I'm not sure why I seem to be writing from France's perspective so much.

"You," says England and gulps, shivers, "you useless – I can't remember what –" Swallows.

Swallow, thinks France, and more – he wants England now or as soon to now as the two of them can manage, yeah he's drunk, they're both drunk, that's nothing new. For a moment he had thought it was Prussia sitting next to him, which was stupid. Silly France.

And with anyone else he wouldn't need the alcohol and he'd probably be well into it by now – he tells himself he doesn't like the process, the lead-up with this one, but he knows better than to listen to what he says.

England counts out loud, "six – seven – eight." Each word is punctuated by another gulp of poison; a drop of gin rolls like a tear or anything more lewd down from the corner of his mouth.

Oh, thinks France and reaches out with a tongue or a thumb or he's not quite sure just now, excuse me, and cleans up England. "You're so drunk," France is saying, and England replies "fuck off." Somewhere along the way England's hand had tangled itself in his hair, loosely, sweaty fingers just brushing his scalp.

France smiled and it was carnivorous.

England's face and his brain and oh, everything was flushed red from – whatever, whatever it was – and this was another one of those things about him that France liked, and this was one he felt he didn't have to hide.

England was slurring his speech (France hoped his tongue would still be serviceable) but France heard the word 'tea' and he grinned, "you're special, England."

England growls but it's too late now, France's fingertips are visiting England's hips just there, softly. France laughs – it's an alcoholic laugh and it sounds a little depraved (once he realises that, he decides to stop.)

"You're so drunk," England is saying and France replies "yes, I beat you."

/FIN