Love of the Half Eaten Peach

Quick author's note: At this point the story diverges into two roads, America and Canada. Each one will be marked in the chapter title but I think it'll be pretty obvious who it is. Likely I'll just alternate them. Thanks for reading and commenting! :)

America looks down feigning embarrassment as he kicks his foot against the ground. “Oh man! Were we really that obvious?” The childish voice only serves to enhance the humble effect: something he could never hope to pull off as an adult. France once again laughs as Canada and China leave as if he finds something just so damn funny about the entire situation. Sometimes he wonders if France stands in front of the fucking mirror practicing just the perfect amount of accented sneer into every oh hon hon hon because god the sonofabitch couldn’t sound more patronizing if he tried. Even as far back as World War I when they had that stupid uniform debate it’s never failed to make America twitchy.

“Ah, young nations!” he exclaims at last tweaking America’s nose and in response America manages a tight smile in an attempt to still look cute and harmless. “You are all so adorable, so naïve: like little babes in the woods.” You don’t say... You really believe that too, dontcha? Oh, just you wait, if you think you’ve got it all figured out then that’s only gonna work to my advantage. He forces down his annoyance, mentally preparing himself. Naïve, huh?
“You think so?” He wastes no time in running a coy finger down France’s chest, the V of the decorative yukata making it easy for the soft pad of his finger to trail down his bare skin. “Maybe we can go back to your room and I can-.” He blinks in surprise, sentence cut off when he feels the older nation grip his wrist and stop the movement. It’s not painful but tight enough to give him pause and make him look up confused. What the hell? I know I didn’t misread you jerk, everyone knows you’ll jump anything with a fucking pulse... right? Hell if Eyebrows can be trusted even then that's not a dealbreaker. Surely he hasn’t lost his ability to read the atmosphere over the years simply because he usually chooses not to.

“Do you take me for a fool Alfred?” He feels an lance of ice as his heart skips a beat. France might know who he is ‘cause Canada had to slip up and call him Al but there’s no way in hell he’s guessed what they’re really up to.
“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s quick to deny his eyes shift, pupils flickering slightly in the tell that America doesn’t even know he has and France had taken notice of since the Revolutionary War. “We were just sick of Artie not paying us any attention so...” he trails off, absently scratching the back of his neck in another dead giveaway.
“Non.” That one word is unyielding and definitive and it makes America just want to haul off and stomp his foot and scream “what the fuck?!”.

France leans in, not releasing his grip in the slightest and America catches that same spicy aroma, the faint smell of sake and damn if he doesn’t smell a lot more manly than America would’ve thought. “I know the way you play this little sensual dance, Alfred and this is not your style. Tell me it was Matthew’s idea, tell me that the moon is made of green cheese and see which I’ll believe first. Perhaps your brother can sweet talk China, but I know you, mon petit.” His tone lightens as if he realizes he’s come dangerously close to being a true force to be reckoned with and he finally lets go giving America a playfully swat on the ass. “Run along, and I’ll tell Angleterre that he owes me for saving him from your nubile young charms tonight.” America’s expression is neutral even as his heart races. He sure as hell isn’t giving up that easily. After all, he’s never been one to listen to even the most outright dismissal.

“Are you afraid, papa?” he asks coyly, his voice pitched more low and breathy as he wets his pink lips and smiles a far more adult expression than he’d donned previously. He steps forward and puts his arms around France’s neck ‘cause fuck it if he can put on some über sub 2d freakshow act for Japan he can sure as hell can do little boy blue for France. America presses his smaller body flush against the other’s feeling triumphant when those surprisingly strong arms encircle his waist in answer. His entire body is tense in spite of his attempts to relax into casual seduction as he waits for the results of his gamble. France seems to be considering something and what he wouldn’t give to be able to read minds right about now. Maybe when this is all done he can weasel that thought reading device out of South Korea. He turns his head faintly and smiles when France’s breath ghosts against the side of his temple, “Alright then, bebe, we’ll play this little game tonight.” There’s a brief nip to the shell of his ear almost in warning. “Just don’t say ‘papa’ didn’t warn you.”

France lets him go, smiling easily.
“Come then,” he declares placing a hand to the small of America’s back to lead him. “I think I’ll enjoy stealing Angleterre’s little present for my own after all.” For all intents and purposes, he seems to be back to his standard casual air but America can’t help but notice that something isn’t quite right. There’s something dark and ancient in France’s expression but far from daunting it only sends a thrill throughout his body. Okay, so maybe getting a totally debauched and drunken England to slap a little piece of paper would be like taking candy from a baby- or taking the wallet of a horny pedo in this instance but that’s neither here nor there- and the more he considers it, the more America decides that the challenge will definitely be fun.

The elevator doors close behind them and already his mind is at work trying to think of the best way to approach this, balancing on the balls of his feet somewhat restlessly feeling as about to go into battle. Should he play innocent? France knows it’s him after all and usually the other tends to be the pursuer in most instances. Perhaps he’d find America on the offensive a change of pace? Well, only one way to find out. There isn’t the nation alive that can resist me when I put my mind to it and you’re not gonna be any different, he thinks already tasting triumph.

Germany might have invented Blitzkrieg but America is no slouch when it comes to aggressive war tactics. Almost soon as the doors close, he attacks; he doesn’t even give the other time to hit the button for the floor his room is on. Even better, he discreetly hits the emergency stop, guaranteeing they won’t be interrupted for awhile. His small hands press against France’s chest, fingers kneading at his pectorals through the thin silk of the yukata as he stands on his tiptoes to bring their mouths together. France doesn’t miss a beat in grabbing him by the ass with just enough lift to seal their mouths together, tilting his head to match America. Damn! I always knew he was a dirty old pervert but how much underaged ass has he been grabbing on? Clearly this is nowhere near France’s first rodeo with a young colt.

Oh but he’s not going to let that little shock KO him. America makes love the same way he fights: shock and awe and he’s not going down that easily. Much to his surprise though, France allows him to have his way, indulging the breathless kiss as those smaller lips crush to his own. America marvels at how much he tastes like liquor. Holy shit no wonder he gets so much play. They probably drop like flies after one makeout session. Christ, Pedobrows was right, he really must have wine instead of blood. But he has a stronger constitution than that and date rape mouth or not he’s winning this one. A small “mmm” is the only sound France makes and America knows he can definitely wring more than that out of him with a little more effort.

France feels him straddling his left thigh with determination and as he feels the smaller body wiggling with what he assumes is supposed to be an erotic motion he almost laughs at the novice move. But then one of those small hands slides beneath the collar of the yukata and worships the thick, tawny hair on his chest and France can’t help but shiver. Those soft fingers rub and thread, excited as if discovering a new toy and he can tell the genuine excitement from the improvised when America makes a small throaty purr and stops the ridiculous rutting movement. France answers him with an involuntary shiver and gives his ass an encouraging squeeze. Good behavior must be rewarded after all.

America’s mouth is wet and sloppy and tastes exactly as he expected; of hamburgers, freedom, and oddly enough of Canada- he’d know that flavor of semen anywhere!. Ah so the naughty little boys had their own fun beforehand it seems... France squeezes the generous round of that youthful behind, his large hands memorizing the soft pliable flesh with a practiced sigh. No, I cannot say that I blame them for experimenting before the show even starts. Alfred might be a sexy man when he’s got his mouth shut but I’d forgotten what he was like back then, no wonder rosbif was so possessive. And if America is half the energetic little puppy that Canada had been then he’s thankful that he decided to call it an early night.

France doesn’t allow himself to become caught up in the act even as he deepens the kiss, his tongue stroking America’s palette with a deliberate and teasing flicker feeling the smaller body tremble, feeling America tense in response, that lovely flesh beneath his hands getting tight. He keeps a firm hold- he can’t have the poor boy collapsing so soon, after all. He’s played this game far too many times and has ever intention of drawing it out and expending as little as possible until America breaks. He’d  learned long ago from ones far more cunning than America why one must never let down their guard. Ah, and America is so eager and enthusiastic as he ruts against him like an animal. In spite of himself he feels his cock stirring in response to the unrefined action.

Hmm, the body is so simple in its desires, he thinks to himself with an absent observation and could almost be angry with the traitorous thing for finding such a lack of finesse arousing. He gives another indulgent sigh as America breaks the kiss and when he looks down at the flush of his face and watches he look away panting, he can see that America too is trying not to get too caught up in the seduction; clearly he’s having a lot more difficulty.

Okay wow he must have fucking rohypnol coating his tongue, there’s no way he’s that good a kisser. America feels lightheaded and even as his left hand squeezes and gropes France’s chest his right holds the other’s shoulder like a damn lifeline. Okay, change of plans on that. I hope his damn neck doesn’t taste like fucking frog legs or something. He moves his mouth and thanks god it just tastes like salt and sweat- and a little like Spain come to think of it but that’s neither here nor there- and he tries to remember what that damn thing is that Canada usually does to him cause normally his brother or Japan or England or someone else is the one doing all the damn work, hey when you looked this good that’s just how it was.

France sort of stares as America begins some sort of slobbering action on his neck and wonders if this isn’t going to end up turning into a lesson on proper foreplay. Lips determinedly buss his jawline and he can feel America’s saliva dripping down beneath the fabric rather unpleasantly. At the same time the smooth pads of America’s fingers wander over his right nipple flicking, teasing it to hardness while gripping his shoulder tightly, slowly tugging the yukata down to reveal the bare skin. Holy tabernacle, is he trying to bathe me? He wonders when America moves like a steam vac leaving a wet sluggy trail in his wake. Still, he’s certain that he’s convincing enough in this little dance since the other hasn’t stopped and he turns into America slightly, letting him feel the hard bulge between his legs. He can’t help but admire the enthusiasm after all.

America perks up as expected when he feels France’s erection pressing into his stomach. He’s also slight relieved the man isn’t packing the fucking battering ram that Canada usually is because stretching or no he’s pretty sure this body isn’t up for Canada’s History, or whatever freaky euphemism his brother has for that impossible sexual act he likes to inflict upon him when they’re both drunk- how the hell he ever got his hands on the Stanley Cup that one night America will never know. But oh this is going to be a fucking cakewalk! He hides that triumphant grin, moving his mouth to France’s exposed shoulder. I bet the horny old pervert won’t even remember his name when I’m finished with him!

I wonder what Toni will think of all this? France considers as America continues to drool on him. I was supposed to bring back “company” after all. Spain had unexpectedly shown up last night after a row with South Italy and France was intending to cheer  him up tonight, and get laid too, but that was a given. Of course America technically is company as well but he isn’t a barely legal asian in a schoolgirl uniform either: or a several hundred year old Italian nation who still wets the bed but that’s neither here nor there. And Spain’s presence means he won’t have to field any awkward questions about why he doesn’t have to share a room with anyone when America, Canada, and England were all crammed together with a bland “sumimasen” and a bow. Yes, any screaming tonight definitely should be of the “ohgodyes” variety and not “what the hell did you bribe him with, asshole?!”

France stifles a yawn as the wet vacuum continues its inexorable surge forward and America once again goes from being “adorably novice” to “horribly inexperienced”. Ah but least he does have that delightful ass to grope as distraction and France takes full advantage of that, kneading and squeezing and imagining that yes it will be quite nice to feel such a tight virginal hole again and ohhh that thought does wonders to keep the Eiffel Tower from drooping too much. Perhaps Antonio can teach him the proper way to do this; he does have potential, after all. He looks over as if just now realizing the elevator never started moving and can’t help but be amused by the predictable move.

“Hmm, strange it seems to be working now,” France observes subtly hitting the button for the second floor. America looks away with a practiced shyness and as terrible as he is with his mouth he’s a brilliant actor.
“Huh... can’t imagine why,” he answers before resuming his “seduction” and France almost prays the thing crashes. America’s still going when the elevator doors open and France forces out in a breathless gasp,
“Ah... Amerique, the door is open.” America feels a surge of triumph as he looks up at the flushed face in front of him. “I think you’ll need to let go. I can hardly carry you to the room...”

“But you’re so strong, papa,” he whines softly, turning those big blue eyes on him and he can’t help but wonder is this truly American seduction at its finest? Ah, but I should not hold it against him; it’s only been forty two years since his sexual awakening. Still, France resists the urge to laugh only barely. While he would hardly contest the assertion itself- he did hold back that 80 kilos rather impressively- it’s a statement borne more from a poorly scripted porno than anything else. He considers it for a moment thanking god that he’s never known a nation to get a hernia. His back is going to hate him in the morning.

But then again he is going along with this to uncover America’s game. Not that he doesn’t already have a good idea; the hand which contains his seal in its palm twitches absently. He’s the master of the treaty coup, after all. That odd little conversation that he witnessed replays in his mind, those two children thinking they were so clever to speak in code right in front of him. England raised such devious little colonies. Yes, he supposes he can indulge America who’s taken the silence as carte blanche to squeeze the bulge of his cock in the hopes of “convincing” him. He dares a sidelong glance down at his wet, teeth marked shoulder. My god, that’s going to look ghastly in a few hours.

Wasting no more time, France steps back and peels America off.
“Alright, mon petit, you want to be swept off your feet by papa, so be it,” he makes the statement with a proper amount of flourish and then prompts America to lift his arm and sling it around his neck. America looks confused about to ask exactly how this is going to work when France kneels down and executes a perfectly fireman’s carry and thinks that even with the help of leverage and positioning he’s getting far too old for this. America squawks as he’s hauled out of the elevator like a sack of potatoes. Dude, what the hell? Country of love, my ass. This is so not sexy!

Nonetheless, America is gracious enough to be still as France focuses his attention on moving his weight down the long hall- a small mercy the older nation is thankful for. He takes the time to consider what it is that America could be after. He and Canada had been waiting for England after all, and yet they’d changed their plan quickly enough when he’d arrived. Hmm... Alfred does pride himself on being adaptable. Once again he replays the brief conversation between the two brothers. Criss cross, huh? And those names as well... He knows he’s heard those before but... where? His expression is serious as he considers the riddle but America can’t see him. Of course without knowing the reference he still can put two and two together and come up with double trouble. Ah and of course Alfred will never willingly confess but I have ways of making him talk. Viewing this far more as a pleasurable interrogation and less the fumbling seduction America seems determined to initiate, the evening seems far more promising after all Now, to let Toni in on this little game or no?..

His lower back protesting mildly, France stops in front of the door making sure to keep the impassive expression on his face. There’s really no need to let Spain in on what’s going on unless he asks; France is nice enough to let his friend enjoy America’s “company” without any of the unnecessary political trappings. Ah, what a good friend he is. Rest assured, young one, whatever it is you’re after you will not succeed. But I don’t think you’ll be offering much complaint even so.

“‘Toni,” France calls out hoping that Spain hasn’t gone to the bar downstairs. When France saw him last he was carrying a makeshift basket of the clothes he’d retrieved from the koi pond out back and yet somehow the gesture had left him more determined than ever to insinuate himself back into South Italy’s good graces. Ah, bless his little masochistic heart. “Can I get a hand in opening the door?” America waits with him, trying his damndest to hide his annoyance. Spain was something he hadn’t been planning for although he’s hardly surprised that two of the three biggest creepers in Europe are splitting a room. But oh he’s so game for this! Hah! You pedos don’t scare me! There’s plenty of the good old US of A to go around!

Note: "Canada's History" refers to a sexual act so deviant and explicited it cannot be explained on television or the most depraved sexual act known to mankind. Usually it involves antlers and The Stanley Cup.