Incomplete Ficbits
It was cloudy all day, And not just the kind of cloudy that happened sometimes in Seattle where sure it was cloudy all day long but it was never dark clouds, and when it rained it was just spitting, mist in his hair, fogging up his glasses. No these were like Midwest clouds, huge and dark and making it cloud up like it was night time in the middle of the day. These were the kind of clouds that made America antsy.and made him start fidgeting in his seat even though the meeting was important-it was on trade policy or something, right? Maybe really important-he really really couldn't wait for it to be over.
England wasn't really pleased by this at all. Especially given the way that his brows were knitting together and the way that he was glaring daggers at America every time his fingers tapped against the table or when his seat squeaked as he turned to take another look out the window at the incoming weather. It figured England wouldn't be bothered by it, it was England's weather after all. England was so insane he never even brought an umbrella with him, which was downright wrong, especially given how much it rained at England's place. And especially how much it looked like it was going to downpour right about-
"America, are you even paying attention?" England's voice snapped through his thoughts.
"Huh? Yeah, of course!" America replied in an instant, his head whipping back to face England's across the table, forcing a grin. "Um, we were talking about China, right? I'm working on paying him back, you know!"
"America," England's eyebrow twitched again, "If you're not going to talk about this seriously, I'm done for today."
"Great!" was the wrong thing to say, especially given how enthusiastically America said it, but he said it anyway. "I need to get back to my hotel anyway!"
"Do you now?" England slowly rose from his seat, starting to put his papers back into his briefcase.
"Yeah, I uh . . . " America paused for a moment, quickly searching for something that would sound like a good excuse, an excuse that England wouldn't be able to see through, "I just remembered that I forgot to-"
"America," England has his things mostly packed up and was pulling his jacket off the back of his chair where he left it, "If you're going to lie at least put some effort into it."
"I'm not lying!" he protests, scowling back at England as he started to sort through his own papers. England glared back and he fumbled a few of them. It was hard sorting papers when he wasn't looking. "I really need to get back to my hotel to um-to take a shower!”
The moment the words leave his lips, a low rumble of thunder echoed through the room, followed quickly by the steady beat of rain pounding down on the window. America jumped. England quirked an eyebrow, glancing from America to the window and then back again.
"Anyway," America cut in quickly before England could say anything more, jerked his jacket off the back of his chair, throwing it on over his shoulders and scrambling to throw his arms through so he could get out the door before England said anything else, "Got to get back to the hotel. We'll pick up tomorrow, right? Right! I'll see you tomorrow."
"America," England's voice stopped him at the door. He was really starting to hate how England kept on saying his name like that.
“You don’t have to walk me back,” America quips, giving England a short wave as he digs through his bag, pulling out his umbrella “I know the way to the hotel!”
[transition] England’s got the other end of his umbrella in a death grip with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. America knows that look. It’s the “I know you’re keeping something from me America and come hell or high water I will pry it from your lips.” And England’s definitely not afraid of playing dirty.
“What is it, England?” America replies with a smile, two can definitely play at this game. “I wasn’t going to open it inside. That’s bad luck you know.”
“Well you certainly aren’t going to open it up outside either,” England says, easily stepping closer, twisting his grip and pulling the umbrella from America’s hands. “It’s hardly suitable weather.”
“Hardly suitable?” America makes a grab for the umbrella again, scowling when England pulls it away, “It’s raining!”
As if it’s agreeing with him, the wind outside bellows, a flash of lightning streaking across the sky followed by a sharp crack of thunder. America jumps again, England puts the umbrella in his bag.
“It’s just a passing shower,” he says, pushing past America and into the hallway as he does, “You can’t possibly tell me that you’re afraid of something like that.”
“I-I’m not afraid!” America protests, following after England and trying to grab for his bag this time which earns him nothing more than a stern glare. “It’s just wet out there!”
“Generally that’s what rain entails, America.”
England may not think he’s paying attention, but America can hear the haughty smirk under his words. It just makes him scowl more. “I know that! So if you don’t give me my umbrella then I’m going to get wet!”
“And?” England asks, turning to look back at him. They’ve made their way to the exit now and England’s standing, holding the door open to the downpour that awaits them outside. America knows the game he’s playing, and he’s not about to give up. A hero never backs down, even if England would probably hit him if he heard America saying that, and even if it’s England there’s no way he’s going to back down.
“And,” he replies, stepping past England and out into the rain, “It’s a good thing I got a hotel really close by.”
“Well it’s good to know you have that sort of foresight,” England replies, following after, seemingly uncaring for the way that the rain seems to have instantly plastered his hair to his forehead, droplets sticking to his big stupid bushy eyebrows.
“I think things through,” America says, shielding himself as much as he can with the arm that’s not holding his briefcase, really England’s just weird for not caring about this kind of thing, “I’ve gotten a lot better at it with my new boss.”
“Getting better isn’t something you stop doing, America,” England gives him a sideways glance as he says this, smirking at the sight that America must be, raindrops covering his glasses, jacket soaked through.
“I know that too,” America pouts, putting his arm down in protest. “I’m still working on it.”
“That’s good,” England replies. The wind blows and a big fat rain drop falls from the trees lining the road overhead right onto America’s head. He really hates England sometimes.
“So just why are you out here anyway?” he asks after a moment, running his hands through his hair just to make sure that it really was rain that hit his head and not something else entirely. “You don’t need to come to my hotel. We’re done with meetings for today.”
“There’s a bakery next to your hotel, in case you failed to notice. I wanted to pick up a few things,”
“You could have at least waited until it stopped raining.”
“Rain isn’t the end of the world America.”
“It is so”
“It most certainly is not.”
“It is so!” America retorts, stopping abruptly, scowling, he knows he’s throwing a tantrum and England’s going to lecture him for it but right now he doesn’t care. “It’s wet and cold and it gets everywhere and it’s no fun!”
---
A knock on the door to England's office makes him glance up from where he sits at his desk, Probably someone from the continent-it's always someone from the bloody continent wanting him to join some war or another-and when it's not it's America bragging about his latest discovery or his newest invention.
"It's from Prussia, sir," the voice calls from beyond the heavy oak doors.
Of course it's from Prussia, England thinks to himself with a roll of his eyes. The damn fool can't seem to have enough of war. It hasn't even been a decade since he'd had to step in and help Denmark against the combined might of Prussia and Austria. And then barely a few years later he'd had the gall to go on and attack his own former ally. Granted, the war could hardly be called as such, given how long it lasted, but there was something to be said for the way Prussia seemed to delight in pushing about his fellow nations. It was bad enough for the balance of power on the continent, not to mention it made England's head spin by just trying to keep track of who he was fighting this time.
England still isn't quite used to this whole concept of "instant communication"
---
The wedding is held in Spain. Not because Spain wants it there, exactly-given the verbal lashing that Romano gives him for ever thinking about it, much less agreeing to it is something for the ages to behold-but more that Vatican City isn't going to allow someone with as much Protestant in him as Germany has to wed in one of his churches. Not to mention the fact that despite the fact that they're countries, not people, he doesn't exactly approve of the fact that Germany happens to be male. As such, it surprsies no one when he refuses to show up all together. Well, no one except for Romano.
"Where the fuck is he?!" he curses and the sound echoes through the tiny church that Italy picked out for the ceremony. Spain winces at the way it reverberates through the rafters and Italy just tilts his head with a curious expression on his face.
"But big brother, papa never sent back his invitation."
"What the hell do you mean he didn't send it back?" he demands, lunging at Veneziano, poised to deliver a blow to the back of his head before Spain catches his wrist. Instead, Romano glares and jerks his hand away. "It's can't be a goddamn wedding if no one's giving you away," he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin up in defiance, "Not like it's going to be fucking recognized anyway, you marrying that Protestant son of a-"
"Ah, Romano's right, you know," Spain says with a smile, speaking above the muffled protests Romano's attempting to make from behind Spain's hand. "Someone needs to walk you down the aisle."
"Oh, I forgot about that." Italy's eyebrows knit together for a moment before a huge smile split across his face. "Hey, big brother Spain, you could do it, right?"
"It really should be someone who's closer family to you . . . " Spain trailed off, glancing at Romano who was pointedly looking away, cheeks puffed and lower lip jutted out.
Italy followed his gaze, frowning slightly as his brother refused to look at him. "But Romano wouldn't-"
"I fucking would" Romano interjected, turning to level the full force of his glare on his younger brother. "You're my fucking family, you little shit. It's bad enough that you're doing this with him but if papa's not giving you away then at least I'm going to do it."
"Romano . . . "
"So come on, we're going to do this shit right," Romano scowled, grabbing Italy by the arm and tugging him to the doorway. Italy squeaked stumbling as he scrambled to cactch up. He knew the whole wedding made Romano angry, Romano really hated Germany, he'd never really forgiven him for the war, but he didn't think Romano'd be willing to do this for him. Plus the way Romano was angry today wasn't the way he was usually angry. Usually when his forehead got all scrunched up he just started swearing and he'd hit Italy even when Spain grabbed his wrist, and then he'd yell at Spain too. But he didn't yell at Spain today, even though his forehead was really scrunched up, so much that he was squinting and his eyes were really narrow and-
Italy stopped, tugging on Romano's arm. "Big brother, you're crying."
Romano stopped dead in his tracks, turning abruptly to glare at Italy before jerking his head away. Italy saw it though, he was definitely crying! "I'm not crying, moron!"
"You're not supposed to lie in the church!" Italy protested, tugging on his arm. "You're crying, aren't you? Big brother, don't cry."
"Shut up!" Romano spat, and he definitely was crying, because he was wiping the sleeve of his tuxedo across his eyes.
"Big brother . . . " Italy frowned, tugging his arm more insistently. "I can go ask big brother Spain if he wants to-"
"No fucking way,
---
He wakes up to the sound of rain beating on the windowsill. The alarm hasn't gone off yet so it can't possibly be morning yet. Or at least not morning enough to warrant getting up. Shifting slightly, he turns to his side, burrowing his head a bit more against the pillow. Next to him, there's a sleepy mumble, a soft groan of complaint, and he smiles. America's always been a light sleeper, the rain probably woke him up first. Reaching out, he slides his hand down America's side to his hip, fingers circling there, his thumb rubbing lightly against his hip bone.
America, in response, turns to his side, wrapping both arms around England and tugging him against his chest like some kind of oversized teddy bear. England barely has a chance to voice his protest to this before America's sleepy whine breaks through the patter of raindrops against glass.
"England," he moans, stretching the word out far too long, "It's raining."
Pushing off against America's chest so that he can breathe again, England squirms in his arms, shifting up so he's at least eye level with America. "Of course it's raining, it was raining last night too," he remarks, proud at least that he doesn't sound nearly half as groggy as America, even though America's likely been awake for longer.
"But when it rains at night it's supposed to stop in the morning," America's still whining, though he isn't opening his eyes, and he's got his lips worked up into a perfectly childish pout.
"That's because there's a stationary cold front, you moron," England retorts, poking firmly at America's chest, America squirms in reply, "It's dumping buckets all over the place."
"Then make it stop," now he's really whining, stretching every vowel out as his voice squeaks in the back of his throat.
"I can't control the bloody weather any more than you can. And we're not having this conversation until you at least open your eyes!" He pokes America in the forehead, right between his eyes as he says this and America flinches, scrunching his face up and pouting even more, as if such a thing wer even possible.
"I don't want to. I'm still sleeping." America retorts, letting go of England and rolling over and tugging his blankets up, making exaggerated snoring noises before he adds, "Wake me up when it stops raining."
"You are not sleeping you oaf," England sits up, driving his knee against the back of America's thighs and tugging at his blankets. "And you're well enough awake now so you might as well get up, even if it is . . . " he pauses glancing over to the clock on the bedside table, "Eleven forty-two in the morning."
He pauses, repeats the words in his mouth, then stares at the clock again.
"America," he barks, grabbing the blankets harder and tugging them off America with one firm sweep, "You reset the alarm again!"
"What?!" America squeaks, shivering with the sudden loss of warmth, rubbing at his eyes, which are perfectly well open now, "I did not! I didn't even touch it last night!"
"Then explain to me why it's almost bloody noon and the alarm hasn't gone off yet!" England's squirming now, trying to untangle his feet from the blankets and get out of the damn bed. They had meetings today. Not just with his boss but with America's boss as well, not to mention that Germany called him last night, wanting to discuss new policies on climate change or Turkey's EU bid or something that England couldn't quite remember, mostly because of the fact that America wasn't exactly pleased by the fact that England had decided to answer his phone and had rather creative ways of expressing that partcular disappointment.
"Because when it went off I turned it off!" America explains with a childlike simplicity that, given a nation of his age, is quite honestly unforgiveable.
All that England can do is stare at him, mouth half open, brows drawn tight together, trousers hanging in his hand from where he picked them up off the floor.
"You what?" he says incredulous and shocked.
"I turned it off," America replies, yawning slightly as he reaches for the bedside table and takes his glasses, putting them back on and blinking to adjust to the change. "Why?"
"You-bloody idiot" England shouts, hurling his trousers to the bed, not caring for where they land. He'll need a new pair anyway, given the rather unfortunate stain that he just noticed on the pair that they must have obtained sometime during the last night's "revelries."
"Hey-!" America catches the trousers in one hand, balling them up and tossing them to the bed as he scrambles to get out as well, "It was going off at six in the morning! Do you know what time that is for me? Especially when we didn't even get around to sleeping until two!"
"I don't care what time it is!" England retorts from the closet, quickly shifting through hangers to find the right suit for the occasion, "I had meetings to attend-so did you!-and at least I intended to attend them whether or not you approved of the time!"
"But England-"
"No buts," England turns and levels his glare on America with a silent fury roiling behind his eyes. "Now if you'll excuse me, some of us actually like to pretend that we have respect for the finer virtues of punctuality and diligence." He pauses, glancing around the room, shirt half buttoned and pants hanging from his hands, "Now where in the hell are my sock garters . . . "
"England if you'll just listen
---
"Milady are you certain that you're all right with this?"
"Come now, Gwen, it's just for fun. Just a little bit of harmless play."
"You seem to be cold, milady," Morgana remarks smoothly, a coy smile gracing her lips as her hands moved down along the sheer fabric across Gwen's arms. "Would you like me to keep you warm?"
The smile never leaves Morgana's lips as her hands close lightly around Gwen's wrists. With a soft tug, she steps back toward her own bed. Easily, she slips to the side, turning Gwen with her so that she can push forward, easing Guinevere down against the soft covers.
"Do please try to relax, milady,"
"Now," Morgana says smoothly, only barely breathless, her words soft against the skin of Gwen's temple before she drops a kiss there and pulls away, "Wasn't that fun?"
Gwen laughs despite herself, reaching up to wind her arms about Morgana's neck. "It was, milady." She replies with a smile, idly winding her fingers through the hair at the nape of Morgana's neck. "It was quite fun," she adds before pulling Morgana down for a kiss.
---
A twig snaps behind him and America jumps about a foot in the air. He nearly drops his musket, fumbling with it to catch it before it escapes his fingers and falls into the snow when Prussia's rough, barking laugh cuts through the cold winter air.
"Come on, brat, if you're going to freak out at every little pop and snap there's no way you're going to get your independence," the older nation snickers as he claps a friendly hand down on America's shoulder. America scowls, glancing behind him to try and see if the Baron is there. He's not Prussia's boss, Prussia's explained that to him before, but America still feels weird sometimes being around Prussia without the older man around. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the help that the Baron's been giving him training his troops in the valley, his boss, or at least the man he hopes will be his boss someday, really does, but to see Prussia here, so far away from his people only to accompany a Baron seems strange to him.
The Baron isn't there, so America looks back to Prussia, juts his chin out a little, and asks, "Is the Baron still doing drills?"
Prussia waves the question off with his free hand, turning America around by the hand on his shoulder and pushing him along. Despite his urge to dig his heels in and resist, America goes along with him. Prussia's helping him, after all.
"Yeah, he's working them hard all right," Prussia replies after a moment, snickering to himself at a joke that America doesn't quite understand, "If it weren't for this damn season I'd say we could take your old man right here and now."
"He's not my old man," America protests, scowling heavily. England may have raised him, yes, but no father America knows would ever try to take advantage of their son like England has him
"Right, right," Prussia waves him off again--America's beginning to get really tired of the gesture--and starts to steer him up one of the hills that frames the valley. "Either way, your best bet is crossing your fingers and praying like hell that the snow clears up soon so that your men don't starve to death or worse. Fucking winter campaigns suck. You could've tried to declare independence a little earlier in the year, you know?"
"Well I thought I could just talk to him about it and maybe it'd work out," America mutters, glancing off to the side and kicking at a pile of snow as they crest the top of the hill.
Glancing behind, he can see the small gray plumes of campfire smoke rising from between the tents that are housing the troops--his troops. There's not that many of them, not as many as the men England's brought over, but he's still proud of them because they're his. They know how he feels about England taking advantage of him, trying to take what's his and asking too little for it in return while all the while charging too much for everything that England used to give him for less.
Looking north, America can see the tents and fires of England's troops. Beyond them there's more of his people, and among them are the people who didn't want this war. The ones who wished that talking could still fix things, that he can still be as close to England as he was. Curled up together under his blankets while England reads him bedtime stories, telling America tales of his summer houses in India and across the world. And sometimes, at least sometimes lately before this all started to happen too fast for America to keep track of it, he would wake up before England would, feel England's breath on his cheek and England's arms around him with England's lips standing out, parted just a little bit in a way that made America want to kiss them.
"Talking doesn't solve shit, kid," Prussia says with a firm nod, moving his hand from America's shoulder up to clap on his head, roughly tousling his hair and making America blush bright red. He'd almost forgotten Prussia was there, "If you want to get what you want, you've got to fight for it. You've got to fight him." The hand on America's head easily slips down, looping over his shoulder as Prussia leans down, his head nearly level with America's, looking out over the British encampment.
"I know that, I've been fighting him," America replies easily, unconsciously straightening his back and setting his jaw. Prussia may have been helping him train his troops, but he learns fast. He can show Prussia that America will be every bit of a nation as Prussia is.
"Hah, your people have," Prussia snorts, America can hear the cocky grin in his words, "But you've still got training to go through yourself."
Unconsciously, America's fingers tightened around the barrel of his musket. "I've been training," he says firmly, turning to look Prussia straight in the eye. Their faces are close now, he can feel the warm puffs of Prussia's breath against his red-flushed cheeks every time the other country breathes through his haughty smirk.
Prussia arches one silver eyebrow and catches America's chin in his gloved hand, leaning in until their noses almost touch.
"Yeah? Why don't you show me, kid. Show me what you want to do to that asshole over there," he nods slightly in the direction of England's camp, though his eyes never leave America's.
"Look, kid," Prussia says through heavy breaths, his teeth gleaming like the snow under curled lips, "Pulling shit like this?" Abruptly, he pushes forward, pressing his lips to America's already bruised ones. America leans in eagerly, nearly shutting his eyes before they snap open as Prussia pulls away. "That doesn't count for crap," Prussia explains to him with a cocky smirk. "That's like talking. You want to show merry old England over there that you mean business, that you want to be a nation of your own, that you want to be on the same playing field as him instead of just sitting around and groveling under him all the time, you go for this."
The hand on America's hip slips forward, Prussia's gloved fingers closing over the bulge of his already hard cock through his pants. America almost feels his knees give out, his hands suddenly grasping for a hold on Prussia's coat. Eyes half-shut, he lets out a low moan, tilting his head forward and nodding against Prussia's neck.
"You go for his vital regions," Prussia whispers against his ear before reaching up and tugging his glove off with his teeth, moving his hand back down and pushing it under the waist of America's trousers. "Hit him where it counts," his fingers close over America's cock again and the chill from them send shivers up America's spine but he holds on, nodding firmly against Prussia, his lips pursed to keep the keening, pleading moans inside. "You're not ready to stage an invasion just yet, you're too little.
---
For all that Gilbert is an abrasive egotistical self-absorbed jerk-off he knows a hell of a lot of people in the right places. Lovino doesn't exactly realize this until one day he shows up for practice with Feliciano to find their wayward vocalist is among the missing. Only Ludwig is there, testing beats on his drums, which the idiot apologizesfor and then explains that, "My brother seems to have gone somewhere."
"No shit Sherlock," Lovino mutters under his breath, idly wondering if the asshole even gave a second's worth of thought to the fact that the rest of them might have things to do after this. And honestly, given the choice between readings for his thesis and band practice, band practice only barely wins out on the good days. If Gilbert's going to blow this off, Lovino doesn't see why he should wait a damn second longer.
"Oh, that's too bad," Feliciano replies with a slight pout that leaves his lips as quickly as it graced them before he pratically frolics over to Ludwig and leans over his drum set, poking at a symbol and rather pointedly looking at the other guy's crotch where he's got a piece of paper balance that he's been scribbling notes onto. "Were you working on something?"
"Ah--well, that is . . . " Ludwig sutters in reply and lights up like a Christmas tree in December. Lovino thinks he might have just thrown up in his mouth a little. Fag must run in the family, he decides, what with the way that Gilbert seems to think that cocksucking should be an Olympic sport and the way that Ludwig's making eyes at Feliciano like he's a prepubescent girl in high school staring at half-naked boy bands. It makes him sick, but he decides to stick around. Feliciano might be oblivious to the way that Ludwig's gaga for him but he certainly isn't, and even though he's already found himself at the receiving end of Gilbert's cock in his ass, that's his own business and there's no way in hell that he's about to allow Ludwig to get anywhere near having the liberty of doing the same to Feliciano.
Besides, he thinks to himself, finding a good spot of the basement wall to lean against such that he can deliver a well-trained death glare at Ludwig as the drummer stares dumbly while Feliciano babbles on, at least there's an unspoken agreement that what he does with Gilbert isn't at all romantic in the slightest. It's more a competition than it is love, a way of proving that he can one up that snickering silver haired bastard even if it does mean taking it up the ass. Either way, Lovino is firmly convinced that love is only a tool. It's a word he uses on girls when the time is right to get them to calm down or turn things in the direction he wants. He's never felt it himself, except for the sort of familial protective love he has for Feliciano, and he's pretty damn sure he never will. Girls may be pretty, but the thing about them is that there are a lot of them and a lot of them are pretty. If one slips through his fingers, it's not like it's some sort of huge loss. He just moves on to the next one. Sure, some day he'll find a girl who he feels like he can stick around with and they'll have a family of their own. But that will be just that, family, which is a different kind of love.
Either way, the thought that Ludwig of all the fucking people in the world is in love with his brother makes him sick. It's bad enough that the guy's brother is an asshole, but the bastard could at least try to see things from Feliciano's side of the picture. For one, their dad would fucking murder any boy that Feliciano brought home and introduced with the words "my" and "boyfriend" in conjunction. For two, Feliciano had to make a family of his own eventually, and no fucking way could he do that with someone like Ludwig. It just didn't work that way.
----
It all goes to hell one day at a party the band's invited to. It's for some movie premire, the song they did for the soundtrack and the combined efforts of Gilbert and Antonio's connections get them in. Lovino goes figuring if nothing else it'll be a good time and an open bar. What he doesn't realize is exactly how far Antonio's connections go. He arrives at the red carpet with Feliciano, signing a few autographs for the fans of theirs who've showed up, smirking and posing for picutres and paparazzi when Antonio shows up. That is, when Antonio shows up with the movie's blond bombshell of a lead actress arm in arm with him, her dress a stunning number in black and gold that hugs her body in all the right ways, making her stand out against the bold red of the carpet.
"Ah, I didn't know Antonio had a date!" Feliciano remarks cheerfully and despite himself, Lovino feels his stomach sink to his shoes. Of course he'd have a fucking date, he thinks in a flushed panic, it's not like everyone in their band is a fucking fag, and he knows women, they love the kind of guy that Antonio is. Fuck--he loves the kind of guy that Antonio is so why wouldn't they?
"Antonio~! Over here!" Feliciano cries out, waving enthusiastically at their manager and effectively snapping Lovino out of his daze.
"Fucking--Feliciano!" he hisses, causing his brother to turn and regard him with a curious tilt of his head.
"What? Don't you want to say hi to Antonio? I thought you really liked him, big brother!"
"That's not the fucking--" he starts, but cuts himself short as Antonio himself shows up right next to them, smiling widely, the actress still on his arm.
"Hey, it's good to see you guys here!" he greets them with a small laugh, Feliciano laughs with him. Lovino thinks about how many different ways he could die in the next ten seconds and how each and every one of them would be preferable to this.
"You were the one who got us the invitations!" Feliciano replies, just as cheerfuly, "It's really exciting!"
"It is, isn't it? Being on the red carpet is always lots of fun,"
Lovino feels like he's going to fall over and he hasn't even left the bar. He grips the wood of its edge tightly in one hand, raising his head and motioning sluggishly for the bartender to give him another. If that asshole tries to cut him off, he'll just punch him in the fucking face, nevermind the fact that the whole room's swaying around him and that he hasn't moved one inch from the bar since the party started save for two desperately needed trips to the restroom. Thankfully, the bartender doesn't see fit to make Lovino's decisions for him and just nods and puts a glass down in front of him. Lovino fumbles slightly as he moves to grab it, fingers digging into the edge of the bar and closing tightly around the glass before he brings it up to his lips. This one doesn't burn like the last few, fuck it almost tastes like water, so either the bartender's gotten sneaky or he's too damn drunk to even taste the alcohol anymore. Either way, Lovino downs it in one gulp, slamming the glass down on the table perhaps a little too hard. The sound of it shattering registers before anything else. Next is the realization that his hand's gotten wet and cold, probably from the ice in the glass. It's only then that his hazy senses recognize the fact that he's got blood streaming down the plam of his hand, staining the fabric of his suit, from the cuts the glass has left. Staring at the wounds, dumbstruck, Lovino laughs.
"What's so funny Lovino?"
Thankfully, Antonio leads him away from the party and into the men's restroom. The venue is a ritzy enough joint that there's a small waiting area before the actual bathroom itself, with couches and a mirror. Lovino collapses down onto one, bloodstained napkins wraped around his injured hand, keeping it from bleeding all over the carpet. Antonio's gone when he looks up, and a sudden, unexplained panic suddenly grips him.
"Antonio?!" he calls out, shouting, trying to stumble up to his feet, tripping over them, nearly throwing himself off the couch before two strong hands catch his shoulders, easing him back down.
"Easy, easy." It's Antonio. Lovino chokes on his breath as he turns, burying his face against the other man's arm, eyes closed tightly. "I was just getting some paper towels."
Lovino only nods in reply, adrenaline still pumping in his veins, mixing with the alcohol and making him lightheaded. He can barely feel it when Antonio's arms move from his shoulders down to take his hand, carefully peeling away the napkins and checking the wounds for any stray pieces of glass. Lovino watches with half-opened eyes, fuzzy and unfocused from the tears stinging at theirs sides and the buzz from god only knows how many drinks. Antonio, to his credit, is gentle. He pulls a few more small pieces of glass from Lovino's hand before wiping it down with a damp paper towel, cleaning off the blood and then pressing other towels to the still-bleeding wounds, keeping pressure on them to try and stop the bleeding.
"You must have had a lot to drink, huh?" he asks idly as he works, fingers running softly against Lovino's palm.
"I was fine," Lovino protests, scowling and squinting against his tears. "The fucking glass broke. I could've had more and been fucking fine."
"Ah, that's right. You and Gilbert used to go hit up bars back in college, didn't you? I remember those days . . . "
"Don't talk about him like he's my goddamn friend or anything,"
"But you two are always spending time together, aren't you?" Antonio remarks calmly as he pulls off his tie, using it to wrap the paper towels on Lovino's hand, holding them in place, "He told me the story, you know. About how the band wouldn't have even started if it weren't for you. Plus you're always--"
"We're not!" Lovino shouts, so loud the sound echoes off the bathroom walls, "It's just a fucking game with him, all right?! It's just--fucking!"
"That's all right," Antonio replies with a small smile, tightening the knot on his tie, "It's still good to have someone you can do that kind of thing with, right?"
He grabs Antonio's hand at the wrist with his injured one, jerking him in and pushing their lips together. It's not the best kiss he's ever had, it's nowhere near it. He's desperate, panicked, pushing in with all he has, teeth and lips and tongue, fingers tight on Antonio's wrist, holding him there, his eyes squeezed shut, free hand scrambling to grab onto Antonio as well, to pull him in, hold him in place, make sure that he can't get away. Lovino kisses until he feels the room spinning around him and then jerks away, dropping his head down before he even dares to open his eyes, hands still holding Antonio tight, his breath coming in thick, gulping sobs.
"Lovino . . . ?" Antonio's voice comes after a few moments, curious and faint.
"Shut up, just shut the fuck up," Lovino mutters, squeezing his eyes shut again. The room's still spinning, and he has to force his eyes open again before the nausea overtakes him.
"Are you all right?" Antonio asks cautiously, reaching up and slowly threading his fingers through Lovino's hair. Unconsciously, Lovino leans into it, eyes falling half closed again.
"Do I look like I'm fucking all right, moron?" he spits back, loosening his grip on Antonio.
"Not really," Antonio replies, and Lovino can hear the smile in his words, "Come on, let's get you out of here. I can take you back to my place for the night."
Antonio starts to lift Lovino off the chair, taking one arm and looping it over his shoulders, supporting Lovino with his other arm around his chest.
"I'm not a fucking baby or anything," Lovino scowls, turning away, trying to keep Antonio from seeing just how flushed he is.
"I know, but you're probably going to have a hangover in the morning," Antonio says with a short laugh, "So we should probably get you home."
"Your place isn't my home," he mutters a moment later.
"Ah, no, it's not really," Antonio admits, sounding a bit chagrined, "But I didn't think that you'd have a problem with that."
Lovino, to his credit, only bites his lip and stays silent.
--
He doesn't remember exactly where along the way he blacks out, or how Antonio even gets him home for that matter. The next thing that Lovino's really sure of is the feeling of something warm pressed against his back, the dull throbbing of a headache and the painfully dry feeling of his throat. Fortunately, wherever he is, there doesn't seem to be any sunlight, but that doesn't stop the low pained groan from escaping his lips as he half-opens his eyes, reaching out and groping to his side where his alarm clock should be. Instead, someone's hand catches his wrist and Lovino's eyes snap wide open.
"Here, let me," Antonio's voice comes from somewhere behind him as he watches the older man reach over to the bedside table where there's a tall glass of water and some aspiring set out already. Lovino turns as quickly has he can and realizes a moment later that the warmth he was feeling was Antonio. Antonio who is in bed with him, who is smiling at him, who is offering him two aspirin and a glass of water while simultaneously being entirely naked save for a pair of bright red boxers.
"It'll help the hangover."
Lovino just nods dumbly, taking the pills and swallowing them along with the entire glass of water in one long gulp. He doesn't want to realize it but he can't help but notice how Antonio's watching him, a faint smile on his face as he leans back against the bed.
"Does that feel better?" he asks once Lovino's done, taking the glass from him and setting it back on the table.
"Yeah . . . " Lovino mumbles turning his gaze away and finally taking in his surroundings.
They're in Antonio's bedroom, obviously. The full sized bed is pushed up against one wall facing a wall with four large windows that currently have the curtains drawn across them.
[description goes here]
"I told Feliciano that you stayed with me, so you don't have to worry about that," Antonio tells him, reaching out to brush one hand through Lovino's hair. "He said that he could come up with something to tell your father, so you can stay as long as you like."
"Last night the kiss was very good. A little sloppy, but you were really enthusiastic about it. And then after that you kept on saying things, after you passed out. But if you don't remember then I probably shouldn't mention them."
England wasn't really pleased by this at all. Especially given the way that his brows were knitting together and the way that he was glaring daggers at America every time his fingers tapped against the table or when his seat squeaked as he turned to take another look out the window at the incoming weather. It figured England wouldn't be bothered by it, it was England's weather after all. England was so insane he never even brought an umbrella with him, which was downright wrong, especially given how much it rained at England's place. And especially how much it looked like it was going to downpour right about-
"America, are you even paying attention?" England's voice snapped through his thoughts.
"Huh? Yeah, of course!" America replied in an instant, his head whipping back to face England's across the table, forcing a grin. "Um, we were talking about China, right? I'm working on paying him back, you know!"
"America," England's eyebrow twitched again, "If you're not going to talk about this seriously, I'm done for today."
"Great!" was the wrong thing to say, especially given how enthusiastically America said it, but he said it anyway. "I need to get back to my hotel anyway!"
"Do you now?" England slowly rose from his seat, starting to put his papers back into his briefcase.
"Yeah, I uh . . . " America paused for a moment, quickly searching for something that would sound like a good excuse, an excuse that England wouldn't be able to see through, "I just remembered that I forgot to-"
"America," England has his things mostly packed up and was pulling his jacket off the back of his chair where he left it, "If you're going to lie at least put some effort into it."
"I'm not lying!" he protests, scowling back at England as he started to sort through his own papers. England glared back and he fumbled a few of them. It was hard sorting papers when he wasn't looking. "I really need to get back to my hotel to um-to take a shower!”
The moment the words leave his lips, a low rumble of thunder echoed through the room, followed quickly by the steady beat of rain pounding down on the window. America jumped. England quirked an eyebrow, glancing from America to the window and then back again.
"Anyway," America cut in quickly before England could say anything more, jerked his jacket off the back of his chair, throwing it on over his shoulders and scrambling to throw his arms through so he could get out the door before England said anything else, "Got to get back to the hotel. We'll pick up tomorrow, right? Right! I'll see you tomorrow."
"America," England's voice stopped him at the door. He was really starting to hate how England kept on saying his name like that.
“You don’t have to walk me back,” America quips, giving England a short wave as he digs through his bag, pulling out his umbrella “I know the way to the hotel!”
[transition] England’s got the other end of his umbrella in a death grip with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. America knows that look. It’s the “I know you’re keeping something from me America and come hell or high water I will pry it from your lips.” And England’s definitely not afraid of playing dirty.
“What is it, England?” America replies with a smile, two can definitely play at this game. “I wasn’t going to open it inside. That’s bad luck you know.”
“Well you certainly aren’t going to open it up outside either,” England says, easily stepping closer, twisting his grip and pulling the umbrella from America’s hands. “It’s hardly suitable weather.”
“Hardly suitable?” America makes a grab for the umbrella again, scowling when England pulls it away, “It’s raining!”
As if it’s agreeing with him, the wind outside bellows, a flash of lightning streaking across the sky followed by a sharp crack of thunder. America jumps again, England puts the umbrella in his bag.
“It’s just a passing shower,” he says, pushing past America and into the hallway as he does, “You can’t possibly tell me that you’re afraid of something like that.”
“I-I’m not afraid!” America protests, following after England and trying to grab for his bag this time which earns him nothing more than a stern glare. “It’s just wet out there!”
“Generally that’s what rain entails, America.”
England may not think he’s paying attention, but America can hear the haughty smirk under his words. It just makes him scowl more. “I know that! So if you don’t give me my umbrella then I’m going to get wet!”
“And?” England asks, turning to look back at him. They’ve made their way to the exit now and England’s standing, holding the door open to the downpour that awaits them outside. America knows the game he’s playing, and he’s not about to give up. A hero never backs down, even if England would probably hit him if he heard America saying that, and even if it’s England there’s no way he’s going to back down.
“And,” he replies, stepping past England and out into the rain, “It’s a good thing I got a hotel really close by.”
“Well it’s good to know you have that sort of foresight,” England replies, following after, seemingly uncaring for the way that the rain seems to have instantly plastered his hair to his forehead, droplets sticking to his big stupid bushy eyebrows.
“I think things through,” America says, shielding himself as much as he can with the arm that’s not holding his briefcase, really England’s just weird for not caring about this kind of thing, “I’ve gotten a lot better at it with my new boss.”
“Getting better isn’t something you stop doing, America,” England gives him a sideways glance as he says this, smirking at the sight that America must be, raindrops covering his glasses, jacket soaked through.
“I know that too,” America pouts, putting his arm down in protest. “I’m still working on it.”
“That’s good,” England replies. The wind blows and a big fat rain drop falls from the trees lining the road overhead right onto America’s head. He really hates England sometimes.
“So just why are you out here anyway?” he asks after a moment, running his hands through his hair just to make sure that it really was rain that hit his head and not something else entirely. “You don’t need to come to my hotel. We’re done with meetings for today.”
“There’s a bakery next to your hotel, in case you failed to notice. I wanted to pick up a few things,”
“You could have at least waited until it stopped raining.”
“Rain isn’t the end of the world America.”
“It is so”
“It most certainly is not.”
“It is so!” America retorts, stopping abruptly, scowling, he knows he’s throwing a tantrum and England’s going to lecture him for it but right now he doesn’t care. “It’s wet and cold and it gets everywhere and it’s no fun!”
---
A knock on the door to England's office makes him glance up from where he sits at his desk, Probably someone from the continent-it's always someone from the bloody continent wanting him to join some war or another-and when it's not it's America bragging about his latest discovery or his newest invention.
"It's from Prussia, sir," the voice calls from beyond the heavy oak doors.
Of course it's from Prussia, England thinks to himself with a roll of his eyes. The damn fool can't seem to have enough of war. It hasn't even been a decade since he'd had to step in and help Denmark against the combined might of Prussia and Austria. And then barely a few years later he'd had the gall to go on and attack his own former ally. Granted, the war could hardly be called as such, given how long it lasted, but there was something to be said for the way Prussia seemed to delight in pushing about his fellow nations. It was bad enough for the balance of power on the continent, not to mention it made England's head spin by just trying to keep track of who he was fighting this time.
England still isn't quite used to this whole concept of "instant communication"
---
The wedding is held in Spain. Not because Spain wants it there, exactly-given the verbal lashing that Romano gives him for ever thinking about it, much less agreeing to it is something for the ages to behold-but more that Vatican City isn't going to allow someone with as much Protestant in him as Germany has to wed in one of his churches. Not to mention the fact that despite the fact that they're countries, not people, he doesn't exactly approve of the fact that Germany happens to be male. As such, it surprsies no one when he refuses to show up all together. Well, no one except for Romano.
"Where the fuck is he?!" he curses and the sound echoes through the tiny church that Italy picked out for the ceremony. Spain winces at the way it reverberates through the rafters and Italy just tilts his head with a curious expression on his face.
"But big brother, papa never sent back his invitation."
"What the hell do you mean he didn't send it back?" he demands, lunging at Veneziano, poised to deliver a blow to the back of his head before Spain catches his wrist. Instead, Romano glares and jerks his hand away. "It's can't be a goddamn wedding if no one's giving you away," he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin up in defiance, "Not like it's going to be fucking recognized anyway, you marrying that Protestant son of a-"
"Ah, Romano's right, you know," Spain says with a smile, speaking above the muffled protests Romano's attempting to make from behind Spain's hand. "Someone needs to walk you down the aisle."
"Oh, I forgot about that." Italy's eyebrows knit together for a moment before a huge smile split across his face. "Hey, big brother Spain, you could do it, right?"
"It really should be someone who's closer family to you . . . " Spain trailed off, glancing at Romano who was pointedly looking away, cheeks puffed and lower lip jutted out.
Italy followed his gaze, frowning slightly as his brother refused to look at him. "But Romano wouldn't-"
"I fucking would" Romano interjected, turning to level the full force of his glare on his younger brother. "You're my fucking family, you little shit. It's bad enough that you're doing this with him but if papa's not giving you away then at least I'm going to do it."
"Romano . . . "
"So come on, we're going to do this shit right," Romano scowled, grabbing Italy by the arm and tugging him to the doorway. Italy squeaked stumbling as he scrambled to cactch up. He knew the whole wedding made Romano angry, Romano really hated Germany, he'd never really forgiven him for the war, but he didn't think Romano'd be willing to do this for him. Plus the way Romano was angry today wasn't the way he was usually angry. Usually when his forehead got all scrunched up he just started swearing and he'd hit Italy even when Spain grabbed his wrist, and then he'd yell at Spain too. But he didn't yell at Spain today, even though his forehead was really scrunched up, so much that he was squinting and his eyes were really narrow and-
Italy stopped, tugging on Romano's arm. "Big brother, you're crying."
Romano stopped dead in his tracks, turning abruptly to glare at Italy before jerking his head away. Italy saw it though, he was definitely crying! "I'm not crying, moron!"
"You're not supposed to lie in the church!" Italy protested, tugging on his arm. "You're crying, aren't you? Big brother, don't cry."
"Shut up!" Romano spat, and he definitely was crying, because he was wiping the sleeve of his tuxedo across his eyes.
"Big brother . . . " Italy frowned, tugging his arm more insistently. "I can go ask big brother Spain if he wants to-"
"No fucking way,
---
He wakes up to the sound of rain beating on the windowsill. The alarm hasn't gone off yet so it can't possibly be morning yet. Or at least not morning enough to warrant getting up. Shifting slightly, he turns to his side, burrowing his head a bit more against the pillow. Next to him, there's a sleepy mumble, a soft groan of complaint, and he smiles. America's always been a light sleeper, the rain probably woke him up first. Reaching out, he slides his hand down America's side to his hip, fingers circling there, his thumb rubbing lightly against his hip bone.
America, in response, turns to his side, wrapping both arms around England and tugging him against his chest like some kind of oversized teddy bear. England barely has a chance to voice his protest to this before America's sleepy whine breaks through the patter of raindrops against glass.
"England," he moans, stretching the word out far too long, "It's raining."
Pushing off against America's chest so that he can breathe again, England squirms in his arms, shifting up so he's at least eye level with America. "Of course it's raining, it was raining last night too," he remarks, proud at least that he doesn't sound nearly half as groggy as America, even though America's likely been awake for longer.
"But when it rains at night it's supposed to stop in the morning," America's still whining, though he isn't opening his eyes, and he's got his lips worked up into a perfectly childish pout.
"That's because there's a stationary cold front, you moron," England retorts, poking firmly at America's chest, America squirms in reply, "It's dumping buckets all over the place."
"Then make it stop," now he's really whining, stretching every vowel out as his voice squeaks in the back of his throat.
"I can't control the bloody weather any more than you can. And we're not having this conversation until you at least open your eyes!" He pokes America in the forehead, right between his eyes as he says this and America flinches, scrunching his face up and pouting even more, as if such a thing wer even possible.
"I don't want to. I'm still sleeping." America retorts, letting go of England and rolling over and tugging his blankets up, making exaggerated snoring noises before he adds, "Wake me up when it stops raining."
"You are not sleeping you oaf," England sits up, driving his knee against the back of America's thighs and tugging at his blankets. "And you're well enough awake now so you might as well get up, even if it is . . . " he pauses glancing over to the clock on the bedside table, "Eleven forty-two in the morning."
He pauses, repeats the words in his mouth, then stares at the clock again.
"America," he barks, grabbing the blankets harder and tugging them off America with one firm sweep, "You reset the alarm again!"
"What?!" America squeaks, shivering with the sudden loss of warmth, rubbing at his eyes, which are perfectly well open now, "I did not! I didn't even touch it last night!"
"Then explain to me why it's almost bloody noon and the alarm hasn't gone off yet!" England's squirming now, trying to untangle his feet from the blankets and get out of the damn bed. They had meetings today. Not just with his boss but with America's boss as well, not to mention that Germany called him last night, wanting to discuss new policies on climate change or Turkey's EU bid or something that England couldn't quite remember, mostly because of the fact that America wasn't exactly pleased by the fact that England had decided to answer his phone and had rather creative ways of expressing that partcular disappointment.
"Because when it went off I turned it off!" America explains with a childlike simplicity that, given a nation of his age, is quite honestly unforgiveable.
All that England can do is stare at him, mouth half open, brows drawn tight together, trousers hanging in his hand from where he picked them up off the floor.
"You what?" he says incredulous and shocked.
"I turned it off," America replies, yawning slightly as he reaches for the bedside table and takes his glasses, putting them back on and blinking to adjust to the change. "Why?"
"You-bloody idiot" England shouts, hurling his trousers to the bed, not caring for where they land. He'll need a new pair anyway, given the rather unfortunate stain that he just noticed on the pair that they must have obtained sometime during the last night's "revelries."
"Hey-!" America catches the trousers in one hand, balling them up and tossing them to the bed as he scrambles to get out as well, "It was going off at six in the morning! Do you know what time that is for me? Especially when we didn't even get around to sleeping until two!"
"I don't care what time it is!" England retorts from the closet, quickly shifting through hangers to find the right suit for the occasion, "I had meetings to attend-so did you!-and at least I intended to attend them whether or not you approved of the time!"
"But England-"
"No buts," England turns and levels his glare on America with a silent fury roiling behind his eyes. "Now if you'll excuse me, some of us actually like to pretend that we have respect for the finer virtues of punctuality and diligence." He pauses, glancing around the room, shirt half buttoned and pants hanging from his hands, "Now where in the hell are my sock garters . . . "
"England if you'll just listen
---
"Milady are you certain that you're all right with this?"
"Come now, Gwen, it's just for fun. Just a little bit of harmless play."
"You seem to be cold, milady," Morgana remarks smoothly, a coy smile gracing her lips as her hands moved down along the sheer fabric across Gwen's arms. "Would you like me to keep you warm?"
The smile never leaves Morgana's lips as her hands close lightly around Gwen's wrists. With a soft tug, she steps back toward her own bed. Easily, she slips to the side, turning Gwen with her so that she can push forward, easing Guinevere down against the soft covers.
"Do please try to relax, milady,"
"Now," Morgana says smoothly, only barely breathless, her words soft against the skin of Gwen's temple before she drops a kiss there and pulls away, "Wasn't that fun?"
Gwen laughs despite herself, reaching up to wind her arms about Morgana's neck. "It was, milady." She replies with a smile, idly winding her fingers through the hair at the nape of Morgana's neck. "It was quite fun," she adds before pulling Morgana down for a kiss.
---
A twig snaps behind him and America jumps about a foot in the air. He nearly drops his musket, fumbling with it to catch it before it escapes his fingers and falls into the snow when Prussia's rough, barking laugh cuts through the cold winter air.
"Come on, brat, if you're going to freak out at every little pop and snap there's no way you're going to get your independence," the older nation snickers as he claps a friendly hand down on America's shoulder. America scowls, glancing behind him to try and see if the Baron is there. He's not Prussia's boss, Prussia's explained that to him before, but America still feels weird sometimes being around Prussia without the older man around. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the help that the Baron's been giving him training his troops in the valley, his boss, or at least the man he hopes will be his boss someday, really does, but to see Prussia here, so far away from his people only to accompany a Baron seems strange to him.
The Baron isn't there, so America looks back to Prussia, juts his chin out a little, and asks, "Is the Baron still doing drills?"
Prussia waves the question off with his free hand, turning America around by the hand on his shoulder and pushing him along. Despite his urge to dig his heels in and resist, America goes along with him. Prussia's helping him, after all.
"Yeah, he's working them hard all right," Prussia replies after a moment, snickering to himself at a joke that America doesn't quite understand, "If it weren't for this damn season I'd say we could take your old man right here and now."
"He's not my old man," America protests, scowling heavily. England may have raised him, yes, but no father America knows would ever try to take advantage of their son like England has him
"Right, right," Prussia waves him off again--America's beginning to get really tired of the gesture--and starts to steer him up one of the hills that frames the valley. "Either way, your best bet is crossing your fingers and praying like hell that the snow clears up soon so that your men don't starve to death or worse. Fucking winter campaigns suck. You could've tried to declare independence a little earlier in the year, you know?"
"Well I thought I could just talk to him about it and maybe it'd work out," America mutters, glancing off to the side and kicking at a pile of snow as they crest the top of the hill.
Glancing behind, he can see the small gray plumes of campfire smoke rising from between the tents that are housing the troops--his troops. There's not that many of them, not as many as the men England's brought over, but he's still proud of them because they're his. They know how he feels about England taking advantage of him, trying to take what's his and asking too little for it in return while all the while charging too much for everything that England used to give him for less.
Looking north, America can see the tents and fires of England's troops. Beyond them there's more of his people, and among them are the people who didn't want this war. The ones who wished that talking could still fix things, that he can still be as close to England as he was. Curled up together under his blankets while England reads him bedtime stories, telling America tales of his summer houses in India and across the world. And sometimes, at least sometimes lately before this all started to happen too fast for America to keep track of it, he would wake up before England would, feel England's breath on his cheek and England's arms around him with England's lips standing out, parted just a little bit in a way that made America want to kiss them.
"Talking doesn't solve shit, kid," Prussia says with a firm nod, moving his hand from America's shoulder up to clap on his head, roughly tousling his hair and making America blush bright red. He'd almost forgotten Prussia was there, "If you want to get what you want, you've got to fight for it. You've got to fight him." The hand on America's head easily slips down, looping over his shoulder as Prussia leans down, his head nearly level with America's, looking out over the British encampment.
"I know that, I've been fighting him," America replies easily, unconsciously straightening his back and setting his jaw. Prussia may have been helping him train his troops, but he learns fast. He can show Prussia that America will be every bit of a nation as Prussia is.
"Hah, your people have," Prussia snorts, America can hear the cocky grin in his words, "But you've still got training to go through yourself."
Unconsciously, America's fingers tightened around the barrel of his musket. "I've been training," he says firmly, turning to look Prussia straight in the eye. Their faces are close now, he can feel the warm puffs of Prussia's breath against his red-flushed cheeks every time the other country breathes through his haughty smirk.
Prussia arches one silver eyebrow and catches America's chin in his gloved hand, leaning in until their noses almost touch.
"Yeah? Why don't you show me, kid. Show me what you want to do to that asshole over there," he nods slightly in the direction of England's camp, though his eyes never leave America's.
"Look, kid," Prussia says through heavy breaths, his teeth gleaming like the snow under curled lips, "Pulling shit like this?" Abruptly, he pushes forward, pressing his lips to America's already bruised ones. America leans in eagerly, nearly shutting his eyes before they snap open as Prussia pulls away. "That doesn't count for crap," Prussia explains to him with a cocky smirk. "That's like talking. You want to show merry old England over there that you mean business, that you want to be a nation of your own, that you want to be on the same playing field as him instead of just sitting around and groveling under him all the time, you go for this."
The hand on America's hip slips forward, Prussia's gloved fingers closing over the bulge of his already hard cock through his pants. America almost feels his knees give out, his hands suddenly grasping for a hold on Prussia's coat. Eyes half-shut, he lets out a low moan, tilting his head forward and nodding against Prussia's neck.
"You go for his vital regions," Prussia whispers against his ear before reaching up and tugging his glove off with his teeth, moving his hand back down and pushing it under the waist of America's trousers. "Hit him where it counts," his fingers close over America's cock again and the chill from them send shivers up America's spine but he holds on, nodding firmly against Prussia, his lips pursed to keep the keening, pleading moans inside. "You're not ready to stage an invasion just yet, you're too little.
---
For all that Gilbert is an abrasive egotistical self-absorbed jerk-off he knows a hell of a lot of people in the right places. Lovino doesn't exactly realize this until one day he shows up for practice with Feliciano to find their wayward vocalist is among the missing. Only Ludwig is there, testing beats on his drums, which the idiot apologizesfor and then explains that, "My brother seems to have gone somewhere."
"No shit Sherlock," Lovino mutters under his breath, idly wondering if the asshole even gave a second's worth of thought to the fact that the rest of them might have things to do after this. And honestly, given the choice between readings for his thesis and band practice, band practice only barely wins out on the good days. If Gilbert's going to blow this off, Lovino doesn't see why he should wait a damn second longer.
"Oh, that's too bad," Feliciano replies with a slight pout that leaves his lips as quickly as it graced them before he pratically frolics over to Ludwig and leans over his drum set, poking at a symbol and rather pointedly looking at the other guy's crotch where he's got a piece of paper balance that he's been scribbling notes onto. "Were you working on something?"
"Ah--well, that is . . . " Ludwig sutters in reply and lights up like a Christmas tree in December. Lovino thinks he might have just thrown up in his mouth a little. Fag must run in the family, he decides, what with the way that Gilbert seems to think that cocksucking should be an Olympic sport and the way that Ludwig's making eyes at Feliciano like he's a prepubescent girl in high school staring at half-naked boy bands. It makes him sick, but he decides to stick around. Feliciano might be oblivious to the way that Ludwig's gaga for him but he certainly isn't, and even though he's already found himself at the receiving end of Gilbert's cock in his ass, that's his own business and there's no way in hell that he's about to allow Ludwig to get anywhere near having the liberty of doing the same to Feliciano.
Besides, he thinks to himself, finding a good spot of the basement wall to lean against such that he can deliver a well-trained death glare at Ludwig as the drummer stares dumbly while Feliciano babbles on, at least there's an unspoken agreement that what he does with Gilbert isn't at all romantic in the slightest. It's more a competition than it is love, a way of proving that he can one up that snickering silver haired bastard even if it does mean taking it up the ass. Either way, Lovino is firmly convinced that love is only a tool. It's a word he uses on girls when the time is right to get them to calm down or turn things in the direction he wants. He's never felt it himself, except for the sort of familial protective love he has for Feliciano, and he's pretty damn sure he never will. Girls may be pretty, but the thing about them is that there are a lot of them and a lot of them are pretty. If one slips through his fingers, it's not like it's some sort of huge loss. He just moves on to the next one. Sure, some day he'll find a girl who he feels like he can stick around with and they'll have a family of their own. But that will be just that, family, which is a different kind of love.
Either way, the thought that Ludwig of all the fucking people in the world is in love with his brother makes him sick. It's bad enough that the guy's brother is an asshole, but the bastard could at least try to see things from Feliciano's side of the picture. For one, their dad would fucking murder any boy that Feliciano brought home and introduced with the words "my" and "boyfriend" in conjunction. For two, Feliciano had to make a family of his own eventually, and no fucking way could he do that with someone like Ludwig. It just didn't work that way.
----
It all goes to hell one day at a party the band's invited to. It's for some movie premire, the song they did for the soundtrack and the combined efforts of Gilbert and Antonio's connections get them in. Lovino goes figuring if nothing else it'll be a good time and an open bar. What he doesn't realize is exactly how far Antonio's connections go. He arrives at the red carpet with Feliciano, signing a few autographs for the fans of theirs who've showed up, smirking and posing for picutres and paparazzi when Antonio shows up. That is, when Antonio shows up with the movie's blond bombshell of a lead actress arm in arm with him, her dress a stunning number in black and gold that hugs her body in all the right ways, making her stand out against the bold red of the carpet.
"Ah, I didn't know Antonio had a date!" Feliciano remarks cheerfully and despite himself, Lovino feels his stomach sink to his shoes. Of course he'd have a fucking date, he thinks in a flushed panic, it's not like everyone in their band is a fucking fag, and he knows women, they love the kind of guy that Antonio is. Fuck--he loves the kind of guy that Antonio is so why wouldn't they?
"Antonio~! Over here!" Feliciano cries out, waving enthusiastically at their manager and effectively snapping Lovino out of his daze.
"Fucking--Feliciano!" he hisses, causing his brother to turn and regard him with a curious tilt of his head.
"What? Don't you want to say hi to Antonio? I thought you really liked him, big brother!"
"That's not the fucking--" he starts, but cuts himself short as Antonio himself shows up right next to them, smiling widely, the actress still on his arm.
"Hey, it's good to see you guys here!" he greets them with a small laugh, Feliciano laughs with him. Lovino thinks about how many different ways he could die in the next ten seconds and how each and every one of them would be preferable to this.
"You were the one who got us the invitations!" Feliciano replies, just as cheerfuly, "It's really exciting!"
"It is, isn't it? Being on the red carpet is always lots of fun,"
Lovino feels like he's going to fall over and he hasn't even left the bar. He grips the wood of its edge tightly in one hand, raising his head and motioning sluggishly for the bartender to give him another. If that asshole tries to cut him off, he'll just punch him in the fucking face, nevermind the fact that the whole room's swaying around him and that he hasn't moved one inch from the bar since the party started save for two desperately needed trips to the restroom. Thankfully, the bartender doesn't see fit to make Lovino's decisions for him and just nods and puts a glass down in front of him. Lovino fumbles slightly as he moves to grab it, fingers digging into the edge of the bar and closing tightly around the glass before he brings it up to his lips. This one doesn't burn like the last few, fuck it almost tastes like water, so either the bartender's gotten sneaky or he's too damn drunk to even taste the alcohol anymore. Either way, Lovino downs it in one gulp, slamming the glass down on the table perhaps a little too hard. The sound of it shattering registers before anything else. Next is the realization that his hand's gotten wet and cold, probably from the ice in the glass. It's only then that his hazy senses recognize the fact that he's got blood streaming down the plam of his hand, staining the fabric of his suit, from the cuts the glass has left. Staring at the wounds, dumbstruck, Lovino laughs.
"What's so funny Lovino?"
Thankfully, Antonio leads him away from the party and into the men's restroom. The venue is a ritzy enough joint that there's a small waiting area before the actual bathroom itself, with couches and a mirror. Lovino collapses down onto one, bloodstained napkins wraped around his injured hand, keeping it from bleeding all over the carpet. Antonio's gone when he looks up, and a sudden, unexplained panic suddenly grips him.
"Antonio?!" he calls out, shouting, trying to stumble up to his feet, tripping over them, nearly throwing himself off the couch before two strong hands catch his shoulders, easing him back down.
"Easy, easy." It's Antonio. Lovino chokes on his breath as he turns, burying his face against the other man's arm, eyes closed tightly. "I was just getting some paper towels."
Lovino only nods in reply, adrenaline still pumping in his veins, mixing with the alcohol and making him lightheaded. He can barely feel it when Antonio's arms move from his shoulders down to take his hand, carefully peeling away the napkins and checking the wounds for any stray pieces of glass. Lovino watches with half-opened eyes, fuzzy and unfocused from the tears stinging at theirs sides and the buzz from god only knows how many drinks. Antonio, to his credit, is gentle. He pulls a few more small pieces of glass from Lovino's hand before wiping it down with a damp paper towel, cleaning off the blood and then pressing other towels to the still-bleeding wounds, keeping pressure on them to try and stop the bleeding.
"You must have had a lot to drink, huh?" he asks idly as he works, fingers running softly against Lovino's palm.
"I was fine," Lovino protests, scowling and squinting against his tears. "The fucking glass broke. I could've had more and been fucking fine."
"Ah, that's right. You and Gilbert used to go hit up bars back in college, didn't you? I remember those days . . . "
"Don't talk about him like he's my goddamn friend or anything,"
"But you two are always spending time together, aren't you?" Antonio remarks calmly as he pulls off his tie, using it to wrap the paper towels on Lovino's hand, holding them in place, "He told me the story, you know. About how the band wouldn't have even started if it weren't for you. Plus you're always--"
"We're not!" Lovino shouts, so loud the sound echoes off the bathroom walls, "It's just a fucking game with him, all right?! It's just--fucking!"
"That's all right," Antonio replies with a small smile, tightening the knot on his tie, "It's still good to have someone you can do that kind of thing with, right?"
He grabs Antonio's hand at the wrist with his injured one, jerking him in and pushing their lips together. It's not the best kiss he's ever had, it's nowhere near it. He's desperate, panicked, pushing in with all he has, teeth and lips and tongue, fingers tight on Antonio's wrist, holding him there, his eyes squeezed shut, free hand scrambling to grab onto Antonio as well, to pull him in, hold him in place, make sure that he can't get away. Lovino kisses until he feels the room spinning around him and then jerks away, dropping his head down before he even dares to open his eyes, hands still holding Antonio tight, his breath coming in thick, gulping sobs.
"Lovino . . . ?" Antonio's voice comes after a few moments, curious and faint.
"Shut up, just shut the fuck up," Lovino mutters, squeezing his eyes shut again. The room's still spinning, and he has to force his eyes open again before the nausea overtakes him.
"Are you all right?" Antonio asks cautiously, reaching up and slowly threading his fingers through Lovino's hair. Unconsciously, Lovino leans into it, eyes falling half closed again.
"Do I look like I'm fucking all right, moron?" he spits back, loosening his grip on Antonio.
"Not really," Antonio replies, and Lovino can hear the smile in his words, "Come on, let's get you out of here. I can take you back to my place for the night."
Antonio starts to lift Lovino off the chair, taking one arm and looping it over his shoulders, supporting Lovino with his other arm around his chest.
"I'm not a fucking baby or anything," Lovino scowls, turning away, trying to keep Antonio from seeing just how flushed he is.
"I know, but you're probably going to have a hangover in the morning," Antonio says with a short laugh, "So we should probably get you home."
"Your place isn't my home," he mutters a moment later.
"Ah, no, it's not really," Antonio admits, sounding a bit chagrined, "But I didn't think that you'd have a problem with that."
Lovino, to his credit, only bites his lip and stays silent.
--
He doesn't remember exactly where along the way he blacks out, or how Antonio even gets him home for that matter. The next thing that Lovino's really sure of is the feeling of something warm pressed against his back, the dull throbbing of a headache and the painfully dry feeling of his throat. Fortunately, wherever he is, there doesn't seem to be any sunlight, but that doesn't stop the low pained groan from escaping his lips as he half-opens his eyes, reaching out and groping to his side where his alarm clock should be. Instead, someone's hand catches his wrist and Lovino's eyes snap wide open.
"Here, let me," Antonio's voice comes from somewhere behind him as he watches the older man reach over to the bedside table where there's a tall glass of water and some aspiring set out already. Lovino turns as quickly has he can and realizes a moment later that the warmth he was feeling was Antonio. Antonio who is in bed with him, who is smiling at him, who is offering him two aspirin and a glass of water while simultaneously being entirely naked save for a pair of bright red boxers.
"It'll help the hangover."
Lovino just nods dumbly, taking the pills and swallowing them along with the entire glass of water in one long gulp. He doesn't want to realize it but he can't help but notice how Antonio's watching him, a faint smile on his face as he leans back against the bed.
"Does that feel better?" he asks once Lovino's done, taking the glass from him and setting it back on the table.
"Yeah . . . " Lovino mumbles turning his gaze away and finally taking in his surroundings.
They're in Antonio's bedroom, obviously. The full sized bed is pushed up against one wall facing a wall with four large windows that currently have the curtains drawn across them.
[description goes here]
"I told Feliciano that you stayed with me, so you don't have to worry about that," Antonio tells him, reaching out to brush one hand through Lovino's hair. "He said that he could come up with something to tell your father, so you can stay as long as you like."
"Last night the kiss was very good. A little sloppy, but you were really enthusiastic about it. And then after that you kept on saying things, after you passed out. But if you don't remember then I probably shouldn't mention them."