Click.

"What's that? France, what are you doing?

Click.

"Hey, stop it, get that thing away from me."

Click.

"Shove off! Don't make me come over there and kick your ass."

Click.

"France. Seriously. Stop it."

Click.

"Can you not hear me? I said fucking stop it."

Click.

"I'm going to put my embroidery down…"

Click.

"And I'm going to walk right over…"

Click.

"And I'm going to shove my foot right up your-AHH!"

The black shoe flicks out, tripping him.

Thump.

"Ow…"

Click.

He raises a hand to his pounding head. There is a scuffle of movement near his feet and a sudden pressure against his half-bent knees. Instinctively, his muscles tense, supporting the weight.

Chuckle.

His eyes open. His own face is reflected back at him in a small circle of black. A smile sits under the circle, scruff peppering the skin below the lower lip. The long body is curled over him, knees resting on either side of him, arms bent to hold a small device to the elegant face.

"Souris, Angleterre."

Click.

"I hate you." Arthur says, though his voice lacks real conviction. The pounding in his head lessens but he doesn't remove his hand, rather entangling his fingers in his hair in a gesture of reluctant acceptance. His other arm casually drapes over his stomach.

Click.

Blue eyes peak from behind the machine held to his face, warm and shining with amusement. "Hate or not, l'appareil-photo loves you Angleterre." He raises the contraption, a long finger depressing a small button.

Click.

"Could you seriously stop that? It's chuffing annoying." Sitting up on one elbow, England tries to get up, but Francis slides down his legs, coming to rest directly on his lap, his body keeping Arthur pinned the ground. The smaller nation sighs, doing his best not to move his hips. "Bastard. When I get up I'm going to kill you."

Rub.

His breath catches as the threat leaves his lips. Francis smiles. "Ma belle Angleterre… Can I have one picture of you where you don't look like an angry child?" He asks, shifting delicately, enjoying the way Arthur's cheeks flush. "Please~?"

Thump.

Arthur's head hits the floor. He knows Francis. He knows that he will do anything once his mind is set. He knows that in this position, he really doesn't have much say. Still trying to quell the growing warmth in his stomach, England folds his arms. "Fine." He closes his eyes, attempting to relax. A moment passes where he imagines a day spent with nothing more to do that stare at the sky. His mind turns blissfully clear and he lets out a long breath, opening his eyes.

A sharp intake of breath.

The man below him is something Francis has only dreamed about. He isn't smiling. He isn't glaring. He just watches. Every declaration of hate, every sigh of misery, every remark of spite that have been sheltering him for hundreds of years fall away. A hand was playing in his hair, messing the short blond locks into an even wilder mess than usual. Soft green eyes stared up at him, expectant while the tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips -lacking the usual malice or superiority.

"Well? Are you going to take the picture?"

Click.

Arthur watches as Francis lowers the camera, letting it rest on his stomach. The expression on the older nation's face is guarded and England frowns. He reaches out, gently tracing down Francis' arm with a single finger. "Going to let me up now?" He asks.

France leans forward and kisses him.

Click.

"You did not just take a picture of us snogging." Arthur breathes.

Click.

"Pervert."

Click.

Thunk.

The camera hitting the ground.

Rub.

Hips rock gently against each other.

Moan.

From both or one they can't tell.

Breathe.

Because neither can keep kissing.

Chuckle.

Long fingers dance over slightly swollen lips.

Smile and a whispered curse.

The grin is quickly stolen and the curse swiftly muffled.

Souris, Angleterre - Smile, England.

l'appareil-photo - camera

Ma belle Angleterre - My beautiful England

Was this random or what. I like it though, kinda an odd style for me.