#it'll be a comedy watching them try to keep it a secret that they're dating

[anotherfanaccount]

This being one of the pics for the upcoming episode

I'm crying. They really said you thought Eun Ho won't have anyone to care for him. Here you go. Our girlboss is a tsundere. And so in love.

[kiir-bee]

The Europenor Party

Summary: Since the UK is leaving the European Union, the Bad Touch Trio decides to throw a farewell party. One-shot.

Pairing: mainly FrUK; Spamano and PruCan; mentions of some others

Rating: T

Warnings:  —

Words: ~4600

Read on:

Fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12426825/1/The-Europenor-Party

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510398

AN:  I came up with this fanfic while watching a Spanish comedy news broadcast called El Intermedio; they were talking about Brexit, and the presenter said that Europe should throw a Europenor party for the UK, and since I've sold my soul to Hetalia, well, I wrote this :P I don't know what my original intention was, but it certainly wasn't to write about FrUK. It just happened ._. Still, I'm happy with the result, even though I feel it's a little rushed. *shrug* You're the ones who have to judge.

The Europenor Party

England always has a hard time deciding which member of the Bad Touch Trio he despises the most.

There's Prussia, who's loud and obnoxious and has an ego that matches America's; not to mention, he had the nerve to date his sweet, little Canada! He hasn't done anything about it because Matt claims to be happy with him (which he can't understand), but he patiently waits for the moment Gilbert messes it up. It'll be the perfect excuse to break his face.

Then there's Spain, who's unnervingly happy and has the bad habit of trying to get Gibraltar back at all times. He has learnt to shut him up by bringing up the Invincible Armada or Trafalgar, and is glad Antonio rarely replies by bringing up Blas de Lezo. Deep down, what he's most glad for is that Antonio's temper needs more than that to be triggered.

And then there's France, who's… Well, France. A magnificent asshole, that's what he is. He doesn't say this to him because the one time he did, Francis replied that, if he really hates him that much, why does he keep sleeping with him on a regular basis?; and that's a question he never wants to face again. He's not sure he has an answer.

To sum up: he can't stand Prussia, doesn't get along with Spain, and has a complicated relationship with France.

So why the heck are they throwing a party for him?

It's been France's idea, and since neither Spain nor Prussia have done a single thing to stop him, all three of them are to be blamed. Shocking.

It's not a secret that they love partying. Spain always proudly proclaims himself "Europe's Party Capital", and nobody can really deny it — not when all of them have gotten extremely drunk at least once in Ibiza.

It's not a secret that they aren't precisely modest or quiet. Prussia is particularly loud, and he always makes sure to let everyone know just how awesome they are.

It's not a secret that they're natural jokers. France, although not officially, is the brain behind most of their pranks, which is why, even though there are many nations that have suffered them, no one comes close to the hell they put England through.

None of those things is a secret, which is why nobody is too surprised when, after a meeting, the self-named Bad Touch Trio stands up and invites them all to England's Europenor party.

Everyone agrees, because they've heard the word 'party' and: a) they're sick of everything and need to unwind; and b) a party organized by those three can only be labelled as, to quote a certain albino, awesome. Still, there's a question in everyone's head, and it's England himself who puts it into words:

"What the bloody hell is a 'Europenor party'?"

"Oh, you know," France smiles, charming. "It's like a bachelor party…"

"… only that instead of saying goodbye to being single…" Spain continues, grinning widely.

"… you say goodbye to being in the European Union," Prussia finishes, smirking.

The party is supposed to be exclusively for members of the EU, but many other European nations have managed to sneak in, so in the end practically the entire continent is in there. Also, despite France and Spain telling him not to, Prussia has sneaked in Canada, too, his argument being that nobody is going to notice him anyway. That's why there's much more people than expected, and England is pissed off (and slightly anxious) when he finally arrives.

"Too many fucking people," he grunts. "And I bet only half of them like me."

"That's not true, little brother," Scotland says, patting his back. Then he looks at him maliciously and adds: "No one in this room likes you."

England glares at him. For a moment, he's been foolish enough to believe that his brother was actually supporting him, which is stupid because usually they don't get along, and nowadays even less. He doubts he'll ever forget all that Scotland yelled at him after the result of the referendum.

"I don't know what I'm doing here, then," he mumbles.

Just then, he hears two childish voices calling his name; and the next moment there are two pairs of slim arms around his waist. Surprised, he looks down to meet two gazes, one blue and the other green, accompanied by bright smiles.

"What the—?!" he yells, catching himself before saying the 'f' word. He takes a deep breath and starts again, calmer. "What are you two doing here?"

"Spain said I could come," Gibraltar answers, and England takes a quick mental note to have a chat with the Spaniard about getting too close to his kid. "He thought I may be bored, though," Gibraltar goes on, "so he invited Sealand so I have someone to play with."

"I was going to come anyway, because Sweden and Finland have come too," Sealand adds.

"I see."

It takes him three minutes to find Spain, and the other clearly senses he's not coming in peace, for he barricades behind France and Prussia and shoots him an apologetic smile. England frowns and tries to reach him, but he keeps avoiding him, his friends not moving an inch and remaining between them. To make things worse, France suddenly grabs him, smoothly sliding one arm around his shoulders, and tries to kiss him once, and again, and again. Too busy turning his head so that France's kisses land on his cheek and not on his lips, England gives up on catching Spain and giving him a well-earned slap. Instead, he glares at him and hisses:

"Why are Gibraltar and Sealand here?"

"Because they deserve to have some fun," Spain shrugs. "You're going to drag my poor kid out of the EU—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," England interrupts him. "Did I hear you say 'my kid' while talking about Gibraltar?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well, last time I checked, he's still British territory!"

"For now. Last time I checked, he massively voted against Brexit," Spain retorts, smug.

England's glare intensifies, and his voice gets lower and more menacing. "I'd die before letting you have him again."

Spain narrows his eyes, returning the glare. "Funny. I'd gladly kill you to have him back."

They stay like that for a while, completely still, their gazes never leaving each other. They look like two lions ready to pounce and slit the other's throat. Thankfully, before anyone decides to attack, Prussia and Canada walk in the middle, making them break eye contact, just as Romano drags Spain away and France does the same with England.

Killing each other over a rock will have to wait.

"Arthur, chéri, I really can't understand why you must always fight with Toni over Gibraltar," France says as he drags England away from Spain. "I won't deny that Alex is a sweet kid, but don't you think you're taking it a bit too far?"

"It's him the one who won't accept Gibraltar's no longer his," he grunts.

France rolls his eyes and decides to stop talking before he becomes the target of England's bad mood. Not letting him go, because he wants to make sure he's not going to go back to fight Spain (and, why lie, because he loves being so close to him), he makes his way to the far end of the big room where the party's taking place. That's where the drinks are displayed. The Frenchman pours himself a glass of wine, and doesn't need to ask what his companion wants and immediately serves him an ale.

England thanks him, albeit quietly, and downs it all at once.

"Take it easy," France laughs. "Or you won't be able to stand on your feet for the whole night."

"Who says I want to?"

"Well, it's your Europenor party!"

"It's a stupid party, that's what it is," England replies, ignoring the offended gasp his words provoke. "I'd like it better if it were an actual bachelor party. At least there'd be a stripper."

"Ah, chéri," France chuckles, mischievous, "don't give me ideas."

For his own sanity, England decides to ignore those words and the very suggestive picture his mind has come up with after hearing them. He keeps drinking in silence until France leans close to him and whispers in his ear:

"Do you want to have some fun?"

His first reaction is to slap him away. France laughs, rubbing his reddening cheek, and shakes his head.

"I'm not talking about that, you idiot!" Without giving him a moment to do or say anything, he grabs his hand and drags him away. "Come with me. It'll be fun, you'll see."

England follows him, since he doesn't really have another choice. Besides, now he's curious to see what France has up his sleeve. For once, as far as he knows, he's not on the receiving end of his pranks.

They sneak out of the main room and go upstairs, to a much smaller room, from where they can see the dance floor. A soft smile grows on England's face as he looks down to all the other nations. He easily spots Prussia, whose white hair stands out against the dark floor; he's in a corner, calmly chatting with Canada. (England never though he'd actually use the word 'calm' to describe Prussia. It seems the albino behaves very different with him than with Canada.) He needs to look carefully to find Gibraltar and Sealand: they're next to the food, talking and laughing, and holding a couple of glasses that England hopes are filled with nothing more than soda. There are a few couples dancing: there's Austria and Hungary, Sweden and Finland, Italy and Germany, even Denmark and Norway. However, all of them are clearly outshined by Spain and Romano. Those two own the dance floor: they twirl and turn and jump and clap their hands and move their hips in a tantalizing way. It's a sight that makes England wish he had the ability to dance without having to get drunk beforehand.

"Like the sight?" France asks behind him.

England flinches —he had forgotten he wasn't alone— before shrugging, nonchalant. "Not bad," he answers. "But you promised something fun."

"Indeed."

He makes him turn and that's when England sees they're in the control room. They can change the lights and music at their will. He blinks a few times before smirking. France was right: this is going to be so much fun.

Their first target are Sweden and Finland, who dance together, slowly. Aren't they adorable? England thinks just as, when the music is at its calmest moment, France presses a button and ABBA's Dancing Queen starts playing.

The effect is immediate: Sweden raises his head, resembling a dog that's heard its master's voice, his eyes widen, and a small, almost imperceptible smile appears on his always severe face.

And then he drags Finland to the middle of the dance floor —pushing Spain and Romano out of the way—, where he starts to dance to the song —his song— and makes everyone have a flashback of the 70's.

The music changes abruptly once again, and England and France begin to laugh hysterically when a very excited Spain pushes away a confused Sweden and starts to dance to Macarena. They assume Romano is a bit more than tipsy when they see him dance next to the Spaniard, which surprises everyone. England's not as amused when Gibraltar joins them; France notices this and is quick to change the song again.

They keep doing it for a while, randomly changing the music and laughing at the clear confusion on everyone's faces. England briefly thinks that he now understands why the BTT is always pranking everyone — this is so much fun! Although the pranks they pull on me aren't always this harmless.

"I think that's enough," France says, pulling him out of his thoughts. He sets the music to random again and walks away from the controls; then he looks at England and smiles. "Did you have fun?"

"Not at all," England replies, and both know he's lying.

"Really?" France asks, deciding to play along. "I could've sworn your eyes are sparkling."

"They're tears of boredom."

"And you're smiling."

"Only because I'm being considerate and I don't want to hurt your feelings. I can stop whenever I want."

"Then stop, please."

Just as he expected, England keeps trying to frown, but the smile always returns to his lips, and it gets bigger each time. He ends up covering his mouth with his hands, making France laugh.

"Did you know you're adorable?"

"Shut up, frog."

France complies and they fall silent. There's not much that needs to be said; not when they can read everything on each other's eyes. Time passes —minutes or hours, they can't tell— until they finally break the eye contact.

England is about to suggest going back down when a new song starts playing. It's a ballad, slow and calm. It invites lovers to get close and dance together. Indeed, he can see the dance floor has been invaded by couples; the ones that were before and some new, like Prussia and Canada or Italy and Germany. France coughs to get his attention and, when he turns, he sees he's reaching for him in a clear invitation for a dance. Embarrassed (and not even knowing why), England shakes his head and looks away.

"No one's watching," France says softly, understanding.

England looks at him again and hesitates for a moment before taking his hand. For a moment, it looks like the Frenchman's eyes are brighter. It makes his heart skip a beat. Deep down he must admit that, when he's not being a dick, France can be breathtakingly beautiful.

They begin to move at the slow rhythm of the song. England misses his pace a couple of times and steps on France more than once; it makes his partner chuckle lightly.

"Stop laughing at me," he mumbles.

"I'm not laughing at you, chéri. I'm just laughing because I'm happy."

"And because I can't dance."

"Maybe…"

"The fault is yours. You're awful at leading."

"Must be that, yes." He rolls his eyes and blows on England's face, earning an annoyed look. "It's never your fault." Without giving him a chance to reply, he twists him under his arm to later press their bodies together, fully knowing that the other's too surprised by the previous action to react. "You hate not being in control, don't you?" he whispers directly to his ear.

To his surprise, England's response is pressing even closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder and hugging him tighter with the arm on his shoulders. France considers himself fortunate: he doubts England allows many people to see him this open and vulnerable.

They dance in silence to the rest of the song, barely aware of anything that isn't each other's presence. When it ends, France leans to kiss him, and there's nothing England can (nor wants to) do besides kissing back.

It's over a bit too soon to France's liking, but he doesn't complain or let it show in any way. He just smiles fondly at England and presses one light kiss to his fingers before he pulls completely away.

"We should go back down," England mutters. "They may miss us."

None of them really believes that. Despite this, France nods and guides them back to the main room, where they go their separate ways.

"There you are, Francis!" Spain exclaims happily. "Where were you?"

"Looking around. Are you aware that there's an Italian on your neck?"

Spain laughs and pats Romano's head, who has indeed hooked his arms around Spain's neck and doesn't seem to want to let go. "Yes, yes, I'm aware," he chuckles. "I think Lovi has had way too much to drink." He has an arm around the Italian's waist, which is what's actually supporting him. He tightens his grip and gives France a mischievous smile. "Not that I'm complaining."

Romano groans something that France can't understand —but that he's pretty sure was 'bastard'— and straightens so he's eye-to-eye with Spain; without any warning, he smacks their lips together and kisses him without any hint of shame. Spain, because he's Spain, doesn't waste a second and immediately kisses back.

Such a subtle way of telling me to fuck off, France thinks as he retreats.

He spots Prussia and Canada and goes talk to them. They're both tipsy, and are chatting and laughing together. France can't help but think that they're a great couple. (So what if he tried to kill Prussia when he found out he was dating his little boy. So what.) They greet him happily when he reaches them; Prussia pats his back with more strength than necessary and makes him lose his balance.

"I was just telling Matt about that one time Toni, you and I broke into England's house and left a fake horse head in his bed."

"Oh, that was hilarious!" France laughs. "I'll never forget how much he screamed."

"Why did you do that, though?" Canada asks, even though he's laughing too.

"Because, mon petit," France answers dramatically, "pranking Arthur is one of the funniest things this world has to offer."

"Gil said he electrified his fence after that incident."

"Yes. Has he also told you how he found out he had done that?" France smirks, loving the way Prussia shudders at the memory.

Canada bursts out laughing and Prussia hangs his head in defeat. Knowing he'd better leave his friend to fix his shattered pride, France leaves the couple discretely.

Once again, he's alone in the middle of a lot of people.

There are many groups of nations who talk and laugh and dance, but he doesn't feel like randomly incorporating to one of those. He looks around, maybe hoping to see that Romano has stopped making love to Spain's mouth —to his utter disappointment, not only he hasn't, but he also seems to be taking things to the next level—, or simply hoping to see someone as lonely as he is.

Luck doesn't seem to be on his side. He sighs and makes his way to the bathroom. He needs to splash his face. However, all thoughts leave his mind the moment he walks into the restroom and meets England, leaning against the wall, completely alone.

"Hi," he says, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

England shrugs. "I needed a moment by myself."

"I can leave, if you want."

"No," he almost pleads, quickly. "Don't go."

Everything stops for a moment, and the next thing they're aware of is the taste of each other's lips. France doesn't know how he's gotten to England's side so fast; maybe the other has moved towards him, too. He doesn't know, nor does he care. All that matters right now is that he's kissing England and England is kissing him back and it's passionate and desperate and what's gotten into them? They don't usually lose control this easily, much less when there's a high chance of being caught.

It ends as abruptly as it's started. England pulls away, although remains close to France; actually, he hugs him tightly. All France can do is return the hug.

"Thank you," the Brit whispers in his ear.

"De rien," France says, not sure what he's being thanked for.

"I don't know why I'm like this today," England mutters. "I think it's the stupid party."

"Yes, blame it on the party," he replies, dramatically. To his surprise, the other chuckles softly. It tickles his neck. "It's been a tough time for everyone lately," he sighs, caressing England's golden locks. "You know you're not alone, right?"

"I know," he mumbles into his neck, so low that France thinks he must have imagined it. Then, England raises his head to meet his eye and smirks. "Still, everything is the party's fault." He pecks France's lips before breaking the hug and leaving.

Once again, France is alone. He leans against the wall and thinks over and over about England's words and actions.

And then he makes a decision.

It's late. The party is still going, although it's not as lively as it was before. The music's volume has been turned down to the point where it's barely audible, allowing the nations to come together and chat about everything and anything. One of the most commented topics is that Spain's shirt isn't buttoned properly, and that Romano's shirt is inside-out, and that none of them has realized.

England isn't talking to anyone. He has spent some time with Canada, but the younger seems to be having a great time with Prussia, so it wasn't too long. After all, he doesn't want to go around spreading his misery. (That may sound a bit too dramatic, but that's how he feels at the moment.)

A sudden move catches his eye. He turns in time to see someone standing on the table, and he recognizes France. What is he doing? The Frenchman holds a cup, which he hits with a fork to gather everyone's attention; once he has it, he motions for them to come closer to the table. England raises an eyebrow, but, curious, complies.

"How's the party so far?" France asks cheerfully. "Are you having fun?"

Everyone yells a confident "Yes!" as an answer, and France raises his thumb in approval.

"Good, good. However," he takes a sip from his cup, "let me remind you that this party is England's— Arthur, chéri, where are you—" He turns until he spots him and points at him. "There you are! As I was saying, this party's his, and he told me it's stupid!" he practically whines, prompting for everyone to let out a long and over-dramatized 'oooooh'. "He said— Do you know what he said? He said he wishes it were an actual bachelor party, because at least there'd be a stripper!"

England blushes. Yes, he's said that, but why does the frog have to go and say it for everyone to hear? They're all laughing now, and he swears he's going to strangle France with his own hands. However, the other keeps talking and catches his entire attention once again.

"And, you know, because I'm such a devoted lover," he winks at him, "and I want him to be happy," he throws a kiss at him —England pretends to dodge it—, "I've decided to make his wish come true."

England's eyebrows shoot up as everyone begins to cheer. He can't believe what France has just said. Make my wish come true—? He doesn't know what's going to happen —being France, he can expect anything from him— and he doesn't like that.

"Whoa, easy, easy," France laughs, trying to get everyone to shut up. "I know what you're thinking and no, I haven't hired a stripper."

He shrugs apologetically when everyone boos, and laughs when someone from the crowd yells: "Do it yourself!" The petition seems to be liked, as suddenly everyone is yelling at him, demanding for him to strip. (Nobody misses that the two that cheer the most are Spain and Prussia. Canada has blushed madly; Romano is not amused.)

"We'll see," France laughs as he walks on the table until he's right in front of England. "Say, Arthur, do you want a striptease?"

"No," is England's cutting and firm response.

"Good. You weren't going to get one anyway."

"Didn't you say you were going to make my wish come true?" he asks, more because he feels like arguing than because he wants France to strip for him (not in front of other people, at least).

"Yes, indeed, that's what I said," France admits. "But I wasn't talking about that part of your wish."

"What do you mean?" England frowns, confused.

"I'm going to turn this party into an actual bachelor party."

"And how do you plan to—?"

He never gets to finish his question, for France graciously steps down the table right in front of him and goes down on one knee and pulls out a ring and holy fucking shit is he for real?

"Arthur, ma chéri, mon petit lapin— will you marry me?"

England's jaw drops. To be fair, so does everyone else's. Everything freezes, everything but time, and England is painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. France is waiting for an answer, everyone's waiting, but he finds himself unable to utter a single word.

"Y-You're kidding," he finally manages to stutter.

Anyone else might have been offended by that reply, but not France. No, he has known England for a long time already. His smile grows wider as he shakes his head. "I'm not," he assures.

England is on the verge of suffering a heart attack. His palms are sweaty, his breath is shaky, his entire world is spinning. But then he looks into France's eyes —those beautiful, deep, blue eyes— and he sees that yes, despite the comedic tone previous to his proposal, he's dead serious about it. And he knows there's only one possible answer.

Dying of embarrassment and well aware of the dark blush that tints his cheeks, he drops his head on his hands, hiding his face from everyone. He needs to take a couple of deep breaths before he's able to speak. "Holymotherfuckingshitbloodyhell—" he curses out loud, so fast that the words can barely be told apart. Then he lowers his hands just enough so he can look at France, and the word simply escapes him:

"Yes."

England is certain he hasn't been more embarrassed in his entire life. Only France could propose in front of the entire continent as if it were the most natural thing to do. And it probably is, to him — he's the country of love, after all. Still, even he has to admit it's been a rather romantic move.

That doesn't help with his embarrassment.

He's been forced to sit with France in a small couch (so small he's almost sat on his now fiancé's lap) and everyone's in a line, waiting to congratulate them and give them their blessing. The first one, not to anyone's surprise, has been Canada, who has stated how happy he is for them and has read a few text messages from an overly excited America. (He may or may not have recorded the proposal and sent it to his brother.)

The seconds in line are Spain and Prussia, who first tell France that he can do better; and then surprise everyone by actually congratulating the couple and hugging them both. When nobody's watching, Gibraltar takes a picture of Spain and England hugging. He's certain it's a situation that doesn't happen very often.

Then come more, and more, and more countries. Italy promises he and Romano (even though his brother has never agreed to it) will cook at the wedding; Germany shakes their hands and wishes them happiness; Hungary is crying so hard they don't understand a single word she says to them.

The last one to stand before them is Scotland. For a moment, England is scared. Who knows what is brother might do. But then Scotland pats France's shoulder, says in a slightly shaky voice: "Take care of him for me, will you?", and then pulls his little brother into a tight hug. He whispers something in his ear and England nods against his shoulder; then he pulls apart, ruffles his hair and leaves.

Exhausted, England makes himself comfortable in the couch (which means, he sits on France's lap) and rests his head on the Frenchman's shoulder. He smiles, content, when he feels two arms wrapping around him and warm lips pressing against his hair.

"Arthur," France calls him softly.

"Hmm—?"

"What did Alistair say to you?"

England pulls apart a little, just enough so he can look him in the eye, and there's something —the shape of his smirk, the glint in his eyes, the tone of his voice— that leaves France wondering if what he says is true or not:

"If he ever hurts you, tell me and I'll personally break his legs."

FIN