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Veneziano and Romano had guests over. This was not too long ago, and Veneziano currently laid in his bed with his face buried in his pillow, on the verge of attempting to smother himself to death.
“Why,” one might ask? Simple.
Everyone was at the dining table. The meal that the brothers had lovingly slaved over was a hit, as expected. Veneziano had been enjoying his food, trying to avoid thinking about the mess still in the kitchen. “Oh, you’ve got some sauce on your face,” France said, and that’s where everything went pear-shaped. One hand on Veneziano’s chin, France gently wiped the tomato sauce from his face.
That was it.
“He can do that himself, weirdo,” Romano sneered. And he wasn’t wrong, but Veneziano’s ability to wipe his own face was the least of his problems right now. Was it just him, or was the room really hot all of the sudden? Why was he suddenly overcome with the need to escape? France was just wiping his face, nothing weird or anything, but what was with this odd feeling? He met France’s gaze, those dazzling sapphire eyes gazing at him, his napkin-clad hand still upon Veneziano’s slightly flushed cheek. Now, if France did that thing where he would wiped the sauce with his thumb and licked it…well, that would be one thing, that was the sort of thing one would expect someone like him to do. But what actually happened? Veneziano’s chin between France’s thumb and index finger? The way France gently wiped the sauce off? The warmth of his hand through the thin napkin? What was that all about?
And that’s how we got here. He could hear the racket downstairs. The clinking of dishes being put away; Germany scolding someone; Romano being mildly irritated; Spain being too easygoing for his own good; Japan being way too quiet to even detect, and France — France — making some smartass comment to someone. His phone vibrated next to him, and he propped his head up to read the message from his brother: “Wash the pots, will you?”
Of course, he thought exasperated. Not at Romano, but at the prospect of going back down there. He didn’t want to go back downstairs, but the pots…he figured he could pop downstairs real quick, wash what he needed to, and come back to his room to continue wallowing.
The stairs creaked under Veneziano’s weight as he descended; as he neared the bottom, his eyes darted towards the living room where everyone else was. He was hoping to get to the kitchen undetected, but he and France made eye contact, unfortunately. Of course that would happen, why wouldn’t it?
He made it a point to keep quiet and do what he needed to. Japan came in to refill the snack bowl (with Romano loudly urging him not to from the living room); Germany came in to get wine glasses; Romano came in to get a bottle of wine from the pantry, patting Veneziano on the shoulder on his way out (unexpected, but welcome). And just as he was drying the last pot, he showed up. “Oh, there you are,” France said, getting a little too close as per usual, “I was wondering where you went!”
Veneziano was fighting for his life to not give in to the urge to run. “Haha, yeah, just cleaning up!”
“You’re such a good, responsible boy, aren’t you? Big Brother likes diligent people like you.”
Oh, how Veneziano hated when France talked to him like that. It wasn’t necessarily in a bad way, but he hated the way he felt so flattered and giddy upon hearing things like that.
“Why don’t you join us? You worked so hard, how about you relax?”
He wanted to lie. Veneziano wanted to lie and say he was tired so badly, but he was never that good of a liar, particularly not for trivial things like this (even though this felt anything but trivial). “I’m finished anyway, so sure!”
And that’s how he found himself on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, seated between France and Romano. His brother’s presence was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing keeping him from losing his mind entirely.
Keyword: Entirely.
The scent of France’s cologne was making his head spin. Just France’s very presence had him consumed by something that felt like fear, perhaps not quite it, but akin to it. He didn’t hate France, he quite liked him, actually. Perhaps too much. Veneziano thought that liking someone this way would mean he’d want to be around them all the time, but right now, he wanted to be anywhere but here. And the more people drank, the more he realized he was in for a long night.
Everyone passed out hours later, in varying degrees of wine-drunkenness. He used the excuse of helping Romano set up the air mattress in the living room to escape from France. Spain invited himself into Romano’s room and Romano, while protesting, wasn’t quite sober enough to do anything about it. Germany and Japan shared the air mattress. That left France on the couch, which made Veneziano feel bad; so bad, in fact, that he found himself saying, “You can share my bed with me, if you want,” without really thinking. And France agreed, of course he agreed.
Veneziano spent his time in the shower mentally kicking himself for that stunt. And he spent some more time doing that while France was in the shower, too. And when France came to the room, when the lights were out, and when they were in bed together, for good measure. His mental self-kicking session sadly wasn’t enough to block out the sound of France absolutely going on and on about how much of a “good, kind boy” he thought Veneziano was for not letting him sleep on the couch when everyone else got a mattress. France was always kind of dramatic like that, but the remaining wine in his system was definitely amplifying that trait. And as always, he was too close. Veneziano’s bed wasn’t very big, but still, too close.
“Aren’t you tired,” Veneziano asked, hoping France would take the hint and go to sleep.
“Hmm, yeah.” France snuggled closer (much to Veneziano’s horror). “You’re so warm.”
“Ahaha, thank you…?”
“Well, then.” And then France kissed him. Not on the forehead or the cheek like he normally would; right on the lips, gently, softly, with a hand cupping the side of Veneziano’s face for emphasis. “Bonne nuit, mon amour!” And he turned around, practically passing out within a few minutes.
Too bad Veneziano couldn’t just pass out within a few minutes like that as well. He stared up at the dark ceiling, unable to sleep, likely to be awake for a while, lying next to the man who, knowingly or otherwise, had been tormenting him since dinner, since he wiped the tomato sauce of his face. Given the terrible heat in his head, Veneziano wouldn’t be surprised if his face was tomato red.
At least France couldn’t wipe that red off his face now.