N'Oublier Jamais

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya, and I do not gain any profit from this little bit of fanfiction.

A/N: My first Hetalia fic, woohoo~ And yeah, it's late. ^^; This is intended for the Entente Cordiale*, which had its 106th anniversary on April 8th. Historical notes are at the bottom.

I really should be working on Duplicity, but I haven't had any urge to work on it, and when I found out what the 8th was I was like OMG MUST DO SOMETHING...and so I did. XD Enjoy this limey-lemon.

Warnings: Lemons ahead, so 18 and up plzkthnx. :D

N'Oublier Jamais

.~.~.~.~.

Of course he had forgotten. It was rather predictable, really; that stupid frog was probably out gallivanting about, seducing men and woman alike, or however else he spent his Thursday nights. England wouldn't put it past him to forget today of all days. It wasn't like it was all that important really—just the 106th anniversary of their alliance or something. Who cared? It was just a little agreement over a century ago that they would stop trying to kill each other, after all. Not that important or anything.

He wasn't upset. It was just as well—maybe finally he could have a peaceful evening for once, one spent catching up on his embroidery with a nice cup of tea or a scotch or two.

Or five or six as it turned out, as he soon found the bottle mostly drained and his mind fuzzy before the night really even began.

It was entirely that stupid frog's fault. He was going to have to teach him a lesson tomorrow about using calendars—and not the kind that were secretly documents for marriage. Frustrated as he pricked his finger for probably the fiftieth time that evening, he finally accepted his current lack of coordination and put his embroidery down and flicked on the television.

Finding nothing even remotely interesting—it seemed it was a night for America's idiotic reality shows—he flicked the tv back off with a despondent sigh. Maybe he should just go to bed…if he stayed up he would probably just drink until he passed out on the couch, and the mornings after that were never pleasant. Chewing out the Frenchman would be much more enjoyable if he didn't have a migraine the size of the rest of Europe the next morning.

He stumbled up the stairs, letting out a long string of curses when he missed a step and nearly fell. Letting himself into his bedroom and closing the door, he changed with mechanical, distracted movements and crawled into bed, curling up under the duvet.

It wasn't really fair. They always spent this day together, for the past 105 years. It was practically tradition. And now he seemed to have forgotten. Which, really, considering what usually happened every year, it was unusual, but maybe France found someone else more interesting. …Anyway, what did he care? It was not like he wanted him…

He could have called him, asked him where he was and why he wasn't here, but that would have sounded like he missed him or something, and that was definitely not the case. He would never miss that perverted frog.

Okay, maybe he missed him a little. And maybe he was a little hurt that he hadn't even gotten so much as a phone call from the man, he deserved at least a few minutes to say hello and 'happy anniversary', didn't he? He was practically a saint for having dealt with France and his wandering hands without strangling him to death for the past century; he deserved some sort of recognition! France knew he would never call him himself…

England let out another strained sigh, burying his face into the pillows. Screw France, he didn't need him. Ignoring the tightening in his throat, he took a deep breath and attempted to drift off to sleep. Belt up, he told himself. It's not like that bastard is your oldest friend and rival and means anything to you anyway. He's just a wine sipping, cheese eating pervert.

Denial was a much better companion than loneliness.

.~.~.~.~.

If England had fallen asleep, he swore it had only been for a few seconds. Glancing morosely at the clock on his bedside table, he was proven nearly correct: it had only been an hour since he had crawled into bed.

Considering he was still a little fuzzy from overdoing it on the drinking, he thought this a bit odd—usually he was near impossible to wake up when he was drunk. What possibly could have woken him up?

Just then, there was a loud creak behind him, in the direction of his bedroom door. He stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. Someone was in the house, and right outside his bedroom door! Tensing more as the floorboards creaked again, he turned as subtly as he could so he could see the door, ready to lash out at whoever decided to try and come in. Sure enough, the door opened slowly and silently, and in stepped a tall figure. He couldn't distinguish any features on the person due to the darkness—although he definitely looked like a man—but since his stance was relaxed, he figured he couldn't see him well either. He didn't seem to know that he was awake.

The figure approached the bed slowly, probably trying not to cause too much of a disturbance, and England tensed, preparing to lash out when the moonlight peeked through the clouds, casting the figure in pale light.

"F-Francis?!" England gasped, sitting up slightly in his bed, ignoring the way his heart jumped up in his chest at seeing him. France froze, long wavy blond locks glinting like gold in the moonlight, before straightening his posture and grinning, trying to put on his best innocent face.

"Ah, good evening, mon ami. I apologize; I didn't mean to startle you."

England's eyes narrowed, bushy eyebrows cinching together. "You didn't mean to startle me? Then what the bloody hell are you doing creeping into my bedroom in the middle of the night?! What are you doing here, anyway?" Where the hell have you been?

"Now, Angelterre, it's hardly the middle of the night; it's only half past ten. And since you decided to go to sleep before I could get here, I wanted to at least say goodnight…" he purred, leaning over England with a wicked smile that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

He retaliated by throwing a pillow in the Frenchman's face, who made a small 'oof' sound, and rolling over so his back was to him. "Fuck you. A phone call would have been fine, instead of breaking into my house. Now get out, I'm trying to sleep."

France's smile softened slightly before twisting into a sly smirk as he put the pillow back on the bed, leaning over so his face was just a small breadth's away from the shell of England's ear, hot breath tickling him slightly. Years of experience dealing with the man had taught him well how to tell when England really didn't want him around or when he was just being prideful and difficult. "But then I wouldn't be able to do this, mon petit lapin…" he whispered, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to the top of the Englishman's head. "Happy anniversary, Arthur."

England turned his head slightly, glancing back at France, green eyes glinting like emeralds in the moonlight. He really did remember. His heart was fluttering traitorously-lightly in his chest as he mumbled, "I… I thought you had f-forgotten."

France laughed lightly, soft and breathy. "Forget? Really, Angelterre," he gave him a rare warm smile, "forgetting you is completely impossible."

England only nodded slightly, not able to help the small smile that curled his lips. "Damn right." Relief welled up in his chest—he wasn't forgotten, not on this special day, not by the only man he could call an enemy, a friend, and a lover in the same breath. And when France crawled onto the bed and kissed him, he let him, reaching up and curling his fingers in his hair, soft as silk, pulling him closer. He gasped when France nibbled at his lip, prompting the blond to chuckle lightly. "Been drinking, have we? I can taste it on you…" he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. England shivered when the stubble on the Frenchman's face brushed his skin, tickling and burning at the same time. He always liked that feeling, even though he denied it by constantly telling the Frenchman how unkempt it made him look.

"S-Shut up, you." He squirmed a little when France's hands ran down his chest, tracing around the buttons of his nightshirt before moving back up and beginning to unbutton them. "Like you have any right to talk, you always taste like wine…"

"Ahh, true, mon cher." He glanced up at him, blue eyes glinting with mischief up at England, before turning his attention to the now-revealed expanse of England's chest; kissing and licking a tender trail down to his navel as England watched with fascination. His touches were sensual, loving even; sending little pleasant tingles through his whole body with every caress. He bit back a moan when that hot mouth of his traveled back up to play with a nipple, involuntarily arching into the sensation.

"F-Francis…" England gasped when France teased the nub lightly with his teeth, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine to swirl in his abdomen. His breathing picked up, hands clenching in the fabric of the back of France's shirt when he let the nipple go, moving on to the neglected one with a slow lick.

More. He wanted more from France, his France, more than just these tender touches. It didn't suit them to be so tender to each other, even in times when comfort was what they needed the most. After a moment he gripped him by the hair, forcibly pulling him up for a heated kiss. France responded eagerly, nipping and sucking and biting right back, a low groan pulling itself from his throat when England pulled him down on him, rubbing their crotches together. He ground down with no restraint, pulling a few moans from the Englishman himself.

England made quick work of the buttons of France's shirt, fingers still nimble despite his slight inebriation, and France shook it off his shoulders, tossing it to the floor. Again their lips locked, all teeth and tongue as each battled for control over the other, neither willing to back down. Despite a hundred and six years of relative peace between the two, they were still rivals, still enemies, and neither wanted to show weakness to the other, to be dominated by the other.

Showing the other any weakness would never be forgiven. One was not allowed to fall without the other's consent, without the other being the cause.

Then they'd be there to pick up the pieces, to build the other up again, and repeat the process. A never-ending cycle of destruction and reconstruction, of love and hate. They wouldn't have it any other way.

The duvet was pulled off and pushed out of the way, pants and socks and underwear discarded until they were naked as the day they came into being, and then they were on each other again, bruising grips combined with tender caresses as the sounds of their lovemaking echoed around the room. Skin sliding against skin, the smacking of lips, light, breathy moans as they pulled each other further into the throes of desire with every touch. Kisses grew more heated and desperate, tongues sliding roughly against each other; hands stroked each other's bodies until neither of them could stand the pressure coiling low in their abdomens, begging for release.

There was a click of a bottle being opened and closed, and slicked fingers found their way to England's entrance, poking and prodding teasingly at the quivering ring of muscle. England growled low in his throat, biting down on France's shoulder—hard enough to leave an angry mark, but not to make him bleed. It was a warning, telling France that he still was in control, despite being the one on the bottom. France wasn't getting anything out of him unless England wanted to let him. France hissed, pushing his index finger in with more force than was strictly necessary in retaliation, making England cry out.

"Fucking…bastard…frog…" England grunted against his neck, blunt nails digging into the Frenchman's shoulder blade, but he did nothing else as France added a second finger before pulling back to give him a cheeky grin.

"You started it, rosbif," he said as he started to scissor and thrust them inside him, and England only managed a half-hearted glare before France hit just that right spot.

"F-Fuck…" England groaned as sparks of color danced across his vision, blurring the image of France above him, long wavy hair mussed, lust darkening those sinfully blue eyes. France moaned when England clenched down on his fingers, eagerly anticipating being buried in the tight heat his fingers were currently occupying. He pressed a third finger in, and probably a little too quickly—England grunted in discomfort below him, digging his fingers painfully into his back again. But the discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure when France spread his fingers out, brushing against his sweet spot again, and soon England was panting in his grasp, rolling his hips around his fingers, trying his hardest to get France to touch it again and again.

Soon, too soon, the fingers were gone, and England just barely had the clarity of thought to bite back the whine that threatened to spill forth—he didn't want France to know just how desperate he was for his touch, for some release. The bottle of lubricant was in France's hands again, and England watched as he squirted some out into his hand before closing the bottle and throwing it off to the side. A shiver went up the Frenchman's spine when he slicked himself down, both from the chill and in anticipation, and he positioned himself between England's legs, the tip of his penis just touching his entrance.

A quick nod was all he needed before he pressed himself inside until he was buried to his balls, groaning into England's mouth when he smashed their lips together into a bruising kiss. England twitched and trembled around him, muscles protesting the intrusion with soft flutters and hard contractions, threatening to push the Frenchman over the edge.

He'd had sex with many; both human and nation alike, but he always preferred sex with England. England could drive him crazy like no other. He would never admit it aloud, but it was true.

Breaking the kiss to breathe, England took in a deep breath as France moaned headily in his ear, muttering incoherently in French. "Move," he ordered, and France saw no reason to disobey him, pulling out before slamming himself back in. Again and again, France pulled in and out, moving slightly each time to find that special spot that would turn England into a wild panting puddle of mush in his arms, grinding wantonly against him. With practiced ease he found it, England shouting his appreciation, fingers curling and uncurling in pleasure around his neck.

Again and again France hit his prostate dead on, wiping England's mind of all coherent thought except the Frenchman above him and the pleasure rocking through his body like the ocean batters a ship in a storm. This storm increased in ferocity when France curled his hand around his dripping erection, calloused but still soft fingers teasing the tip before pumping up and down in time with his thrusts.

"Aahn… Arthur…" moaned France, his movements gradually growing more erratic and desperate as he pushed further into oblivion, England clenching down on him with every thrust, driving closer and closer to the edge. But he was determined to make England come first, part out of pride and part as apology for his tardiness, for making England think that he could ever forget his oldest friend and enemy. Not on such a day.

Because that was well and truly impossible. An agreement that turned millennia of hate into a century of relatively peaceful co-existence and friendship—if you could call it that, anyway—wasn't something to be taken so lightly.

France plunged himself as hard as he could into England, earning him a hoarse cry as England came, clenching wonderfully tightly around him as he spurted into his hand and onto their stomachs. "Francis!"

Hearing his name cried out so hotly into his ear was more than enough to finally drive France over the edge, and he came with a shudder inside England, riding out his orgasm with a few more thrusts as England writhed under him, shaking with pleasure as well. In a sweaty heap they collapsed together, breathing heavily as they came down from their highs. France nuzzled affectionately against England, who snorted, but let him anyway, running his fingers through the Frenchman's hair. He was entirely too tired to do anything about it, and he had to admit it kind of felt nice to feel his weight against him, anchoring him down.

France always was the one anchoring him down, preventing his ego from soaring too high by taking him down a few notches when he needed it. They kept each other in check.

"Happy 106th anniversary of the Entente Cordiale, mon lapin belle," France whispered against his shoulder, trailing a hand down his chest. England colored slightly at the compliment, before twining his fingers with the hand on his chest with a sigh.

"Happy anniversary, frog."

Never forget.

.~.~.~.~.

*Historical Notes: The Entente Cordiale was a series of agreements signed on April 8th, 1904, between the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and the French Republic. It managed to settle disagreements between the two countries about their colonies in North America, Africa, and Asia; and began the (relatively) peaceful co-existence that the two have had together to this day. (This is ignoring a couple of incidents, of course, the biggest being during World War II; but those were considered necessary because of the circumstances by the British and France really didn't have much say in the matter at the time.) This ended just about a millennium of wars with small periods of peace between the two. Considering both the countries reached the peak of their empires of the time under the agreement, you can see how influential it is. These guys really do work better working together rather than against each other. :)

Anyway… I hope that you enjoyed this, and thanks for reading! I'm also terribly sorry it was so late… I really shouldn't try and write something after finding out the day of. XD; It never works out.

Edit: I received a correction on the title where this is posted on FFN this morning, because I am full of fail and do not know any French except what I've picked up from the internet. ^^; Damn you online translators for giving me something wrong. D: Oh well. :) So anyway, I edited it to reflect the change.