Countryhumans Oneshots :D

France x Britain (Pt. 2)

[A/N: Yes, this is an extra long "I used it to de-stress", and also "sorry for not updating" fill]

 "Zut alors! What do you want from me?" I finally growl out, struggling against his tight grip on my wrists, which are uncomfortably pinned at face level. The moon and Britain's proximity twist his mask into something cruel and wild. Strangely, he reminds me of a savage faerie, the kinds that are popular in my folk tales.

The country hums to himself in thought, ignoring my futile attempts at escape. Half of his mouth hitches up in a smirk as he settles on an answer, "Everything. But, for now, I'll settle for a dance."

His response startles me, and I can't process the words for a few seconds. When everything clicks, I feel the sudden urge to douse him in cold water, slap him back to reality, "As if!" sniffing disdainfully, I throw his words back at him, "I don't think I will dance with you, thank you very much," I stop struggling and just stand there: there's no need to crush any more flowers than I already have. Besides, Britain will probably leave me alone once he rows tired of my unresponsiveness.

"Actually," my heart leaps in panic as he leans forwards, expression almost sadistic, "You aren't really in the position to refuse. I can make this war far worse than it already is. Now," the taller country grins, face pressed close to mine, "how about a dance?"

Why does he want to dance? He could dance with anyone else. I grit my teeth together in frustration, stiff posture mirroring the action. Bracing myself for any humiliation on the verizon, I capitulate: "Fine," I sigh out, sagging in defeat. Better get this over with sooner rather than later.

Britain makes a self-satisfied noise of agreement before stepping back and loosening his grip on my wrists. He walks us to the centre of the balcony, and I'm only a few steps behind when he suddenly turns towards me and tugs sharply on my arm. Letting out a yelp of surprise, I stumble and almost fall to my knees. Then Britain has a hand on my elbow, roughly dragging me back upright.

I glare daggers at the nose of his mask - eye contact is not something I need right now. After a pause to orient ourselves, we start dancing without a word. My concentration is hyper-focused on every movement as Britain starts to take the beats cut-time, soft music from inside guiding our steps. Stars slip over the silver on his mask as he leads me through twirls (which grow tighter over time in an attempt at control) and lightning quick footwork. Flowers flash in and out of view, along with glimpses of the moon. A breeze makes its way around us, whipped into a strong gust by our rapid movements.

Neither of us say anything, and it's preferable to the barbed conversation from earlier. His hands are less rough now, and they give just the right amount when receiving my waist and passing it off into a different set. I have to draw on some of my ballet skills as Britain stats connecting random sets, straying from the pre-written choreography, weaving a new masterpiece. But this is fine, I enjoy the challenges.

If I wasn't dancing with Britain, I'd tilt my head back and let out peals of laughter: the sensation of this dance coupled with the champagne sparkling through my veins is just ... amazing. Of course, the Empire puts a considerable damper on any enjoyable event, but no matter. If I concentrate on the beauty of tonight and the energy flowing through me, everything else melts away.

Before I register what's happening, the perfect tension in Britain's arms drops, and I find myself falling back into a deep dip. A gasp escapes my lips, but before I can protest, he's smoothly lifted me back up to my feet. Everything stops spinning as he starts swaying slowly, arms firmly encircling my waist. I take a second to catch my breath, before stubbornly placing my palms on his chest to create distance between us. It doesn't work, and I'm squished against his tall frame instead.