My first APH fanfic. Because I've just gotten into the fandom and I already love it to death. I'm trying out a new writing style here that differs a bit from my norm, so please let me know what you think!

Summary: France, England thinks, is a damn pervert. Because there's no way that England would ever think of doing any of those things with another guy. Even with America. Especially with America.

Pairings/Characters: USxUK, France, Canada, mentions of others

Rating: T for France's…comments. Along with other things.

It all starts when England and America are both late to the meeting—and damnit, it sure as hell isn't England's fault that his car stalled and the rain made it hard to see and who knows where America was; it definitely wasn't with him—but when they both stagger into the room drenched and breathing heavily the other countries look up, and it's impossible to miss the little smiles on their faces. Especially France's.

America, who, apparently, is completely oblivious to the atmosphere, grins and attempts to high-five Russia, earning himself the patented Russian Grin of Death in response. Undaunted, he makes his way to the head of the room, shaking droplets of water off his glasses as he moves, while England tries to sink through his seat into the floor. France gives him a knowing look.

England mutters a curse under his breath.

America starts talking, seemingly pulling a chart out of thin air and showing everyone his oh-so-awesome plans to build a giant robot to fight evil. China asks, ever so politely, where he got the idea, aru, and America starts in on Japan's manga and the things they call mecha. Japan tells China that he's in no way responsible for anything America comes up with, and America pounds his fist on the table and starts talking about honor and glory and other things that TRUE Americans stand for, and Japan says, very pointedly, that he's not a true American and hopes to Kami-sama he never will be.

"So…" says France to England, turning a bit in his seat and giving England the slight leer that has taken him centuries to perfect, "how did it come to be that you and l'Américain were both, ah, absent at the start of this meeting, mon cher? Especially," he adds, the smirk deepening, "since you are of course renowned for being always on time?"

England huddles down in his chair. He can feel his face turning pink, which is silly because of course he has a valid explanation for his tardiness. Trust France to put a certain spin on the situation that definitely hasn't been there before.

Oh no.

Not there at all.

England ponders this for a bit before a slight cough jerks him out of his musings and he realizes that France is still sitting there with his infuriating little grin, waiting for an answer. "Meh," the Briton says, doggedly looking down to the other end of the table, where Poland is determinedly tying bows in his friend's hair ("But they, like, look so totally cute on you, Liet!"). "My car broke down. I had to walk. No idea where the ponce was." It's a perfectly reasonable answer, and it should serve to shut France up a bit so England can think.

This tactic fails for the simple reason that England has forgotten that France is, well, France, and that he doesn't shut up about anything sexual—or perceived sexual, because nothing's going on, damnit!—for hell nor high water. He just leans a little closer to the distressed England and purrs, "Really, mon cher? No idea at all?"

"Bugger off." His face is definitely red now, and England swipes a hand at his cheek in embarrassment.

France leans back and lets out a sigh of great suffering. In the background, the arguing voices reach a crescendo. "You pain me with your unkind words, Angleterre," he tells the uncaring Englishman. "But, really, can you fault me for inquiring as to the state of your relationship with dear Alfred? For merely wanting to know how far you have progressed? To know if you have yet held him in your arms, whispered sweet nothings in his ears, caressed his body with your nimble fingertips, tasted his essence upon your lips, or sailed with him to sweet release upon the fruits of both your—"

France, England thinks, is a damn pervert. Because there's no way that England would ever think of doing any of those things with another guy. Even with America. Especially with America. He thinks his face must closely resemble one of Spain's beloved tomatoes by now.

The meeting drags on and on, and England, as per usual, finds himself dragged into the fray in some inane argument against his former colony. He's sure he's imagining the different dynamic—America at least seems to be acting the same as always—but France's words and suggestive glances keep burrowing into his brain until he isn't sure whether he wants to punch America's lights out or shove him down onto the table and have his way with him then and there.

This is a very disturbing thought, and England immediately resolves to have a strong cup of tea later to banish it. In the meantime, he's enjoying getting into America's face far more than is strictly necessary.

When two o'clock rolls around and they're finally all allowed to leave (thank goodness), England snags America's sleeve before the latter can depart and murmurs, "Wait a minute." America looks confused, but he doesn't object, much to England's relief.

A blushing England and the bemused America wait around until all the other countries have filed out, then American turns to his once-brother and blinks. "Um…what?"

And this is the point that England realizes that he has absolutely no reason for keeping America back; that he simply hasn't planned the conversation past this point. There's some vague half-formed idea in the back of his mind about telling America about France's comments—not that he would be exactly surprised, of course—and gauging his reaction to them. But that's only a passing thought, and England can't seem to build on it. It fact, he can't think of anything to say to America at all.

So he kisses him.

America's pushed back against the wall, hard, and England can feel him gasp against his lips in pain and surprise and maybe, just maybe something more besides. But right now he's not too worried about America's reaction to his actions and is instead concerned more with touching as much of America as he possibly can before he's forced away. England's hands travel along America's shoulders and come to rest somewhere on his back, and he takes advantage of America's temporarily slack jaw to dart his tongue in between the other's slightly parted lips. His breathing comes heavy and fast and damn, this feels goods and yes it's wrong and this lad should be like a brother to him but right now he's enjoying the taste of America's lips and his tongue and the feeling of his hard muscles contracting under England's hands far too much to think about any possible repercussions. Bloody hell.

They continue like this and then slowly—very slowly—America's hands slide up to rest around England's waist and suddenly he's kissing England back with as much force, as much passion, as the other has previously demonstrated to him. America's tongue shoots straight past England's and into his mouth, and undulating waves of pleasure swell up in England's stomach and, abruptly, lower, so he's suddenly very glad that it's just the two of them standing here in the conference room because if France had any idea what was happening he'd have a field day.

When America's hand creeps up England's thigh the latter hastily pushes back, a blush already spreading its way across his features. In front of him, America just grins cheekily.

"Something you wanted to talk to me about, England?" he asks, a smirk all-too-reminiscent of France's making itself known. England attempts to sneer, but considering his fist is still clenched in America's shirt and he's still painfully aware of his semi-arousal because of the man, it doesn't work out too well.

"I—uh—that is to say—"

He's considering just going for the hell of it and snogging America again, when a small strangled noise from behind him makes them both look away. There, sitting huddled in a chair, is poor overlooked Canada, who apparently has not exited with the rest of the countries. A fact which England and America, unfortunately, have failed to see until this very moment. Not that this is very surprising—Canada being as inconspicuous and, frankly, forgettable as he is—but it does make for some unpleasant implications should the man spread it around.

England, his face beet red, disentangles himself from America and approaches the distraught Canada the way one tends to approach a small frightened rodent. Canada scooches as far back in his chair as is physically possible lets out a whimper, his curl bobbing before him. The poor boy appears to be going into shock.

"Heh," says America, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, the usual bravado gone from his manner, "hey little bro, do me a favor and just…uh…block this from your mind, k?" He perks back up. "Heroism demands sacrifices!"

England can't really see what heroism or, for that matter, sacrifices have to do with attempting to forget seeing one's brother and one's former father-figure making out in a conference room, but since this is America they're talking about, he's just going to have to let it slide.

Canada does not look exactly adverse to the idea. "Right. So…" He gulps. "I'm just…uh…gonna leave, then." Standing up as quickly as possible, he begins making his way toward the door in a sort of sideways lope that enables him to keep an eye on the other two at all times, as if he's frightened they might lunge the moment his back is turned. He finally reaches the door. "Uh…have fun, guys!" he says with a gulp, then exits with as much grace as possible, under the circumstances.

England can feel his blush reaching epic proportions. America just leans back against the wall, his previous awkwardness forgotten.

"So, about what we were saying…" says America when he's sure Canada's out of earshot, raising an eyebrow behind his glasses with a growing smile on his face.

"Ah—" says England, blinking. Then: "Aw, fuck it." He kisses America again. It's all going to hell anyway.

Meh. Here ends my failed attempt to write less-than-crappy romance. What did you think?