"Angleterre, at least let me make you breakfast."

England jumped at the sleep laden words. He had been so careful worming his way out of France's arms, so quiet gathering his clothing and starting to dress. He had been hoping for a good morning, one where he escaped actually having to deal with France without the ease and simplicity the night's lust provided. But no, of course the Frenchman could not let him get away so easily.

Silently he shook his head, facing the door as he went back to fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Suddenly they seemed so much harder to manage.

"Come now, even you need to eat real food every now and then."

Two sentences in and already on the attack. He had to wonder if France even realized those words were still insulting and not a statement of fact. He made an annoyed sound, and another when he realized he had missed a button and had to undo then redo them all over.

"Hey…Turn around…"

The bed creaked and sheets made faint whispering noises from what must have been France sitting up. His voice was losing its sleepiness, and England could feel those blue eyes he loved to hate on his back, growing sharper with each passing second. He did not want to see those eyes. He did not want to see them pleading, or angry, or smug, or whatever other glint could be added to them to get him back in the bed.

Without realizing he had become rooted to the spot. He couldn't turn around, not after France had told him to. If he did, he would lose.

France waited a moment before realizing his request would not be met. A soft whine escaped him.

"Won't you let me see your face, mon amour? It was so cute last night."

Said face suddenly felt hot, and England's fingers lost themselves for a moment. Once again he had to undo a few to fix his mistake, all the while his tongue firmly held between his teeth. Stiff upper lip, he could not let France get a rise out of him so easy and so early, or the whole day was shot.

"If you're pretending not to hear me those red ears are giving you away."

France let out his stupid little chuckle, which only strengthened his resolve. He focused half his will on getting the color out of his face, and half on his damn buttons. At least one of them worked, he shirt was now done up properly.

Now there was a bit more complication, he had to locate his shoes and suit jacket without turning around.

"Have you forgotten your own damn language, England? Parlez-vous anglais?"

France sounded annoyed.

There were his shoes, by the door. He reached down to grab them.

"Arthur, look at me or I'll feel like a whore!"

Finally he paused. Though France had forced a weak chuckle into his words there was a ring of something else, too. His heart sank a bit when he realized that ring was truth, but still he did not turn. He could not bring himself to leave, though, either. For a long moment there was just silence.

"Well then, leave the money on the dresser, oui?"

Sheets shuffled and he knew France was once again curled on his side, defeated. Dammit! Why did he have to be the bad guy? Wasn't he the one who had been used? France always found someone to fill his bed, so why shouldn't it have been him? The Frenchman had been happy enough with it, whispering those overused sweet nothings in his ear, mumbles of l'amour that must have been as routine as brushing his teeth.

So why did he feel so damn guilty?

He knew if he dared steal even a single glance back at that damned beautiful blonde his resolve would be gone and he'd crawl right back in that bed. He knew and did it anyway.

Though he had lain back down, France's head was propped up with a hand so he could watch the other man. Blue eyes trailed up to meet green as silent words passed between them, the type of communication that came from knowing someone too damn long. After a moment those blue eyes softened and England swore he physically felt the muscles in his face give up on any sort of tough expression. He managed to squeeze from his throat only the most pathetic of apologetic of noises as he once again found himself on that little island of his fellow nation's bed, crawling forward until he found himself in arms he did not notice were outstretched.

The entire English language that he was so proud of was at his disposal and yet all he could do was kiss the other; on the cheek, on the jaw, kissing down until he was safely nuzzled against his neck. Once again there was that annoying understanding from being known too well, much too well, and though the guilt in his heart didn't quite go away (it never did), it had faded and mixed with the usual dull pain that tainted any moment with France. Pain from being hurt, guilt for hurting, he doubted it would ever change. But still…

"I understand, mon amour. It is okay."

Meh, the ending's kind of weak. I really just wanted to use the whore line after using it in an RP.