Pairing: England/Arthur x America/Alfred (UKUS)

Genre: Yaoi, shonen-ai

POV: Switches from time to time, third person

Disclaimer: I do not own anything here except for the plot and story

This fic is loosely based off a song I heard from a good band called Of Montreal, their song being titled "Tim, I Wish You Were Born a Girl". Google it.

Enjoy reading. C:

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A quiet afternoon spent around a small rotund table draped in a pure white, beautifully hand embroidered cloth. Two saucers set on either side, one hugging a tea cup, elegantly matching with its plate in porcelain white and draping strings of blue hung by pearls of gold paint, warm with tea. Sitting there, untouched, cooling down.

Two men: one sitting awkwardly within his oak seat, trying to relax, leaning back, but with a sweating brow. The other man, sitting proper straight and sipping delightfully on his tea, the steam lightly embracing his eyes, coaxing them shut. Both surrounding the single tea table within the room. All this in silence. The former took several anxious glances at the man drinking his tea peacefully, enjoying the scent and tranquility. Another moment passed. The poignant strike of a pendulum pestered the ears of the fair haired man, whose fingernails clawed into the underside of his cushioned seat, watching the other, opening his mouth, eager to say something, but somehow hesitant. Should he say it? The question had to be an awkward one. It was the only thing stinging his brain, urging him, nagging him to say it; spit it out.

"Arthur," Off to a good start: the other man jumped within his seat, perturbed, almost spilling his tea which he quickly returned it to its saucer. Sharp green eyes glanced over into shallow blue ones, giving off a disturbed look. The former decided to continue into the minefield.

"Quick question – erh, no. A statement." Even he was disappointed in his own speech. It was dry and hazy, disoriented and over-all awkward. Arthur watched the other man's mini display of inner conflict; making faces as he tried figuring out his word choice. The gentleman patiently waited, tolerating this man's utter nonsense.

"You – Arthur: I…" The man paused a moment, trying to buff up his confidence. In an instant, their eyes clicked and the latter's mouth suddenly gaped open as if astonished.

"Arthur, I wish you were born a girl." His eyes snapped shut in apprehension. Even with his sight cut off, he could still feel Arthur's piercing glare, picturing his face to be obscured in complete confusion, further dubbing the blue-eyed man the most disturbed pillock he's ever met. Then what made it more awful was that Arthur didn't respond for the longest time.

A sigh. Heavily draped in disappointment. How painstaking.

"You truly are insane." The gentlemen claimed, obviously pinching the bridge of his nose as per usual with the former's daily intentions. Stupid and terribly uneducated. Childish, even.

Blue eyes beamed open, sudden excitement blazing through his flesh.

"But then I could be your boyfriend an-and—"

"Oh buggar off." And his lips enjoyed the sweet flow of tea, slipping between his teeth and warming his insides. The other man grew jealous of his beverage, though his tea sat stagnant, waiting to drain.

"Drink your tea," the Englishman murmured against the rim of his cup, firm in his words. "It'll get cold."

"Bu-But – but Arthur! I-I, we…" He paused a moment, thinking over his decisions hastily. "We cou—we could just…lay in bed together until the afternoon an-and…uh. We could…"

Arthur couldn't help but stare at the other in an odd, cold look, as if the man had pressed a launch button planning to destroy a small enough nation. The Englishman's head shook disdainfully and let out a sigh.

"You really are troublesome, Jones."

Another slow and steady sip before placing it down back onto its saucer, leaning an elbow onto the table and perching his chin onto his folded wrist, staring at the latter under irked brows.

"But listen: if whatever motives and puerile dreams thriving through your silly little head can only be conducted if I had the proper traits – in this case, I am to be of the opposite spectrum of sex – then why bother dreaming?"

Jones pouted at this response, eyeing the gentleman as he equally stared in return. How bothersome. He's playing, right? If so, the Yank leaned his head back, cocked it to the side a little and smirked devilishly at the other.

"Does that mean you're convinced, Arthur?"

"Please refrain from calling me by my first name: 'tisn't proper."

"W-What?" The American yelped, lunging forward, almost meeting Arthur's face, his mapped in astonishment and vigour. "But I've been calling you that for the past several…ral…Past several millions years!"

"Don't be so impolite. Drink your tea." The Englishman ordered in scorn, leaning back, keeping a cool stature. Their eyes never met again. "And don't exaggerate. It brings a bad impression onto others."

"What do I care about others? I can exaggerate all I want. The only person docking me is you." He waited a moment, watching for any particular reactions from the latter. Nothing happened except for perhaps his half-lidded distracted eyes blinked softly at nothing.

"And besides," Jones paused a moment, growing faint with words again. "Uh… I-If you were a woman, I'm sure my life would be so much easier. Gaining independence by confronting a man was way too difficult. A woman, on the oth—"

The Yank stopped short, witnessing the Brit on the other side of the table stand up – always politely as he could. Oh no; Jones did something stupid again.

"W-Wait, Ar-Kirkland; where-? What? Why? Don't go!" He pleaded, clambering to his feet, never peeling his eyes from the other in tremendous dismay.

"I don't appreciate your complaints." The Brit stated solemnly, almost under his breath, staring off in another direction, as if he desired to run off thither. He quit as soon as Jones dove around the table and confronted the man, gripping a hold of his clammy, gloved hands. Why must the Yank be so much taller than him?

"Don't leave just yet, dude." The American's eyes screamed for Arthur's attention while the skin of his fingers flamed with emotion, pleading for the Englishman's stay. Easily convinced, Jones thought; the short gentleman stayed put. A goofy smile quickly invaded his face, forcing the other man to frown.

"I don't believe I will ever understand your inevitable desires for me to be your girlfriend." The Briton responded, displeased with this closeness and how he's even playing along with Jones' usual nonsense. It doesn't normally grow to be this weird.

"It's simple," The American elucidated, tightening his grip, filling with excitement. "You're a man, and so am I. It's impossible."

In response, Arthur only laughed, silently tearing his hands away from the former. Jones frowned like a child who lost his sweet.

"Artie," The man whined, "I'm serious!"

The Brit continued to chuckle, almost needing to lean over his knees to support himself in his aching jovial mood. How irksome.

"If you were born a girl and caught a cold," Jones continued in despite, frantic "I'd be right there by your side, feeding you chicken soup or something 'til you got better."

The other man didn't do anything besides indulge in the stupidity Jones brought forth.

"Would you quit it, dude? You even said it yourself that this is rude." The Brit fanned him off, only wooing like an owl, composing himself until finally serious, and pointing a dirty finger at the other man.

"Jones, you're not an educated and well-mannered enough individual to even come to me, telling me I am improper." The former blinked in astonishment, frowning deeply as if caught in his act. The Englishman was right though, much to his disappointment, and Jones knew it.

"Alright, alright. I have no right…" The Yank waved the other off, shutting accepting eyes in the process until when they reopened the Englishman disappeared, escaped. The man immediately took to a frantic look-a-round, desperately searching for his familiar until he found him, absconding through the door at the end of the room. A tiny gasp mixed with embarrassment escaped Jones' throat and quickly, he rushed for the exit, not wanting the Englishman to leave with that awkward impression the Yank left on him.

He burst into the hallway, turning its relaxed atmosphere into a scowl of horrid adrenaline as Arthur began picking up his speed, swiftly walking in anxious steps to anywhere safer.

"Wait! Artie! I'm sorry! Wait up!"

The Brit rounded a corner, hoping that would slow down his oppressor. Instead, his ears perked to the sharp sound of ceramic shattering to the tiled floor. He risked peeking over his shoulder, only to see the American hysterically running away from his mess, gaining more and more ground between him and his target. Arthur's heart spiked. He desired to run, but he was far too polite. Jones was right at his heels…

"Dude—!" A hand grabbed his sleeve, yanking it, pulling it down. Momentum forced them together, meeting the unforgiving floor. They both gasped as Arthur hauled along, hitting the floor alongside Jones who already bolted up from the floor, countenance dismayed and anxious.

"Oh my God, Arthur, I'm sorry!" The Yank knelt over the Englishman, unsure how to help.

"O for heaven's sake, don't touch me, you prat." Arthur snapped as he sat up, holding his face. Terrified of having injured his mate, Jones impulsively reached out and stole away the Englishman's hand, seeing only a reddened forehead. He frowned at this.

"I'm so sorry…" The man whispered, clenching Arthur's hand, rattling it unconsciously by his own alarm. The Briton noticed this and frowned with a sigh.

"I won't tolerate this. I've had enough excitement for one day." He tore his hand away from the latter before making his way to stand up. Sequentially, the American followed like an obedient canine, brushing himself off the same as demonstrated by the former. Only did his heart skip a beat when he saw the Englishman wander off again in fumes. He decided to follow like a lost cat, unaware of the consequences.

"Iggy, could you lend me an ear... please?" The Yank behest softly, stepping closely behind the Brit's feet at a safe enough distance.

"I don't see why I should: you're a git who doesn't know when to stop being so imprudent and immature."

"But I am being mature and prudent! What I stated earlier was only a wish. No substance; just a simple desire that won't come true."

Arthur halted, his back facing the other man. Only then did Jones notice the setting he stepped into: A room. Quaint, dusty, clothed furniture, all bathing in an orange-brown tinge. The floor, dark wood paneled and cool. Walls beige and plain. It appeared so desolate, lonely, stagnant. Why would Iggy travel here?

"Uh…Du—"

"It has always been the greatest mystery on what goes on within the confines of your useless cranium, Jones," The Englishman stated between sighing, hands on hips, gazing at the window, the adorning curtains drawn. Though his face hid at this angle, the Yank could tell Arthur's countenance was impatient and irked – like usual.

"Seems too grand a dilemma to even want to try to crack that case… So I won't." With his decision made, he finally turned round, and pierced his green eyes into the blue ones of Jones who jumped in response. What the hell was this man doing?

"Your desire wants me to be a girl?" A rhetorical question; he evaded what might have been the Yank's response as he had lifted his finger to explain.

"-We both know that's impossible." He silently took a step forward at the other man standing by the door frame. Jones' skin hyped in uneasiness, his finger shot down.

"Furthermore, why must you wish for it? 'Tis useless, as you already know." Arthur paused a moment, thinking, recollecting. His eyes never stole away from the other.

"And what you said before; that was a part of your wish. Those little daydreams you added in: it begs the question as to why I would need to be a woman in order for that wish to occur. Why?"

The Yank simply stared, slightly over-whelmed by Iggy's waterfall of complaints. He blinked, finally trying to compute what the other had said. His palm held his forehead for a moment, as if it were to give him a clue.

"Uh...What?" -And then he understood.

"Do I have to spell it out to you, you bloody berk?" Another step closer. Feeling slightly intimidated, Jones took a timorous step back.

"N-No, really. I g-got it; I understand. Cool your jets, dude." He fanned the other off in frantic hands, waving them in front of his chest.

"Somehow, I find that incalculably implausible." The Brit pressed himself into the opposing palms, feeling them easily succumb to the sudden pressure, precipitously sparking and furthering a gentle repel.

"U-uh, Artie; Guy; t-this is uhm…this is getting awkward…" Sequentially, Jones took another step back, hoping the exit was directly behind him as if he had forgotten the setting.

"Would it be if this was a woman's bosom you were touching?" The latter inquired as he pressed forward, reaching out an arm. In a start, the American smacked it away, wholly terrified of whatever impure thoughts Arthur harboured within his mind.

"Dear G-God no," The Yank sputtered decisively as the heel of his foot finally hit against something. The door frame?

Slam

"I-I'm not g-gay, if thi-is-s is what you're all hot and bothered about." He uttered a sheepish laugh before his oppressor pinned his hands on either side of the American's shoulders. If his brows were sweating before, they were really sweating now.

"'Hot and bothered?'" The Brit repeated; his words tickled in quieted mockery. "Out of the question."

"Y-You...closed the door." The American observed on a late note, still feebly laughing at the situation, spiking when the Englishman crept even closer. Too close… The pad of a thumb rubbed against his cheek. His heart stopped.

"You, however," His thumb was so callus… "Remain a mystery to me."

A pause. Why couldn't Jones move?

"I know you're quite the conservative man like myself, but you're awfully close-minded."

The Yank gave him a blank look like the one from before. A sigh rolled out of the former's throat, embracing the latter's flesh. Their eyes met.

"You should learn to fix that bad habit." His lips drew in, ready for an embrace until palms smuggled against them, childishly pressing him back.

"God, Arthur; I told you I'm not gay." The Yank bemoaned unsteadily, pushing further, minding not to injure the man's neck in the process.

"Does a straight man flush for another so easily?" Arthur countered against the other's palms, his head returning to face the other when he had released him in a start. The American's cheeks only flared deeper.

"Shut up, man! A-And I'm not close-minded: I accept everyone."

"Expect those who don't meet your standards."

"Shut up!" In apple-red cheeks, he shoved the other back, watching Arthur as he faltered in catching his steps.

"Well, well; is someone afraid of a little spot of the truth?" The Brit ridiculed in a sardonic tone, smiling cheekily as he stood erect, easily regaining proper composure. He let his hand up by his shoulder, fanning out upward as if balancing a plate upon his gloved fingertips.

"For someone who accepts everyone should play by his word. You, however," He clenched his fingers together, "Lack that promise."

Jones stood, pressed up against the wall by the exit. Although it was unlocked, something – whatever it may be, Jones didn't even know himself – repelled him from escaping this atmosphere.

"W-What are you saying?" The Yank inquired, his words filled with low, painful tremors.

Arthur chuckled a moment at the others' stupidity, letting his hand return to his side.

"You really are a pillock, Jones."

"Don't call me that. And why have you brought me here of all places? I mean…what was the purpose? To fucking c-convert me or something?"

"You ask too many questions, dear Jones." The Brit shook his head, eyes gently shut like when sipping tea. "And watch your language: it's rude."

He couldn't take this anymore. Bubbling rage filled his brain. Iggy didn't control him. They weren't joined at the hip. He was independent: he could take care of himself. His fingers curled into fists.

"I refuse to take this shit from you, Arthur." Jones said spitefully in a low tone. "Why has it even gone this far? All I said was tha—"

"-That you would rather shag the female version of me than the male. I get it: there is no need to repeat yourself."

"H-Hey! Don't bend my words!"

"Ah!" He breathed proudly and nudged his chin up, looking down upon the American, despite the obvious winner in height "– My analysis has proved me correct: you had implied that the entire time. I must admit that you've got a way with words, Jones."

The latter choked. How on Earth did he do that? The truth was right underneath the Brit's fingertip. There was nothing he could do about it, either.

"And to answer your question: no; I don't wish to 'convert you' or the like. Frankly, I believe you're already there; just got to expose y—"

"SHUT UP!"

THUMP

"Dear Lord, get your lard-ass off of me this instant!" Arthur caterwauled as he wriggled beneath the American, wedged between his knees right below the hips and even half-kicking his legs from behind the Yank, pushing at his chest.

"Not this time, man," His voice was surprisingly clear and stern. Arthur paused for a moment in slight astonishment. Captivated within the tiny spell, he watched, without a struggle, Jones lean down, pressing deeply into his palms, wielding the man's wrist with a hesitant touch. The spell broke; he snapped his hands away.

"Get off me."

The American kept still, even securing his decision with the slight squeeze of his thighs. There was something off about the mood, however…

"I want you to take back what you said." His voice was so unyielding: it was almost convincing until his intense blue eyes accidentally glimpsed down to the latter's mouth, hastily snapping back to forest-green eyes, pretending he had never moved. He noticed the slight pink tinge invading the former's cheeks. The Brit held back a devilish smirk.

"I…I-I'm not gay… Take it back." Almost as if he understood Arthur's acknowledgment, Jones' voice lowered to an almost whisper as if he never wished to say it. But the show must go on.

Still refraining from laughing his arse off, Arthur held a convincing poker face, watching the latter inwardly succumb to his annexing façade. This was too easy. He waited a moment longer, giving time to the situation, waiting to see what else the American would do. His face never even twitched. Almost as if he was forcing it upon himself.

"Well?"

The Brit refused to answer, simply continuing his stare at an ever-reddening face.

"S-Say something, damn it!" Finally, he pinned Arthur securely to the floor, gripping his wrists tightly, setting them furthest apart from each other. The men were too close. Their eyes could stare at nothing more than the others' blazing spheres. The heat emanating from the Yank felt like the sun's embracing rays.

"A straight man certainly doesn't break down into such a nervous fit for another." Arthur observed casually, allowing the awaiting smirk to crawl steadily across his face. The American's only deepened in its flush, backing off slightly, the pang of unknown fear flooding his eyes. "Nor does he blush so easily."

"Erhk—er…" He sputtered, desperately searching for a comeback. "Aht… T-That's becau…b-because you're fucking pissing me off!"

Excuses.

"I just—You…You—"

"Implausible. You know I saw that." Arthur could just hear that inaudible choke within Jones' throat. He hit the target.

"SHUT UP!" His entire body tensed, suffocating his victim.

"Then release me at once, you berk!" Arthur barked in return, wriggling his wrists. The grip upon them only tightened. Perhaps the Briton made the unfortunate blunder of miscalculating the American's strength. His hands were turning white underneath thin black gloves.

"Not until you say it!" The Yank said, bitter and sharp, yet unstable. His bitten fingernails dug into the latter's dartmouth green khaki drill sleeve.

"But you like me. I'd be telling you a lie."

"I don't care! Just fucking say it!"

All he heard was a delighted hum from the other male, seeing only a quick glance of his cheeky smirk before something jerked up against the Yank's rump, sending him abruptly forward until he caught himself. The very tip of Arthur's sharp nose grazed his cheek.

"You're so easy to put together, Alfred." His breath shot warm and dangerous into the American's ear, sending a violent shiver down his spine; escalating when the knee at his arse pushed even further, beginning to wedge between his legs. His grip on the Englishman dithered slightly.

"S-Stop it…" Alfred uttered hopelessly, immense heat resonating within him, budding intensely amid the centre of his hips.

"You're very bossy, as well." His teeth then enjoyed a decadent bite into the American's ear, forcing the man to tense, squeezing him once more. Though it was powerful, he didn't mind it as the front of his thigh got a taste of something firm, though it was vague and unsatisfactory. His hands desperately wanted to lend the situation help by their dexterity and skill, but were trapped by unstable, quivering claws. Arthur couldn't see himself disbanding from the entrapment; he was afraid he'd break the spell.

He allowed his mouth to lick and enjoy all of what he could gather until his ears filled with the enchanting hum of

"...Mmnm-nn..."

Arthur flushed lightly at the soft noise, letting his smile deepen and fill with desire.

"Let go of my hands." He whispered soothingly as if the situation could shatter if he stepped onto the wrong foot.

Moments passed and Alfred only breathed down the others' collared neck, taking the time to decide. He heaved in a breath before-

"I don't swing that way…" And he pressed a small, delightful kiss against Arthur's temple, releasing his grip and beginning to lean back before those previously constrained hands caught him by the collar and dragged him back down, abruptly welcoming him into the Englishman's lips.

The sudden possessive caress spread open-mouthed, tongues hungrily sliding past each other, probing through with lovely haste, surrounded within the hot embrace of foreign air. Their dance seemed almost planned though, as if anticipated. These movements, this skill; it couldn't possibly be mere coincidence.

"You're such a naughty little liar." Arthur murmured divinely when they finally broke off, forcing the unreserved American back in by the simple tug of his coffee collar, desiring for so much more. He didn't care at this point whether these kisses were filled with lies.

Neither of them could help their bulging sensations down south; Alfred's continually rubbed affectionately by the other's knee, escalating his covetous-filled tensions even if it was vague.

He released another moan, halting and uneven, dithering at the end, sending an ever-widening curve across Arthur's mouth. He paused and pushed the other away slightly by the collar bone.

"But…" He released one of his hands, skittering it slowly down the American's brown coat across his abdomen, pinching at the silver belt buckle waiting just above his hips. "For being imprudent and deceiving, one should deserve punishment."

He undid the buckle, slipped each button in his way out of its slit, each movement corrupting the Yank, desirous heat emanating from the man as a cool leather-covered hand slid lyrically across his manhood. The American's nerves spiked at the nip.

"Ahch—" He winced, "I-Iggy, don't use your g-glove."

"Will you stay put if I do?" The Englishman inquired smoothly with an amused arching brow, halting his movements for a moment, waiting. The latter struggled to respond, not too sure about his own desires anymore. He shouldn't want to want this. His eyes dithered off to the side, evading any eye contact.

"…J-Just take it off, why don't you?" He finally whispered in a discreet fashion, flushing intensely. Arthur eyed this amusedly, even a slight bit proud of himself. He retracted his hand, observing the American with vague yet charmed suspicion as he pinched the tip of his middle finger between his teeth and tugged, the black leather glove slipping over his skin smoothly, revealing porcelain white fingers that bowed at the other's stomach. Gentle blue eyes watched this display, unable to will himself from his stubborn stare.

"Will this be to your liking?" Arthur questioned, not seeking an answer, tossing the glove to the side as he nonchalantly slid his unmasked hand over the other man's pelvis, feeling the flesh quiver gently to his warm touch. The Yank didn't respond: he instead reluctantly leaned forward, hiding beneath the Brit's chin. Arthur smirked, pushing his hand forward as if the previous movement was an invitation.

His fingers met the shaft he's never experienced before. Hot, firm, and lust-filled, waiting to be driven. He formed his strokes carefully, noting his own control as he played with the tip, feeling its need to erupt. The American only quivered and shuttered out a heavy sigh which licked against Arthur's neck and ear, begging him to continue. He gladly took the offer.

Playfully, Arthur circled his finger over the tip of the American's manhood, already feeling the escape of light fluids. The sensation pleased him, gifting the man by circling round him fully, giving smooth, gentle massages, filling the two men both with internal heat, reverberating beneath their skin. Moving fast just seemed out of the equation.

Another moan; deep-throated and chalky. It was musical. He couldn't help but supply another smile; sloppier than the last.

The curve to his mouth soon dithered as his own member besought for attention, radiating with tensions and powerful hungers only this moment could fill.

"Move your hips." Arthur whispered carefully into the others' pink ear, noticing him tense in some sort of protest, as if he did not wish to move. Whatever condemning thoughts that constrained him gradually lifted when the Briton's hand wasn't going to continue if Alfred sat stagnant and unwilling. He wanted this so badly…

Finally, after long moments of breath filling the empty space between the two men, the American aversely lifted himself, evading further eye contact, constantly tenacious in his mood.

He could only release a fatal gasp when the ceiling overtook his vision.

"Don't think you'll be the only one taking the show today." Arthur leniently explicated, his words dancing off his tongue as both hands ghosted over the hem of Alfred's bulging trousers, pinching firmly and dragging the impediment downward. The Yank refused to respond as the lukewarm air embraced his naked half, leaving him isolated and exposed, already silently crying out for Arthur's attention that he didn't even quite grasp the reason for this want himself. This just wasn't like him today…

The familiar sound of an unbinding zipper sounded into the Yank's ears. Curious or apprehensive (he couldn't tell anymore), he peeked down at his company who already had his shadow mapping over the other man, eyes flooding with lustrous darkness. Alfred couldn't quite capture exactly what was before him–

A breath, seized violently, strung into the air like the gallows. The blatant touch almost released him. But he held on like his life depended on it.

"Hmm..." The Englishman hummed with an odd sense of control. His face was too bright for his own good. "Seems you aren't as hetero as you make yourself out to be, Alfred."

He hated this tone. The man knew everything. Why should Arthur deserve any response from the American?

His thoughts immediately erased – building friction excited his arousal. Each thrust from the other man's shaft against his own erupted thunderclouds of pleasure. Such unwanted pleasure…

He hated this. He loved this. He could feel himself surging already. Was this disappointment or enjoyment he felt?

"…Nnnnmmmhm…"

It released by itself. Alfred immediately wished to take it back, but the explosion of red across his face already told the story.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Sto—

Resonating heat entranced his body. His hips lurched forward without his consent. His body simply desired for more, but his mind wasn't on the matter. This was pure torture.

Limbs turned numb. Eyes glazed over. Mouth glistening disdainfully in a stubborn liquid. The Briton wouldn't quit. Between his legs had made the blunder of budding. The sensation peppered in sour elation that succeeded in an unspoken agreement between body and mind.

He knew he was about to burst. Not in front of Iggy…

"Mhnn"

Alfred's eyes screwed shut. The rustling fair locks of the Englishmen didn't serve to relax him at all. His pride was draining quickly. His thundering red cheeks and top lip left to chew on couldn't aid him better grievance.

He desperately held himself. He wouldn't accept this bloom that consistently antagonized him. This build-up grew immense, though, shaking the Yank out of his stubborn attitude. Arthur could only smooth over him faster.

His skin. This heat. That motion. The electricity.

He couldn't.

He wouldn't.

…

…

"Anhh…!"

Their bodies fell, relieved; crashing back down to earth.

It was sticky. Alfred felt stupid.

Softly quivering lips chastely embraced his. They tried to lift his spirits.

"And how was that for a man?" The Englishman sighed contentedly, wearing a crooked smile that only made the Yank deepen in his disappointment.

"Fuck off." Alfred managed to shove his palm into the other's face, only to realize his energy was spent. Arthur gave him a look that screamed to be kicked.

This was the worst afterglow he has ever experienced.

The Englishman finally sported himself up, feeling quite accomplished, tucking his member back within its home, shutting the door by the zipper and eventually scoring his pleased green eyes upon the half-naked American before him, sprawled shamefully across the wooden floor. He searched through the pros and cons on whether he should help the poor man up or leave him there underneath a sticky mess.

But that would be horrendously rude if he did so.

He appeared terribly knackered, though, upon the cold floor, panting as if he had just finished a race. How adorable. Arthur couldn't resist.

"Come on," The Briton muttered as though the Yank had simply tripped. "Get your arse off the floor; you're not pissed or anything."

"I said fuck off." Alfred dismissed coldly, shielding his eyes with his arm crooked over the middle of his face.

"I'm not leaving you like that, Alfred. Have you considered the weather at all?"

No response.

"And don't speak to me like that; how many times have I informed you that it is contemptibly rude?"

That triggered it.

The American shot his arm away and sat up, giving an irked glare at the latter. He immediately searched around for his missing trousers, finding them somehow disarrayed into a silly pile behind the Englishman who he despised so thoroughly at this moment.

Although Arthur noticed the notion through the other man's eyes, he didn't bother to move. Only daggers pointed his way. The glare reflected his words. The Englishman, without so much of a cheeky grin, took his foot back and slid over the item in question, laying it still in front of the American who snatched it off the floor, now wondering where his undergarments went.

"Inside." Arthur informed, circling his finger in the air, suggesting for the man sitting on the floor to search through the trouser top. He did so with a frown.

"And would you kindly pass me my glove, please? I don't want to leave here looking like I just had sex or something." Without emotion, the American kicked the other's black leather glove his way as he had just stood up, facing the only window within the room. Perhaps having the curtains open would have saved him the humiliation of succumbing to a man.

Alfred, remembering the disgusting blobs of white plastered against his skin and even his coat – Oh fuck no – he used the heel of his hand to scrape the grime off himself before slipping on the other half of his uniform. He shook his hand out before storming off toward the exit he should have taken the opportunity of escaping before his homo virginity stole away.

And the ignored Brit followed. For a split second of irritation, Alfred wondered why that was.

He opened the door, prepared to leave this building for good until he caught himself stuck within a fatal grasp.

"Bon spectacle, chère Amérique!"

Francis. Bonnefoy.

How long had he been standing there?

"Magnifique! Simply superb!" And his crazy French laughter pervaded throughout the hallway and room rusting behind the American and Englishman. "Exotic and erotic!"

The Frenchman swung the young American back and forth affectionately, almost snapping his spine.

"Oh release him this instant, you Frog!" Arthur barked, prying away at each shoulder belonging to either male. But Francis proved stubborn.

"Ooh, but zhis moment is too good to pass up!" He cooed, squeezing tighter, not wanting this memory to end. "You two act so handsomely togezhar."

"That's wonderful to know: now get your filthy wine-loving hands off him."

That dry heave of a laugh sounded off again, ripping into the Englishman's ears, boiling his skin.

"I've never known you to be zhis possessive, Angleterre."

"Well pardon me, you wankar," The Brit's tone certainly wasn't polite as he gave up wrenching Alfred from the death trap Francis had him in, not desiring to be any closer to the Frenchman. "And please enlighten me on just how long you made your sickening presence behind this door."

The former chuckled, easing his arms from the American who then pried himself away, jumbling back, but still repelled by the Briton. He was stuck.

"I would love to say zhe beginning, but sadly no," Francis began to explain, cupping his cheek gently with a hand. "I overheard zhe shatter of what I found to be Alfred's doing, taking me few moments to figure out zhe situation before I finally decided to follow zhe shouts emitting from zhis very room."

"You eavesdropping bastard!" Arthur piped, clenching his fists. Alfred couldn't help but notice the slight pink tinge invading the Englishman's cheeks. He inwardly snickered.

"And what a marvelous show I heard! Zhe delicious moans! O the temptations of wanting to join were so robust." His other hand crept up to hold his cheek opposite to the other, indulging further upon the sweet memory. In return, a disgusted Arthur stared, feeling rightfully repulsed. The Brit silently took Alfred's bemused hand, shocking the young man who almost impulsively yanked his hand away until it lurched forward.

"Hey! Where are you going? I'm not finished making Arthur sexually nervous yet!" The Frenchman called hysterically, stealing away his laughter and crying out inaudible French slurs no one could understand. He stopped as soon as he realized he couldn't do a thing about the situation, only pleasing himself that perhaps where the two men were heading for was a bed – perhaps bathed in crimson petals, surrounded by wine served by beautiful women. What a pleasing thought that was. He felt himself wanting to join in on the parade again.

Surely he'd be kicked by a horse then.

.

.

A/N: **Française translations /because I'm a dick/:

Bon spectacle, chère Amérique - Good show, dear America

Magnifique - Wonderful; Magnificent; Splendid,etc.

Angleterre - Simply means England in French

And my attempt at a written French accent is flawless. /shot/ Think of it as a practice run for fics of the future. ;)

One last thing, the saying "to be kicked by a horse" means /something along the lines of/ if one is to interfere in the interactions of two lovers, that person will die by being kicked by a horse. My only source I can give you is this one manga I read by Suzuki Tsuta called Work-In.

And holy god I apologize for the climax. I think I hit every cliche in the book. But mind you, this was my first lemon-esque ff...So go easy on me.

Anyways, reviews are love: they make my day and motivate me to write more. C: