Chapter Text
Veneziano refilled the shot glass and pushed it to Romano. “Come on, one more,” he coaxed, shaking Romano’s shoulder until he earned an irritated groan. "I know you can do it! You’re so close to beating your record!"
“C-Course I can! I just…just don’t want to!”
“But why not? You’re so close to beating your record, right? Are you going to let me win?”
Romano pushed himself upright to frown at the glass. By this point, his wariness had degraded into only a foggy sense of hesitancy, and if he had noticed Veneziano’s untouched glass he had yet to make a complaint. His face scrunched in thought, and then he grunted disagreeably. “Beat it a while ago. Around the tequila—sometime then.”
Veneziano couldn’t help but find the surly edge to his brother’s voice even more arousing with drunken slur. He laughed and clapped a hand over Romano’s back, allowing the touch to linger. “Silly Romano, you’re forgetting everything! We’ve only been here for an hour, remember? You’ve still got a couple more to go!”
“But ‘m tired…and my stomach hurts!”
“Come on! You’re going to lose to your baby brother!”
Romano snorted, but when the glass was pressed into his fingers he grudgingly raised it to his lips. Despite his sharp tongue, he never was good at standing up for himself.
Veneziano waited for the bob of his throat, and then pried the empty glass from his hand. "Great job! Just a couple more!” he cheered, patting his back. Romano slumped over with a groan, resorting to using the countertop as a makeshift pillow. He muttered an unintelligible series of curses as Veneziano waved the bartender over for another bottle.
Their collection of empty liquor bottles had been individually collected by the bartender, who, although baffled by their inhuman tolerance, chose not to question the bar’s profit. After all, they weren’t the only nations who had stumbled upon the same dingy bar after the conference.
England, sitting in a corner booth with France, was in no better shape than Romano. For the past half hour he had used nearly every historical event—both real and fabricated—as a means to berate his companion, which in turn encouraged France to drink even more, and finally they had both gone silent with bleak memories alive in their minds.
Picking up on the mood, Prussia and Spain, in addition to many of the human patrons, had left the sedentary location in search a more lively party. The few humans that remained consisted of middle-aged men so deeply engrossed in studying cracks in the countertop they paid no attention to the two young and incongruously stylish brothers sitting at the front.
As Veneziano reached for the bottle, Romano’s arm fell heavily over his shoulder. “Hey…” Romano tugged at his sleeve, the fingers not quite able to maintain their grip. “You’ve been asking me to go…to go drinking a lot. The hell’s up with that? What’s your secret plot, huh?”
“Plot?” Veneziano giggled. “Don’t be silly! I invited you because I love spending time with my big brother! I don’t get to see you enough.”
“You’re a dumbass if ya…ya think I buy that shit. You’re always with that potato anyway. Stupid, muscular bastard!” Romano spat. He turned his face away, trying and failing to conceal his quivering lip.
Sometimes, it was so, so easy…
“Oh, Romano!” Veneziano cried, throwing an arm over Romano’s shoulder and yanking him into a hug—a simple, caring gesture. “How can you say that? Germany’s not my brother—you are! You’re part of me! You know I love you, right?”
He giggled. Romano’s face flushed a deep red as he sputtered incoherently, and then, reverting to his instinctive response, he smacked his arm. “Let me go, you s-stupid, sentimental bastard!”
Veneziano relented, only to slide a refilled glass toward Romano’s hand. “Okay! Here you go, one more!”
“D-Dumbass…”
“I know you can do it! You’re my amazing big brother!”
Simple flattery could melt him like butter, and as predicted, Romano swallowed the glass with only a grimace; though as this point the taste may as well have been water going down his throat. Once he pushed the glass away, Romano slumped back over the counter, dropping his hand under his arms. “M’ head’s spinning… Can we go home now?”
Veneziano hummed in thought. Lips quirking, he tugged Romano’s arm. “Let me see your eyes.” It was a strange request, but Romano complied and turned his face over with only a tiny whine. Veneziano cupped his chin in both hands and tilted his face for a better examination. Romano always had pretty eyes, prettier than his, Veneziano thought, but under the dim light they appeared only a murky, swamp-like brown, sheathed in a watery glaze.
Romano sniffled and drew back, impatient. “Bastard, are you listening? I wanna go home!”
“Don’t worry, we will. Can you stand up?”
Romano shook his head, and even that simple motion lacked coordination. “I can’t…can’t feel my legs.”
Veneziano hummed, his eyes flickering to the back of the room. “That’s too bad. Why don’t you lean on me, okay?”
“D-Don’t wanna, dammit.” Romano attempted to pull himself up, but could only manage to slump drunkenly against Veneziano.
Veneziano drew his arms around Romano, supporting him, but for the time being he was also thrillingly aware of Romano’s breath hot against his neck, the warmth of his skin radiating through the thin fabric of his expensive shirt, and the distinct, spiced scent to his hair—almost foreign, reminding Veneziano just how far apart the two of them had been raised.
And to think, without such distinct cultural origins, the almost tangible boundary between north and south, there may not have been two Italies sitting here today.
Veneziano leaned down and brushed his lips against Romano’s head, a kiss too soft for the other to perceive. “Come on, you’re too drunk right now, see? Let me help you stand up. We can go back to the hotel that way.”
Romano sighed, deflating, and released a faint sound of agreement, allowing Veneziano to slide his arm around his shoulders. He pulled Romano into a sitting position, and at his signal, the bartender arrived with the check.
The man cast a worried glance at Romano as he accepted the due payment, forgetting to properly count the notes he had been handed. “Your friend looks pretty trashed. Is he gonna be okay?”
Romano scowled at him, and he flinched, taken aback.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine!” Veneziano said, pulling Romano’s arm over his shoulders and hoisting him up by the armpits. “Once we get home, and he gets taken care of, you know?”
“Well, okay, but if he wants a glass of water—”
The bartender didn’t get a chance to finish. Veneziano stumbled under Romano’s weight and the two of them nearly toppled backward over the counter, Veneziano just barely catching himself with one arm.
The man flinched.
“Whoa,” Veneziano laughed.
Romano was clinging onto him in a koala-like hug to avoid sliding onto the floor, and hissed through his teeth. “You said you’d help me…”
“I’m sorry, you’re heavy!”
The bartender shook his head. “He’s definitely not going to be able to walk on his own. I’ll call you two a cab, okay?” He paused for a moment, contemplating the distance to the door. “And once I’m done putting these away, I’ll help with carrying your friend.”
Veneziano beamed. The man—only about nineteen, really—had an unusually serious disposition for someone so young and in such a line of work (after all, shouldn’t he be fed up with drunks and their shenanigans?) and Veneziano was instantly charmed. “Don’t worry about it! My friend is sitting right over there! See?” He gestured toward France, who was leaning his head on one arm as he stared impassively at his passed-out companion. “We’re going to the same hotel, anyway. It’ll be okay!”
The bartender’s eyes swept over France’s pristine suit and then their own attire. “Business partners?” he ventured.
“Something like that!” Veneziano slid his arm to support Romano as he eased himself upright, using his free arm to wave erratically. “Francis! Hey, Francis! Can you come over here for a minute?”
Upon hearing him, France glanced up, and his face split into his characteristically charming, but tipsy, grin. His eyes flickered left to Romano’s limp body pressed misleadingly against Veneziano’s, their cheeks nuzzling, and a slight gleam passed through his eyes.
After all, he was France.
“I don’t like France,” Romano grumbled, burying his face deeper into Veneziano’s shoulder.
“Aw, you’re just being cranky! He’s only going to walk you to the car. You don’t even have to talk to him.”
France glided into the stool beside them, chuckling softly. “Our feisty Italian has had a little too much to drink?” His mannerisms were elegant, as always, but he fumbled as he patted Romano’s shoulder. Romano growled.
“Yup! It’s about time we return to the hotel, but I can’t carry him myself,” Veneziano said. “Do you think you can help?”
“Hmm…” France glanced over his shoulder at England, still snoring softly over the table. “Of course, I suppose I can spare a few minutes. I don't think England is waking up anytime soon.”
“Thanks, France! You’re the best!” Veneziano beamed, and in his excitement his hand dropped down Romano’s back, far down, and he didn’t miss France’s eyes following the movement. Everything was falling into place so perfectly—almost like it had been scripted.
Romano began to protest as France eased one of his arms around his shoulders. Immediately, France broke to a halt, whispering soothing French words that bore a tenderness unexpected from his teasing lips. Curiously enough, they seemed to have some effect, as Romano’s mouth clamped into a tense line but he didn’t argue about France pressing up beside him.
“There, there….” France murmured, pressing his lips chastely against Romano’s forehead. “You needn’t worry; my hands will behave tonight.” There was only a tired grunt from Romano, so he turned to Veneziano with a wink. “Quite a shame, really.”
Veneziano felt an anticipating thrill flutter through his stomach, but he cocked his head to one side with a puzzled, “Ve?”
Taking one look at him, France burst into laughter and shook his head. “No, I am only teasing, Italy.”
“Oh…” Veneziano said, mimicking France’s grin. “I see! Well, we should probably hurry now. Romano isn’t looking too happy.”
“Of course,” France agreed, scooting to the edge of his stool. “You hold him around the waist and I’ll lead the steps.”
Veneziano nodded, and with a grunt, Romano was pulled to his feet, his weight supported between each of them. His head lolled forward with the movement and he gave a low groan. “I dun’ feel good…”
“That’s why we’re going home now, Romano. Can you step forward?” France asked.
Romano shook his head, eyes pinched shut. “Can’t feel my…my feet. F-Fuck…they’re spinning.”
France looked at Romano’s face with concern, and then sighed. He gently brushed Veneziano’s arm aside. “It’s fine, Italy. I’ll manage him.” Before either of them had a chance to ask what he meant, he transferred his free arm to Romano’s waist, and hoisted his legs off the ground. Romano’s flailing limbs settled into France’s awkward bridal hold. Veneziano had to bite back his laugh at how delicately France held him, like a wounded animal that would turn any minute and bite its rescuer.
“Bastard…” Romano frowned, as if contemplating if it was worth the energy to fight to get loose. Deciding it wasn’t, he huffed and let his head fall slack against France’s chest, frowning furiously.
Releasing the breath he had been holding, France shifted Romano’s limbs into a more comfortable arrangement, fingers only centimeters from an unimpeded grope. It should have been so easy, and yet he refused to take the bait. “It should be a bit easier this way. Can you lead the way?”
When they exited, their cab was already waiting outside, the driver looking displeased as he rested his arm outside the window and waited for them to approach. Veneziano smiled apologetically, first opening the back door for France, and then stepping up to the driver’s window.
“Hello!” he chirped, pulling out his wallet. The man rolled his eyes. “I would like to pay upfront, if that’s okay?”
The driver began to say something about charging by the distance, but went silent upon seeing the number of bills in Veneziano’s raised hand. After a second, his rough features broke into a grin. “Sure thing. Where to, kid?”
Veneziano smiled. It was amusing how young people treated him despite being only fractionally shorter than the other nations, and taller than his older brother. It was understandable coming from humans, but when nations—even Germany—were convinced of his incompetence, it could become exasperating.
Without his smile faltering, he recited the address to the driver.
France, meanwhile, had managed to pry Romano’s arms from around his neck and was currently trying to ease him into the vehicle. Veneziano hurried back to help him; he shifted Romano into the middle seat, properly arranging his limbs into a comfortable position—feet pointing straight ahead, legs slightly spread, hands on his lap.
Once Veneziano stepped back, satisfied, France leaned in to give Romano a little pat on the head. “Good night, dear,” he whispered, as Romano’s head slumped onto one shoulder. With a wan smile, he joined Veneziano on the curb. “Well, I suppose he’s taken care of now. I wish you both a good night’s rest, and if you’ll now excuse me, I have another cute nation to look after. ”
“W-Wait—!” Veneziano caught hold of his arm before he could leave. “How about you join us? You shouldn’t stay up too late. We have another meeting tomorrow!”
“Ah—No… It’s not necessary. We all know how furious England will be if he wakes up abandoned in a bar a second time. I’ll wait for him to awaken, and then call our own taxi.”
Veneziano tightened his grip, his eyes dropping worriedly to the pavement. “What… What if Romano gets sick and throws up on the way? What if he can’t make his way to his room, and I can’t carry him there on my own?”
France pursed his lips. “That’s true,” he conceded.
“And you don’t have to leave England! We could drop Romano off at his room, and then catch another cab to get back to the bar before England wakes up. That way I can help you bring England back—we could probably carry him together—and you won’t have to wait forever to get home!”
France hummed in consideration. “You’re right, it normally takes a siren to rouse dear England after a night of drinking.”
“Exactly!” Veneziano grabbed hold of France’s hands. “Come with us! Please, France!”
“But…” France cast a glance at the bar behind them. “It doesn’t sit right with me to leave him alone. Give me a moment to check on him, just in case he has woken up already.”
Hesitantly, Veneziano loosened his grip, allowing France to pull back and return to the bar. Through experience with Germany, he knew begging and pleading could also overwhelm the other person and make their refusal all the more certain.
France was neither his last nor singular option, and if this night failed there were many more to come; but still, Veneziano couldn’t help but quiver with impatience, fidgeting as he felt the driver’s eyes on his back, the light drumming of the man’s fingers audible over the sound of distant laughter and traffic. England had a low tolerance for alcohol, certainly, but France had consumed his share, and between the two of them, neither was as hopelessly drunk as Romano.
Only when Veneziano felt like he was going to burst did France exit the bar, shaking his head with a wan smile. “I tried, but a lawnmower could not rouse England in this state. I suppose I can help escort Romano to his room, and I should be back before England has a chance to notice my disappearance.”
The breath Veneziano had been holding whooshed out of him in a delighted laugh, and he clapped his hands. “Thanks so much, France!”
He held the door open for France to slip in, and then moved to the other side to get into his own seat. Romano was already dozing by the time the vehicle began moving, and may have otherwise been displeased to find himself sandwiched between France and Veneziano.
The inside of the vehicle was cramped, the space cut in half by a glass partition separating the passenger section from the driver. One of the benefits of the privacy was that the driver was unaware that every time he veered around a sharp bend, he caused his passengers to jolt from one side or the other.
The first time it occurred, Romano was shaken awake as he tumbled into Veneziano’s shoulder. Veneziano giggled. It was as if Romano’s body had turned to jelly, and he could only lie there, cursing at being awoken, until Veneziano pushed him upright and correctly repositioned his limbs in the drooping arrangement of a ragdoll on a shelf—legs apart and arms clasped together on his lap. France offered his own chuckle of sympathy.
The next time, the driver’s muffled swear came through the glass, and then he veered to the side to pass another car. Romano lurched with the vehicle and tumbled over France, his head dropping on France’s shoulder and his hand falling unceremoniously over France’s thigh. Romano gave a soft grunt, grappling at France’s pants for leverage.
With a tight-lipped smile, France removed Romano’s arm from his lap and pushed him back upright. “We were unfortunate to end up with such a driver,” France said under his breath.
Veneziano shook his head, exasperated. Although everything should have been happening as he wanted, France, for some unfathomable reason, simply refused to cooperate. Veneziano would have expected him to be less inhibited by grounds of consent, but presumably, his raunchy behavior in meetings was just horseplay, teasing rather than actual depravity.
Such a shame.
It was much more exciting to sit back and watch things roll into place on their own, but if it was necessary, Veneziano could afford to give France a nudge in the right direction.
He leaned over and adjusted Romano’s position so that his body lay slumped against France’s shoulder. “Oh well, I suppose anyone would be like that if they had to work this late at night.” He met France’s questioning gaze with a smile. “Can you hold him? He’s going to get carsick if he keeps bouncing around like that.”
If anything, it should have been Veneziano supporting his brother, but if France found anything odd with the suggestion, he didn’t voice his concern. He did, however, hesitate before slipping his arm around Romano’s shoulders and pulling him close, perhaps expecting one of Romano’s usual headbutts.
Romano’s brow furrowed as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “Nghh…”
“Hush, it’s alright, Romano,” Veneziano whispered. He brushed a few strands of hair from his face, petting his head with the tenderness of a mother cat to a kitten. “We’ll take care of you. Just close your eyes.”
A low chuckle rumbled in France’s throat as he watched the interaction before him. “How sweet. You’ve grown to be so mature. At times it’s easy to forget who here is the older brother. ”
“Romano is a good brother,” Veneziano said quickly.
“Ah—Of course, Italy! I didn’t mean Romano isn’t—”
“He actually tries very hard to be responsible and take care of me, and there are many great things about him. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, it wasn’t my intention to offend—!”
“And he’s beautiful. Don’t you think Romano is beautiful, France?”
“Of course!” France insisted. “Who could deny that? Contrary to what you may think, I always was very fond of dear Romano—even as the stubborn and unpredictable child he was, living under Spain’s rule. If Spain had offered him to me, I would have accepted him in a heartbeat.”
Veneziano raised his eyebrows. “Is he an object to you?”
“No—No!” France tugged Romano close to his chest, as if to prove his sincerity. “That’s not at all what I was implying! Please, had he been mine to raise, I would have genuinely offered the best for him.”
“…Oh.” Veneziano rested his chin in his palm as if actually giving consideration to France’s silly exclamation. “In that case, how would you have taken care of him, say…” he leaned in with a cryptic smile, and fought the urge to burst into giggles “…he had come to you in need of love?”
A light frown graced France’s features as he tried to unwrap the meaning of Veneziano’s words. “I… I wouldn’t allow him to walk away without complete assurance of my adoration,” he decided.
“And if he was at that special age? The age where we all grow curious to know what it really means to love another person. Would you have educated him the same as you did with me?”
“I—I—that was—” France sputtered. “No, absolutely not! You have to understand, Italy, I was different then. We all were! But I would never dare lay a finger on a child that looks to me for protection!”
“So you would deny a child in need of love?” Veneziano sighed and glanced up at the roof. “Aw, France. That was a pretty lame answer. Even Spain has done better than you.”
“S-Spain?” France echoed.
Veneziano nodded, gaze dropping to the motionless body before him. Romano had either returned to sleep, or had been too fatigued to follow along with their conversation. Experimentally, Veneziano slipped his hand over his brother’s thigh. France followed the movement with his pale eyes, throat bobbing as he swallowed. With the same gentleness as before, Veneziano rubbed lazy circles up and down Romano’s inner thigh, and then turned to France with a sly grin. “Hey, France… Do you think I’m a good little brother?”
France swallowed thickly “…I’m certain you care for Romano.”
“Yeah…” Veneziano dragged a hand up Romano’s thigh, eyelids fluttering, sighing softly. France’s hand twitched by his side in speculative mimicry, his resistance as amusing to Veneziano as it was frustrating. “And sometimes, with stubborn and silly people like my brother, you have to do what you know is best for them.”
He reached to the side and wrapped his fingers around France’s hand, giving it a squeeze when the other stiffened. “It’s okay… See?” Carefully, he tugged his hand toward him, guiding it up Romano’s leg. “Mmm…. Doesn’t that feel nice?”
Romano stirred, garbling a weak protest.
France nodded, his lips parted. “This… This isn’t right…”
“What do you mean? Don’t you think Romano likes it?” Veneziano shifted his free hand to Romano’s head. He carded through the strands until he found what he was looking for; at once, Romano shuddered, lips parted in an inaudible gasp.
“Ah!” Veneziano continued, giving the curl a light tug, “And if you think he’s beautiful now, you should see him in bed… writhing under you, twisting and moaning…”
“Italy, we—we shouldn’t…”
“Have you seen him like that, France? He’s really beautiful then. The tears running down his cheeks in pleasure he won’t admit he likes. Ah, and the noises he makes…” He twirled Romano’s curl between his fingers, drawing out a soft moan.
“Please, Italy! I doubt—”
“Doubt what, France?” Veneziano chirped, pressing his nails into France’s arm. “Right now I doubt what you said about taking care of Romano. Don’t you think he needs love—craves it? You’re being cruel by holding it back from him!”
France’s mouth fluttered open and closed like a deflating balloon. “No, I don’t mean to hurt him. I just don’t think this is the right time to—”
“Are you telling me he isn’t good enough? Spain accepted him!” Veneziano took the opportunity to slide France’s hand upward, grazing fingers daringly between Romano’s thighs.
“I…” France swallowed again, and tentatively pried his hand from Veneziano’s grip. His fingers hesitated along the seam of his pants, and then, having made up their mind, slipped under Romano’s shirt.
Veneziano nodded his approval. “This isn’t the first time Romano has been lonely, you know,” he whispered, as France’s fingers danced along Romano’s navel. “The first time I was there, but it was only an accident.”
He gave the curl a sharp tug, coaxing France with Romano’s low whine, though at this point it was hardly necessary; France had already pried open the buttons to Romano’s shirt, and his hands trailed down tanned skin, pausing to tweak a nipple. Romano inhaled sharply.
"I just wanted to visit my brother, and he was staying with Spain.” Veneziano felt his own skin prickle in excitement. “I knew their relationship wasn’t what it used to be, but it still surprised me. They didn’t notice me, and for some reason I couldn’t leave. I liked it, and there’s nothing wrong with that”
“F-France!” Romano gasped.
Veneziano leaned back, a contented smile on his face. “See? He wants you!”
With no more qualms over the situation, France swung his leg over Romano’s lap, biting and sucking at his throat. Romano twisted and gasped, his hands looping around France’s neck and tugging him forward. It was funny how much convincing it took when they were both so clearly impassioned.
Veneziano shook his head, smiling. “The thing is, everyone is so busy these days, and I don’t want Romano to be lonely—I’d feel terrible about that!" His gaze drifted to the window, watching as the hotel grew nearer. "So I appreciate you helping out.”
In the end, France never fulfilled his promise of escorting Romano to his own room. Under the pretense of not knowing Romano’s room number, Veneziano coaxed France to his own room. Though in his frantic and disheveled state, Veneziano suspected France would have followed him anywhere—so long as there was a bed.
And Veneziano’s room was already prepped; the blankets were pulled down invitingly, the lights dimmed, and the lube set by the bedside table—most vital, as Veneziano couldn’t bear the thought of his brother being injured to the point of foregoing future sex.
With the final piece of clothing tossed to the floor, France made his way to the bed, using every bit of the sultry, half-lidded grin he was known for. He crawled over Romano, and Veneziano loved the way Romano squirmed—more flustered than repulsed—when France skimmed his fingers along the hem of his pants, teasing him with faint brushes of skin.
Romano tipped his head back and parted his lips, an invitation which France took. A sharp gasp broke forth as France brushed his lips up Romano’s throat, leaving nips and kisses, harsher and more urgent than usual. The marks would surely last until the next day. Romano, always aggressive, grappled at France’s back, arching as he pulled them impossibly closer. He clawed at his shirt, attempting to tear through the buttons with his clumsy fingers.
With an underbreath chuckle, France closed his hands over Romano’s and brushed them away. But he pried open the buttons too slowly for Romano, who hissed through his teeth and bucked his hips up, trying to rub himself against France’s thigh. He was so impatient, so needy, and it worried Veneziano to think how his brother would have coped without his help.
He hardly needed to stifle his own moans. Already feeling the tightness growing in his pants, Veneziano reached up to caress his curl. Each light brush of his thumb and index finger sent jolts down his spine.
It wasn’t so much the sight before him, but the thought of what was to come when they were both fully hard and horny, and France pushed Romano’s legs apart, deciding he was too incapacitated to top.
Romano was beautiful in sex, but he was even better when he was being fucked.
And even more delightful was the realization that he had been victorious.
Veneziano had made this happen.
With a new fervor, he grappled his hardening member through his pants, rubbing it softly. A low, breathless whine escaped his throat from the combined stimulation from his curl and his cock, and he staggered to lean against the wall as he stroked himself.
He couldn’t get off too quickly—not before Romano came. France had only now managed to pull Romano’s uncooperative arms through the sleeves of his shirt, and after tossing it off to the side, focused his attention on Romano’s erection. France slipped his fingers under the hem of Romano’s pants and stroked him slowly, using his free hand to tug his pants down.
It was amusing how Romano had the decency to flush a furious red, particularly after his previous (and very loud) performance, when the boxers were dragged past his thighs. His cock sprung free, already beading with pre-cum. France let his thumb run over his head, and carried it to his mouth. He wrapped his lips around the digit, meeting Romano’s gaze all the way, and sucked obscenely.
Romano sputtered and pushed himself up by the elbows, craning his head to glare at France, but also allowing Veneziano a full view of his face; flushed, intoxicated with pleasure, but still so characteristically Romano with his pouting lips and scowl.
“G-Get on with it!” he hissed, emphasizing his point by kicking his pants off the side of the bed.
Veneziano giggled. He was just as incorrigibly impatient as Romano, but Romano was always so childishly forceful with what he wanted.
France ran his tongue over his thumb once more before pulling himself up to his knees. He batted Romano’s hands away from his erection, and then reached over his head for the bottle of lube, making a teasing comment too low for Veneziano to hear.
In response, Romano pursed his lips into a taut line and spread his legs apart. Veneziano couldn’t determine whether he was glaring in impatience or mortification; likely both, as Romano had to be desperate to show such obedience.
With his fingers wet and slicked, France eased his way into Romano’s ass. He would never tarnish his reputation as a lover, but his impatience urged him to begin with two fingers rather than one. It was no huge feat for Romano, who accepted the intrusion with only scrunched eyes and a tiny hiss.
They were nations, after all, and Romano was far from inexperienced.
Veneziano regretted having missed hearing Romano’s sob the first time he was taken. He suspected Spain. It should have been Spain, as the only time he had seen them Spain had ravished his brother’s body as if every sensitive area had been burned to his memory.
It was very…routine.
Not at all like France.
Watching Spain fuck his brother didn’t hold the same thrill as watching France tug at Romano's curl with novice fingers, not applying quite the right amount of pressure as he tried to settle the other. (“Relax, dear, relax,” he murmured by Romano’s ear.)
France inserted a third finger, and altered the angle of his wrist. Romano squirmed, but the sharp gasp a moment later told Veneziano he had finally found his prostate. Romano’s fingers curled into the bed sheets.
“F-Fuck, just go—” he slurred.
“Yes, yes…” France breathed. He withdrew his hand and groped for the lube he left discarded on the mattress. This time, he covered the length of his cock with strong, hurried strokes.
France wasn’t the type to fuck someone from behind. Veneziano appreciated that.
His position by the closet allowed him to see every muddled emotion flickering through Romano’s face, and when he tilted his hips up in anticipation, he had a clear view of France’s cock pressing against the tight little hole of his ass.
Romano sucked in his breath, attempting to relax his muscles, though the alcohol helped a bit with that. He closed his eyes and let out a tiny whine as France pushed through the ring of muscle. The first few thrusts were shallow. France readjusted his forearms to better angle himself, dipping his head down, the strands of his hair falling along Romano’s cheek.
Veneziano ran his tongue down the length of his palm, and then reached for his cock. He matched the strokes along his shaft to the rhythm with which France steadily rocked his hips against Romano’s, the strained gasps that escaped Romano’s mouth and mingled with France’s panting. Their lips were centimetres apart, nearly a kiss, but France held himself far enough to stare into Romano’s hazy eyes as he fucked him.
It was artistic. Romano’s lips red and raw, sore from being bitten, his skin hot all over, whereas France was cold, statuesque in his movements. The muscles in his back shifted with each thrust, the veins in his forearms tensed on either side. Romano’s fingers had left the sheets and now dug into France’s back, but judging by the rhythmic moans, neither of them was focusing on the pain.
Romano threw his head back, the tendons in his neck going taut and his lips parted in a soundless scream. Each sharp breath he took wracked his body with shudders, until finally, with France’s next thrust, he clenched his teeth, body jerking, and came over himself.
Red-faced, in a disarray, and covered in the sheen of sweat and his own seed—ah! Veneziano bit hard on his cheek to prevent himself from moaning, though he suspected neither of them would notice, not when Romano was entirely spent and France was so, so close—
Veneziano loved the exposed weakness just as much as the pleasure.
And judging by the tiny whimpers that came from Romano, the forced stimulation was starting to turn uncomfortable. The noises were somehow just as enticing as his cries of pleasure, causing Veneziano’s stomach to twist in a way that wasn’t all unpleasant.
Romano clawed at the sheets only for France to close his hands over his wrists and hold him down, quickening his pace. In an attempt to comfort (or silence) him, France’s lips trailed down the side of Romano’s face, peppering kisses and whispering soft apologies. But when the tears didn’t subside, he pressed his mouth over Romano’s and smothered his sobs with a kiss.
Romano’s eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment Veneziano thought he was simply too exhausted to raise more of a complaint. But, the hands that dug into the mattress had loosened their grip, every muscle in Romano’s body simultaneously going slack, and his head fell back, compliant as France rolled his tongue against motionless lips.
And if anything, France only seemed to buck his hips harder against Romano’s unconscious body.
Veneziano paused. This wasn’t right.
It wasn’t quite Romano without his feisty words and abrasiveness.
And yet, the sight of him reduced to a ragdoll, his expression having been contorted into something lost between pleasure and pain until finally giving way, and his raw vulnerabilities exposed without the armor of his sharp words or frown—
“Ahh,” Veneziano gasped. He inhaled sharply and gripped the wall for support; he couldn’t come yet, not before he saw France finish inside his brother’s ass—
The strand of hair Veneziano had neglected found its way back into his hand, and this time he yanked at it—nearly to the point of painful, biting back his sob—and slipped it between his teeth. He sucked at it and flicked it with his tongue, whining and moaning, both sounds muffled against his clenched teeth.
He winced speculatively at Romano’s pain, shuddered at the memory of his pleasure, and felt the room spin around him.
Before him, France threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut. His groans grew more erratic, animalistic, as if he had lost all sensation of his being. Whatever pleasure he was seeking, it no longer existed in the bedroom, or in the identity of the person pinned under him, whose wrists he clenched hard enough to shatter, if human.
It was purely physical.
France grabbed Romano by the hips and dragged him up, tossing one leg over his shoulder. Veneziano forced his eyes open, even as tears welled up and blurred his vision. France’s hurried, rasping French filled his ears, and he imagined Romano’s sobs singing in tune.
He blinked his eyes rapidly.
France dug his nails into flesh and clutched Romano’s hips hard against his, holding him in place. Veneziano’s hips jerked up in a spasm and he came into his hand, not a second after France’s throaty groan. The wet, sticky warmth covered his hands, but he kept pumping until his cock, hand, and pants were covered in his own mess.
But it pleased him to see he was nowhere as filthy as Romano, who lay sprawled open and exposed on the bed, used, cum dribbling out his hole and between his thighs even as France pulled away.