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It began, as so many things between them did, with a drink or six at Spain's manor out in the middle of no where, surrounded by vineyards and rolling hills.
It was a summer night, the sky clear and filled with stars and a half-darkened moon. They'd turned off all the lights in the house (chasing each other around in the dark and trying to scare each other in the process like they were all very small again) and were sitting on the porch in the dark, drinking wine and enjoying each others' company. It was a hot night, though not the worst they'd ever experienced, but Prussia and Spain had stripped down to shorts and France was wearing a bikini top, shorts and little else nonetheless.
They were all sprawled in the cast iron patio chairs that Prussia had welded together in a fit of boredom one summer a decade or so ago. They were surprisingly well put together, and France said they were almost tasteful, and anyway this house was usually only used by Spain himself, so it wasn't as though it mattered what the chairs looked like.
There were two bottles of wine and two six-packs of imported German beer on the table between them, and Prussia's shoulder bumped France's when he reached for a beer. France shifted in response, her toes wiggling and tickling Spain's arm where she'd flung one leg across his knees. Spain laughed, husky and deep, busy rubbing his own bare foot along Prussia's pale calf under the table. France was just vaguely surprised no one had gone for her cleavage yet. Perhaps they just weren't drunk enough. Yet.
Prussia drained his beer, then slammed the empty bottle hard enough onto the table that France jumped, startled and vaguely surprised that the bottle hadn't broken. It wouldn't have been the first time (nor the last) that a pleasant evening had been ruined by Prussia needing to be carted along to the nearest hospital.
"You know what we need?" Prussia asked, a pale blur in the darkness but red eyes visibly gleaming regardless. He grinned, teeth bright and sharp, and France found herself remembering fondly old battlefields and the clash of slender swords.
"What, amado?" Spain asked, sounding lazy and not quite like he was really listening. He'd shifted his attention, and was busy very slowly running his fingernails over France's ankle where it rested in his lap. She wasn't sure whether to kick him or shift her foot enough to rub against his groin, since that was obviously what he was getting at.
"Uh," Prussia had noticed the same thing, apparently, and frowned, aware he was being left out of the loop. "Something. Music, maybe."
France laughed, shifting around in her chair to lean back against Prussia's shoulder and nudge her head affectionately against his cheek. "Music? Whatever for?"
"...Dunno, just because," Prussia muttered, running a hand down her arm and seemingly pacified that he wasn't being totally left out.
France hummed consideringly, wiggling her toes again, and then pulled her leg out of Spain's lap just to hear him whine. "You're drunk," she said finally to Prussia. "Well. We are all drunk. But you are drunker."
"Duh," Prussia rolled his eyes and reached for another beer, rather than her breasts as she had hoped. "I'm Germanic."
"The only ones worse are the Irish," France agreed, eying him. Then she frowned. "If either of you tell Ireland I said that, I shall never come over for a night like this again."
"That's so cruel!" Spain crooned, reaching for one of the bottles of wine and missing the first time. "It's never as much fun without you here, belleza. What would Gil and I do without you?"
"Get drunkerer," Prussia suggested.
"And do horribly stupid things without my good sense here to stop you," France sighed, fanning her face with one hand.
"Like the time I tried to teach Gil to salsa," Spain nodded, and France's eyebrows rose a little.
"You did? Really? How well did it work?"
"Not very," Prussia groused, draining another beer. "'Tonio kept stepping on my feet."
"I did not!" Spain kicked him under the table and frowned fiercely. "I know how to salsa."
France, seeing opportunity in drunkenness, slipped out of her seat. Prussia and Spain were so busy arguing that they hardly noticed her making her (only slightly unsteady, she knew how to hold her wine) way inside. There was a stereo in the kitchen, and she only had to turn on the light above the oven for a moment to find the CD she wanted. The windows were already open to let the Mediterranean breezes air out the house, so it was only a matter of cranking up the volume and pressing the play button.
She stayed inside for a few minutes longer, taking the opportunity to get a drink that wasn't alcoholic and to tie up her hair (really, if she was going to stay further south than Nice much longer she'd really have to get it cut, she hated the feeling of so much sweat down the back of her scalp and neck). By the time she wandered back out onto the patio, glass of water in hand, Prussia and Spain were doing exactly what she had expected them to do, after several hundred years of learning their patterns of behavior and the male mind in general.
Amused, France leaned back against the wall (thankful for the cool stucco against her shoulder blades) and watched. Thanks to the salsa music drifting out of the house kicking their alcohol-impaired brains, Prussia and Spain were trying to dance. True to Spain's word, it was not going well.
This was probably due to several different factors. For one thing, it was still quite dark, and they kept tripping over nothing and yelping as they grazed knees and stubbed toes into various flower boxes and pieces of furniture and, once, the wall of the house. In addition, they couldn't seem to decide who would lead (a common problem, France had found, among male-male dance pairings. She didn't see why it was so difficult. She had never had any problems letting Hungary lead when they decided to dance). They were arguing about it, even while they twisted around each other in a cruel, cruel deconstruction of what might have been, if one tilted their head and squinted, possibly called something like a salsa.
France, it turned out, had gotten her timing just right, because just when it looked like Spain and Prussia would go from attempting to dance to attempting to claw each other's throats out, the song ended and the CD skipped to the next track.
This song was not a salsa, and the two men blundered to a halt as they blinked at each other in confusion. France set her glass of water down on the windowsill, then smoothly stepped over. She took Prussia by the shoulders, pulled him back, and firmly pushed him down into a chair before she turned back to Spain, eyes half-lidded. "Shall we show him how it's done?" she purred.
Spain stared at her open-mouthed for a moment, and then he grinned, brilliant and bright and a little sharp in a way that made her mouth go a little dry. He reached out to grab her, a little rough, but she forgave him. It had been years, decades since they'd danced like this, and she realized suddenly how much she'd missed it as the spun away across the patio, only barely avoiding iron furniture as they twisted and rocked in a rusty but serviceable paso doble. They'd learned years and years, hundreds of years ago, back when they'd been at war but had still been forced to attend balls together (no thanks to Austria, snotty bastard that he was sometimes).
They'd been vicious, then. Smiling at each other while they danced with the sharp promise of death on the battlefield; all gleaming eyes and grabbing hands. More than once France had undressed later to find bruises on her arms and hips, but she gave at least as good as she got and on one occasion Spain had even walked away from the dance floor with a dramatically black eye. France half remembered once having a very intense wet dream involving dancing the paso doble with Spain with a knife in each hand. But now, now they were just passionate, heated skin rubbing as they spun and pulled and pushed. France realized distantly that her chest was heaving as she tried to suck in air.
Dancing was always something that she had enjoyed; whether it was the paso doble with Spain, a competitive foxtrot with England wherein they subtly tried to kick each other off balance, a Viennese waltz with Hungary while both of them smirked at the male Nations drooling, or a quiet waltz with Canada while the poor boy tried not to stare at her chest.
In dancing, she could let go, be a little more than herself, let the music guide her and fill her. It was like sex, but spiritual rather than physical. For the most part. Usually.
She hardly noticed when the music ended, except that Spain pulled her suddenly much closer, pressing his face into her hair. She slid her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. She had a sad sense that he was too drunk for sex tonight. Ah well, it would be a sad day indeed when France lost the ability to take care of her own needs. "Come on," she murmured softly, running gentle fingers through Spain's curls. "Bedtime for you. Prussia can sleep out here, since I believe he already is."
Spain nodded against her hair, and indeed when France pulled away from him and turned, Prussia was passed out and snoring in the chair she'd pushed him into. She shook her head, lips turning up in fondness, and her smile widened when Spain leaned heavily against her shoulder.
It was a shame, really, that they didn't get more nights like this. She supposed they would just have to make the most of them when they did manage to find a night together.
She wondered, as she guided Spain inside and up to his bedroom, if Spain still remembered the old balls they'd attended together.
Something in his drowsy gaze as she tucked him into bed and then crawled in beside him, something about the way he rolled toward her, caressed her hair and pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, something about the way he soothed a hand gently, tenderly along her hipbone, made her think that he did.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, and smiled as she fell asleep.