Destination

[historize]

Title: Destination
Author/Artist: historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/America/England, Australia/New Zealand, Russia, Canada, Italy, Japan, Spain, Korea, China, Belgium--basically, everyone.
Rating: R for sexual implications, C for crack
Warnings: Hahaha, crack. Inspired by this, which is much hotter than it has any right to be.

I almost feel wrong for this. Almost. Posted here.





China was extremely drunk. Which was a rare and truly hilarious sight. Japan wasn’t far behind but he had slumped over his low table and was drawing patterns in spilt sake. Korea was dancing on the stage. Thailand was smoking and playing some kind of stringed instrument—something he called a khim and China kept yelling at him to stop.

Vietnam was practically choking on her drink, she was laughing so hard. “You suck, Thailand! Stop it!”

He pointed one of the sticks at her. “Shut up! You’re drunk!” He started to cough, choking on his cigarette.

“Hey, hey, hey! It’s Spain’s turn on stage! Get off, Korea!”

There was Germany, trying to keep things in some vague semblance of order, though he was slightly drunk himself. He cleared his throat. “C’mon, Korea!”

Korea whooped and jumped into his arms. Germany lost his balance and hit the floor. Italy wailed and ran to help.

No one else noticed.

Spain waved a trumpet as he got on the stage, putting his colorful drink down on the edge. “Romano! C’mon! You come and help me!”

“Fuck you!”

“Mexico!! C’moooon!”

Mexico stood up, slamming back a shot of tequila. “All right, all right. Shut up!” He weaved up to the stage. Somebody gave him a guitar.

“Romano! Come up and play the drums! Pleease!?”

“You dumbass! You’re going to play that damn Santana again?”

“Romano~!”

“You’re too damn drunk!”

“Romano,” France interrupted, waved a hand. “Just get up there.”

Romano squeaked, gave France a stricken look and then scowled. He got up and went to the stage, grumbling the whole way. (He made sure to step on Germany as he went by.)

“I’m going next!”

America did a double-take beside France, pausing with a whiskey sour near his lips. “What?”

England was getting volatile. He sloshed his ale. “I’m next!”

“You can’t. You’re drunk,” France informed him, laughing.

“Bugger off!” he roared. “I can blinking do whatever I blinking feel like!”

America, Australia and New Zealand burst out laughing, all of them sitting at a large, round table with France, England, Canada and formally, Spain and Romano.

“Blinkin’!” echoed America.

“Whatever he blinkin’ feels like!” Australia thumped the table, spilling some of his beer.

New Zealand sipped from a glass of brandy. “You certainly can, England.”

“You’re all so drunk,” Canada sighed.

“You shouldn’t worry,” said Netherlands, leaning over from another table and pushing a joint into Canada’s mouth. “Smoke up. I know you like it~”

“I am!” yelled England. “I! I am!” He sniffed. “Not appreciated anywhere in the world! Because of my former empire!”

“Oh, no,” said France. “Don’t start crying!”

“Shut up! You don’t what it’s like to have your colonies revolt and-and-and-and your empire fall down. You never had one!”

“I did too!”

“Oh, for what, ten years? Before I took it from you? And then I took Canada from you.” He sniffled again.

America leaned over, pushing his glass to England’s lips. “Time for another sip, Iggy, before you say too much.”

“Bloody Alfred. You left me too! You left me first!”

“Hey! Hey! You’re going to go on stage, remember?”

England took a deep drink from America’s glass, his eyes full of wide innocence. “Oh yes! I am! I am!”

Australia was struggling to hold in the laughter. He really was trying. He looked at the floor, watching his koala, Howard, wrestle with Canada’s little polar bear.

New Zealand leaned over, draping an arm around Australia, breathing in his ear, which made him jump.

Spain finished and Romano bolted off the stage, kicking Germany as he went by, who was still on the floor with Korea, for some reason. Mexico helped Spain off.

“All right!” England hollered, jumping from his seat. “I’m going up! S’my turn!” He took off his suit jacket and pushed up his sleeves.

America considered, just for a moment, stopping him and then he looked at France and the two exchanged evil grins and he changed his mind. “What are you going to play?”

“The saxophone!” He was already weaving up to the stage, calling for someone to bring him the instrument.

America looked at France. “Saxophone? He plays the sax?”

France looked just as puzzled. He shrugged. “No…? I don’t think so?”

If Canada wasn’t currently flying to the moon, he could have answered them. If Australia and New Zealand weren’t in the middle of exchanging more than alcohol with their mouths, they might have managed it too. But none of them could.

Someone brought England a saxophone and he stood in the dim lighting and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and undid his tie.

Vietnam whooped. Belgium stood up on her chair, flipping her skirt in Switzerland’s face, which made him blush and look away.

“He’s going to make a fool of himself up there.”

America sniggered. “He is so fucking drunk.”

“It’s almost too good,” said France. “I can’t wait to tell him about it later.” He looked down in his vest pocket to get a cigarette.

America raised his drink to his lips.

England started to play.

Simultaneously, two pairs of blue eyes jerked up. France’s hands paused on his vest and America’s mouth stayed curled around the lip of his glass.


England was fuzzy under the lights, as they seemed to slowly get brighter. The music was fast and there was a heavy bass beat in the background. He didn’t miss a note, rocking his hips, tapping his feet, fingers sliding up and down the keys.

France seemed to forget about his cigarettes.

America’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. The grip on his glass tightened.

Denmark jumped up, hollering and laughing, to the tabletop. Belgium jumped over to join him on his table and they started dancing together, hands in each other’s clothes.

England leaned over, popped up, closed his eyes and arched his back.

America’s eye twitched.

France’s hands left his vest and settled on the table.

England rocked into the air and paused for a breath, tongue creeping out and gliding over his lips.

Hungary was trying to get Austria up, but he refused primly and she stomped her foot, about to make a scene but then Prussia swept in behind her. He winked, grinned at Austria and took Hungary to the dance floor.

Canada was smiling languidly, only looking over when Australia’s chair broke and he and New Zealand tumbled under the table.

Italy had finally gotten Germany away from Korea. Korea ran off to tackle Taiwan. Thailand was dancing with Seychelles. China was happy chatting with a large, stuffed cat.

The Baltic brothers were sitting near Russia and the rest of Eastern Europe. Watching everyone else. Until Poland came up, gave Russia the finger and drug Lithuania away.

Spain jumped up in the pause—barely a second of silence. He got on the stage and offered his trumpet. He and England traded happily. Spain started to play the sax and England took out a handkerchief. He licked the trumpet, tongue sliding up the brass.

America dropped his drink and didn’t notice when it spilled and rolled onto the floor. His mouth fell open. It mirrored the look on France’s face when England stroked the handkerchief over what he’d just licked.

At the same moment, their heads tilted slightly to the right.

England played the trumpet just as well as the saxophone. His put his whole body into it, shuddering under the fuzzy lights. Arching his back, rocking against the air, and the cords in his throat sticking out.

France’s face changed from bewildered to predatory. A grin curled up his face, his shoulders hunched and his fingers curled.

America found a slight catch in his breathing. He could feel his face heating up. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard, glancing aside and spotting France’s expression.

“Francis,” America ground out, low and gruff.

France turned, that smirk becoming a challenge. “Yes, Alfred?”

“You better not be planning to take advantage of him.”

He chuckled. “You already sound breathless, Alfred. Could it be?” He leaned over, reaching between America’s legs and a squeezed. “Oh, my,” he said.

America grabbed him and shoved him off. “St-stop. Don’t. It’s. Nothing. I mean.”

“If you don’t. I will.”

France hooded his eyes. America stared back over his glasses. “I have to. Make sure. He’s. He’s. Okay.”

France recalled giving a similar, predatory smile to America a long time ago. When he had just become independent. “Of course, you must.” His eyes twinkled. “Feel free to join me.”

The flush crawled up America’s face and he looked away, back to the stage. He hadn’t noticed that England and Spain had switched instruments again. Spain was back on the trumpet and England stroked the long length of the saxophone with the handkerchief before licking his lips and starting again.

America bit his lip hard.

Blessedly, England finished not long after. America was up first, jumping on the table and running across it. France threw down his napkin and followed. America reached England first and France arrived a half-second later, gently taking the saxophone from him and shoving it in Spain’s arms.

“You were really good, Arthur. Really, really good.” America was stumbling over his words. “Let’s—let’s go, okay?”

“What?” England said. “Why? Is it last call? Where—“

“Not far, Arthur,” said France, with a slight pant. “Come along.”

“Right, right, fine.”

“Yep, that’s the way. Destination; outside. To the car.”

“Your SUV?” France grunted.

“Yes. The seats fold down.”

“Good boy.”