. And he even forgets about making tea when America says cheerfully, "Get dressed in something nice, babe — we're going out for dinner tonight."

He's surprised — and touched — that America's done his research before flying over, but he shows it through nothing except the way he gently squeezes America's hand on the drive to the restaurant, their fingers intertwined over the gear shift, a medley of pale and tanned fingers. The silver ring on his finger, the one that America gave him on their first anniversary as a couple, glitters in the light from the passing street lamps.

They return to England's house an hour and a half later, full and happy and slightly tipsy from all the champagne, and kick off their shoes before heading straight for the stairs. America makes sure to snag the box from earlier (though he keeps it hidden from England's view) — then they're stumbling up the steps, giggling and kissing and tripping over each other, like a pair of teenagers that has gotten past the awkward chasteness of the first date and now wants nothing more than to fall into bed together. Somewhere along the way, England decides, To hell with dignity, and tackles America, sending them sprawling across the landing in a tangle of limbs. Their lips meet — once, twice, then again and again as the momentum they've built up begins moving out of their control, England straddling America's waist and feeling strong arms come up around him in a tight embrace that promises to never let go.

They've been apart for nearly a month, and aroused though he is, England doesn't want their Valentine's Day reunion sex to happen on the stairs. So he breaks the suction of their mouths, and pulls America up with him as he regains his feet. With a smile that he's no longer able to hide, he leads him into the bedroom, where they lock the door and dive onto the mattress together, bodies and lips already engaged again as though there's a magnetic attraction guiding them together.

Several minutes, a lost tie, and a partially-unbuttoned shirt later, America's hands suddenly leave him. England opens his eyes, confused, slowly returning to himself as America sits back and finally produces the box.

"Before we . . . uh . . . y'know, I kind of want to try these first."

England looks at the box. "Try what?" he asks, suddenly suspicious of its contents.

America sees his expression and laughs. "Don't worry — it's nothing dangerous." He takes the top off, tossing the shiny plastic wrapping aside, and offers the box to England for inspection. "See? Just a bunch of chocolates. With different types of fillings."

"Always thinking of food, aren't you?" England sighs, slightly disappointed that America's sweet tooth has chosen to make itself known at such an inconvenient moment. Still, a part of him is interested in where this is going. Surely America intends to do . . . more than just tasting chocolates, since he'd specifically waited until they've gotten to the bed to bring them out, right?

He isn't disappointed, because America replies with a wink, "Not really. My main focus right now isn't food." He kisses England on the nose. "There's a game I want to play with you, involving the chocolates."

"Oh?"

"It's called 'Guess the Flavor.' Since all the chocolates have different syrups and stuff in them, it'll be really fun to mess around and see how many of them we get right."

England raises an eyebrow, his hopes for a saucy experiment with the sweets dashed again. "That's not very creative."

"Yeah, it is." America's wearing his I know something you don't and once I tell you what it is you'll be all over me grin. "'Cause we're going to be feeding the chocolates to each other with our mouths. The person on the receiving end has to make the guess."

That is what England's been waiting for. Putting on his most seductive smile — and feeling immensely pleased when America seems to melt under his gaze — he says, "All right. I accept your challenge."

Getting into the spirit, America shrugs off his jacket (though he stops there, leaving on the rest of his clothing, even as England mentally urges him to keep stripping). Then he plucks a round, milk chocolate truffle from the box and holds it up. "This one first," he says, and pops it into his own mouth. He doesn't chew it, however; instead, he cups England under the jaw with one hand and presses their mouths together, parting his lips to slide the chocolate into England's mouth with his tongue. Senses tingling from the intimacy, England can't help but kiss America back for a moment before pulling away. He bites through the soft, sweet shell of the truffle and blinks when the tangy flavor within bursts across his tongue.

"Er . . . strawberry?"

America checks the list on the inside cover of the box, matching the chocolate's position in the tray to its name on the diagram. "Yup!"

Well, that was easy. England smirks. "My turn." He lifts a chocolate — this one's shaped like a tiny pyramid — and places it in his mouth.

This time, the kiss is longer and more intense, neither of them able to get enough of the other in the short time it takes to exchange the sweet between them. The pyramid is half-melted, a hint of its filling seeping across both of their tastebuds, before England succeeds in pushing it into the pouch of America's cheek. He watches as America chews thoughtfully, and prompts somewhat breathlessly, "Well?"

"Hmm . . . I think I have to say . . . uh . . ."

"What, admitting defeat already?" England teases, and America puffs up, pretending to be offended.

"'Course not! It's crème brûlée!"

England looks at the list to make sure. "Yes, that's right."

America grins. "Awesome!"

The game continues for quite a while. England gets raspberry, caramel, vanilla, and coffee in succession, which he all names correctly. America receives trickier ones: tiramisu, lime, and mint — though he has little trouble identifying the last one, given his penchant for minty chewing gum. A couple of unexpected flavors crop up, such as tangerine, and those are the only ones they guess wrong. One or two of them make England cringe and question the chocolatier's abilities, like the small square of dark chocolate mixed with sea salt, while America straight-up chokes on the chocolate tube that contains traces of ghost pepper. Soon, two-thirds of the chocolates in the box have been consumed, and the potpourri of flavors is beginning to blend into one indistinguishable taste on England's tongue. After his guess is wrong on the fourth one in a row (he thinks it's mango, when it's really peach) and America makes a mistake too (green tea, not pistachio), they decide to take a break, which quickly evolves into their previous activity of preparing to ravish each other.

Their kisses now tinged with every fruity and savory taste from every corner of the earth, they discard the rest of their clothes and burrow deep under the covers, where England relishes the cool, silky feel of the sheets on his bare skin and America's hot hands on his chest, his navel, his hips. He curves soundlessly into America's touch when it reaches his hardening length, his body responding eagerly as he receives stimulation from something other than his own hand for the first time since their last reunion. Then he feels America's lips on his neck, teeth edging gently into a tendon, and it's enough to make his fingernails dig into the warm, muscular back under his hands as he cries out.

The lube is retrieved from a drawer in his nightstand; the new, unopened package of condoms materializes in a shopping bag stowed under the bed. America is ever so careful as he eases his fingers in and out, the soft friction creating pleasant tingles instead of sparks of pain. When England pulls at his wrist and demands that he come in now, America doesn't hold back. They join together enthusiastically, influenced by love and lust and their long time apart, every sensation relearned, re-memorized as a level rhythm rolls their hips together. Occasionally they kiss, but more often than not America's mouth is trailing down the tender hollow behind England's ear, and England is lost in the heat of his lips against America's throat, reveling in the quiet moans and hard gasps of his lover as he draws them out of him.

When they both near the end, America flips them, turning onto his back and guiding England to mount him. England leans down, pressing the lengths of their bodies together, and breathes in America's scent, the earthy tones of his land, the mild leather spice of his cologne, the salty sweetness of his sweat. He feels America's heart beating against his own ribs, their skin pulsing in tandem, and it's so beautiful, so complete that he finally allows the tears to fall.

America seems to feel the drops on his chest, because he tilts England's face to his and kisses away every single one of them. Then he brings their mouths together and lets England taste himself, his own voiceless happiness, on their intertwined tongues. They stay that way until America reaches his climax; then England finds himself eased down on his back, and America slides down his slender form and suckles on him, teases him, licks his member with long, loving strokes, and swallows his release when it comes at last.

They lie in each other's arms, contently nestled among the pillows and blankets. After several long, quiet minutes, England realizes he still hasn't heard what he's been waiting to hear from America. He shifts his head, nuzzling against America's hand where it had been caressing his hair, and whispers, "America? Isn't . . . isn't there something you're . . . forgetting?"

America's brow furrows, then smooths out as he understands. His smile is soft, tender, as he says gently, "It goes without saying, baby . . . I love you."

It's all right to admit his feelings out loud just this once, England thinks, because this has nothing to do with image or reputation or dignity. This is about giving and receiving, about strengthening the connection between them with the truth. This is about letting America hear the words he deserves, letting England reconcile himself with those words, letting the two of them be bound by their vows in a way that no physical union can achieve. This is about them, and only them.

"I love you, too, America."

A/N: The last fic for Sweethearts Week! It's been a hectic, romantic seven days, huh? I hope you've enjoyed reading these entries as much as I've enjoyed writing them~

The poll for sequels/continuations should be up within the next few days. Hope you stick around to vote. :)