See my note at the end for miscellaneous details! Warnings: human names and a handjob. :P

Arthur shook his leg. He knew his pants must be getting wrinkled, due to the crease against his thigh that was… not leaving. He shook his leg again, more vigorously, and found that the pressure from this crease only grew into what was now obviously not a crease at all, but a human hand. A very warm, long-fingered, French hand, gripping his leg just above the knee beneath the table in the meeting room.

"Francis…" he growled under his breath, not looking at the man beside him, but up to the front of the room where Alfred was busy giving a very passionate speech about the necessity to spread fast food into underprivileged countries. The meeting could last a while. Francis simply chuckled, and squeezed his leg.

Arthur grumbled, and fought back at blush at the feeling of the other's hand. He was not one for casual contact, especially of this sort, and especially while in the presence of all the other nations who could very easily look over to see the color on his face, and the broad smirk on his neighbor's.

Luckily, the rest of the room was rather preoccupied. Most nations were asleep, or close to it, and those who weren't were busy trying to ignore the small notes that seemed to appear in their laps requesting that they "become one with Russia…"

"Relax, cheri," Francis murmured, hardly leaning toward the British man, but still managing to tickle his ear with his breath. Arthur clenched his jaw and groaned in annoyance as the hand traveled further up his thigh.

"Don't you try anything," he warned him quietly, frowning as he blankly watched Alfred pull out a series of graphs regarding the rate of consumption of curly fries between the North American countries.

"I'm not trying," Francis replied, his smirk widening, "I'm succeeding."

Arthur nearly yelped as Francis' hand closed over the crotch of his pants, and had to bite his pen in order to prevent himself from making any more sound. He shot the Frenchman a heavy glare, his prominent eyebrows lowering dangerously.

Francis rubbed at the other man's crotch firmly and Arthur bit down hard on the pen. "Relax, this feels good, non?"

When the pen cap threatened to shatter between his teeth, Arthur took it from his mouth and grimaced. "That's the problem…" he muttered.

Francis simply chuckled, and tugged the zipper of Arthur's pants open, not wasting time in thrusting his hand into his boxers. The chewed pen cap flew across the room, striking a sleeping Italian on the head. Feliciano looked around, rather dazed.

"Désolé, Feli!" Francis called softly, smiling sweetly, hand still working on its own. Feliciano grinned back, and returned his head to his German neighbor's shoulder to promptly fall asleep again.

Arthur's face, by this point, was more a shade of purple than red as he both blushed, and lost oxygen in holding his breath, trying very hard to neither shout nor moan…

"You're very horny, cheri," Francis whispered, his smirk spreading. He glanced casually up to the front of the room where Alfred continued to speak, left completely unawares.

"You- bloody-" Arthur stammered, then shut his mouth as he felt a low groan rise up in his throat. He cursed his body's eager response as he moaned through clenched teeth

"Now that's a sound I want to hear," Francis muttered as his hand sought to produce said reaction once again.

Arthur clenched his fists on the table before him with a heavy thud that was enough to draw Alfred's attention to the back of the room where the two involved in the ongoing and entirely inappropriate actions were seated.

He assumed, of course, that his former care-taker was simply moved by his speech based on his fisted hands and determined expression.

"Calm down, Arthur," he said with what he obviously felt was a humble expression, "I know this is exciting."

"Oh yes, continue, mon ami," Francis replied in place of the Englishman, who, had he attempted to open his mouth, would have most certainly moaned very, very loudly. All the meanwhile, his busy hand did not relent.

Alfred's grin widened, and he turned to the projector that had seemed to have materialized beside him, and lowered the lights by remote control.

Francis chuckled softly, leaning toward Arthur. "Now it's perfect, cheri¸ you're free to squirm about in that adorable way you do…"

Arthur turned his head stiffly to glare at him. "Take your hand- away- from me- now- This isn't- funny- anymore-"

"Are you close, Arthur?" Francis asked in a low and very sweet tone, smirk tinted blue by the light of the projector.

In response, Arthur gave a low groan, and shut his eyes. Perhaps, if he focused on Alfred's awful slideshow, he'd be able to delay the oncoming catastrophe until, at least, he was able to reach a bathroom and relieve himself of this dire discomfort… He listened to the suddenly even more obnoxious voice from the front of the room, and allowed the faintest sigh to pass his lips, thankfully not carrying any form of moan or whimper along with it.

Francis, noticing the sudden determination set by his neighbor, decided to make his own effort, and leaned even further in, pumping his hand quickly, and placing a slow and tortuously sensual kiss on Arthur's pale neck.

"Francis-" Arthur groaned, eyes squeezing tighter against the horribly pleasant combination of feelings currently being delivered to his body. He was afraid of two things: first, that he was dangerously close to soiling his new boxers, and second, that the entire rest of the room would be able to see it happen. Luckily, the rest of the nations who had previously not fallen asleep had promptly done so when the lights turned off.

Francis continued his work, hand moving independently, and mouth travelling upward along Arthur's jaw, targeted, of course, for a kiss that the English nation had never been able to escape cleanly.

Arthur's attention on anything else broke completely as a hot mouth smothered his own. He wanted to choke or push him away, but his mouth was too occupied with a wildly active tongue, and his hands were clenched so tightly that trying to open them would take a solid few minutes.

However, in the midst of all this, Alfred had finished his ridiculous speech, and again pressed the remote button to turn the lights back on. As the only member of the captive audience still fully conscious, Francis was able to make a quick and neat movement back into his own seat, only his hand still in contact with his neighbor, as the nations around them began to rouse.

"Hurry, Angleterre," he cooed, "Or you'll have an audience for your grand finale!"

"I'll kill you- you bloody-" Arthur hissed, trying desperately to shrink into his seat and away from the handful of gazes that were now wandering his way. But with a sharp hand movement from Francis, he was thrown into ecstasy, and tried pathetically to disguise his climax as a sneeze.

Francis' hand escaped cleanly, and he smirked in satisfaction as he crossed his arms. "À tes souhait¸ Arthur. But what a violent sneeze!"

Arthur, finally able to open his eyes, shot him a glare that caused the smirk to flicker. The rest of the room, quite startled by the loud and rather orgasmic sneeze from the English nation, awkwardly began to file out. Francis stood, and held out a hand, smirk recovered.

"Coming, Arthur?" he asked sweetly. Arthur cursed him on many accounts, mainly, his choice of vocabulary in the question.

"Not yet, I'm not," he muttered, flexing his stiff fingers before reaching under the table to close his pants. As he'd feared, the evidence of what had just happened presented itself indubitably across the front of his favorite trousers.

"Alright, I'll go without you," Francis said lightly. He leaned down to place a teasing kiss on Arthur's cheek, before waltzing toward the door. "Come by my house later, mon cher, we'll have dinner, and you may return the favor…"

Arthur spun in his seat, readier than ever to tackle Francis to the ground and throttle him. However, a very pleased looking Alfred was only two steps away, and sent Arthur to quickly attempt to hide himself under the table once again.

"So you really liked my speech, Arty?" he asked, sitting down on the table and facing his elder with a grin.

"The meeting brought about some strong feelings, I'll say that much," Arthur replied, very much aware of how his face still glowed a warm pink. He urged the blood to leave his cheeks.

"Cool," Alfred said, leaning back on his hands, "I mean, I knew I'd be good, but I was afraid that everyone would get bored, you know? I don't think they did, though. I mean, they were listening. It was silent in here."

"Of course," Arthur agreed flatly. He needed very much to leave the room and clean himself up in the nearest restroom. However, it did not look like the American man planned on getting up from the table anytime soon. Arthur calculated the distance between his seat and the door in his head, and wondered if Alfred would notice his pants in the time it took him to dash…

"So you wanna grab a bite?" Alfred asked brightly, grinning down into the Englishman's face.

Arthur briefly concluded that he'd almost rather choke down another awful hamburger than spend the rest of the evening being so tormented by Francis, but quickly dismissed this, and decided that he might was well execute his humiliating maneuver now, and avoid any more direct embarrassment.

Alfred looked surprised as Arthur leapt up from the table and began for the door. And he did, in fact, notice the very prominent stain on the front of his trousers, causing his startled expression to morph into something entirely perplexed.

Arthur very solemnly wished that the ground would simply swallow him up and end the chain of misery that had befallen him, as he dashed down the hall.

However, odds really were not in his favor, as when he finally achieved solitude, a stall door swung open to reveal that Francis had grown too impatient for the evening's dinner plans, and simply stalked him to the bathroom.

With a suffocated sounding groan, Arthur fell back against a sink and nearly wept. Francis chuckled, and wrapped his arms around the other man's neck.

"Don't bother cleaning up, Arthur…" Francis murmured into his ear.

Feeling completely defeated, once and for all, Arthur sighed, allowing himself to be embraced by a very obviously excited Frenchman, and flatly thanked the bitter universe that at least now, they were alone in the bathroom.

A/N: So a few things…

This was my first ever Hetalia fic. Ever. Literally. I'm working on a GerIta one as well, but it's even cheesier than this, and I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I'll wait for REVIEWSon this one before I work on anything else. It sucks, I know, don't throw tomatoes (Antonio would have a heart attack… what a waste of tomatoes!)

I know virtually ZERO French. I love the language, I think it's beautiful, I just can't speak it. I've got two weeks of French one under my belt, meaning all I could tell you is the alphabet and numbers up to twenty, so please excuse the internet translations, and fanfiction clichés. Merci.

I actually really, really, really like Alfred. But I also really, really, really like picking on him because he's kind of a moron. I live in the US, I feel like I'm allowed to. Anyway, no one takes these characters seriously, do they? (Hell no, if they did, they wouldn't be reading fanfiction…)

I'm not going to continue this. I know it's leading up to a lemon, but I'm not comfortable writing that (this is the limiest thing I think I've ever posted…) SO… If you want the next yummy sex scene, YOU WRITE IT! I'd actually love to see what anyone else wants to do with this. Just lemme know, and I'll look out for it, A'IGHT?

Feel free to drag Alfred into it, if you do decide to take me up on that. And Matthew. I mean, who wouldn't want a four-way with these guys? (Nuns and those who actually respect history. That's who.)

Alright, I'm through. Review, please! I need all the concrit I can get! (And don't flame me or I'll cry. .) Thanks for reading!