prismatica | 001 | ( VIDEO. )

[ France gawks at his device with a dumbfounded sense of dread. A quiet what have I done? is heard by absolutely no one beyond Pierre, who is quite used to witnessing his owner's Poor Decisions and seems rather uninterested from his perch.

He shows a particular spryness in how he goes to answer the door before the younger nation's enthusiastic knocking gets the both of them kicked out of this place, tugging it open and sidestepping to avoid the very real possibility that America would continue to pound even without the door being there. Sure, he tries to smile in confidence but there is certain disaster looming in the corners of his conscious. ]

It isn't a flamethrower, America before you get your hopes up... [ Resigned, he stepped back and let the door open further to usher him inside. Regert. So much regert. ] I use this for cooking. It's in the kitchen.

_{[ Upon stepping inside, France can see he's obviously sniffing the air, but he doesn't make it known what he's smelling just yet.. a brief, perplexed expression crosses his face before he looks right at France. ]}

You cook with a flamethrower? _{[ but he just said-- ]} Oh, man, sick. I didn't know you were hardcore with your cooking! That makes you like.. 1% cooler!

[ The poor kid wouldn't know subtility if he asked it to sign his yearbook and it's obvious that something unknown has caught his attention. Now that he's closer, he notices the scent that seems to be coming from America. Unfortunately, he doesn't realize that he is also pumping out the pheromones.

The question catches him off and he has to chuckle, distancing himself by going into the kitchen(ette sobbing) to fetch the torch. An eyebrow quirks and he smiles over at the younger blond. ]

Only 1% See if I make you a Baked Alaska.

[ WHAT CHEEK. Carefully setting it aside, he shrugged. ]

It's good for achieving a certain depth of flavor in some meals. You see, the purpose of it is to react to the sugars in the food, not burn it within an inch of its life. I imagine you get some mixed signals.

[ His fingers tap anxiously as he tries to process some rather troubling... troubling thoughts that seem to be brought on by that scent. It definitely reminds him of America as much as that worn bomber jacket. Breathing deeply doesn't help, so perhaps distracting would do good. ]

I'm starving. Do you want to have lunch with me? I don't mind the company...

_{[ Pretty much everything that France is saying goes completely in one ear and out the other. He looks perplexed, his nose crinkling up as he very obviously whiffs the air and pays no attention to what France is saying. He curves his fingers around the collar of his shirt and sniffs there-- he certainly smells different, but it's nothing like the certain scent that's really catching his interest. He watches France for the longest time-- wordlessly-- then finally he grips him by the collar and yanks him forward, burrowing his face right into the other nation. His chest rises and falls as he takes in a good inhale and then he rears back. ]}

Holy fuck.. you usually smell like wine and defeat!! What's with the cologne, man?

[ France's tapping goes from steadily drumming to somewhat erratic the longer he stands there waiting for an answer. There is an openly confused stare shot in America's direction when he plucks at his own collar. In truth, the scent coming off of America was perplexing to the senses. They make eye contact and a brow raises in silent question. A what in God's name are you doing, child wanting to pour from his lips.

America has been insanely strong since he was a small boy, so when he grips France by his shirt and tugs, there really is no resisting, though his hands fly up to grab the younger nation's arms while he sputters in French -- which is a lesser extreme of crying in French. He can't be blamed for how his pulse picks up to a bright staccato when the blond rather boldly shoves his face against his collar. The experience garnered confusing results. He's aroused and indignant (Austria would tell him to step off his brand), giving America a rather blank stare when he has to open his mouth. ]

I'm not wearing cologne for once. I just wanted to relax today! You, however... You smell --- [ Insert a moment's pause where his eyes drift a little south. Cursing, he tried to gently pry America's fingers from his poor abused collar. ] kind of like you rolled around in a field?

[ why is he still holding on to America again? he swore off chocolate fountains after the festival! ]

_{[ They're both confused. America could blame his weird scent on his triangular ears he has sprouted for him smelling like a pleasant field. Naturally, he hardly paid attention to anything having to do with moonblessings that occur in this place. It was quite traumatizing for him to grow these things without knowing what was happening since he wasn't listening.

Even worse, he was too prideful to consult with anyone he really knew about what was happening for comfort.. but he won't talk about how much he cried about this.

Nevertheless, he stays closer to the other nation, taking in his scent in a much more animal-like nature, rubbing the side of his face all the way up France's neck until their noses touch. When he opens his eyes, he looks.. intoxicated to say the least. ]}

Ooo-kay, well.

_{[ He takes a singular step back, swatting at France's hands if they're still gripped on him. ]}

I think-- you seriously need to stop that.
_{[ Whatever that is. Smelling good? That's what he means. ]}

[ He doesn't remember the last time America has found any joy in curling into him. France would wager well over a century had passed and truthfully it was probably even longer than that since he's sought him out for so much as a hug and those were considerably more innocent than what seems to be brewing between them -- intended or not. Definitely not.

There's nothing like a lungful of pheromones to remind France that America is definitely not a cherub-faced colony. He's also not the young teen that he supported for liberty. There isn't a great deal of innocent intent behind his stare when he pulls away from France; he looks dazed off of gross French fumes.

Some of the urge to react in a huffy manner is forgotten while he tries to make sense of America's demands. Really, one step back hardly puts any distance between them at all, but he does release his hold at the slaps, brow furrowing at the sharp sting that blossoms over the backs. ]

America, you grabbed me first...

[ Excuse him while he goes to slam his dick in a door. Or at least, heavily contemplates it. Instead, his gross, autopilot hands go to stroke America's temporarily gained fox ears. ]

Ah! They're so...cute! They fit you.

[ Unintended puns and flirting, go. ]

Have you touched them? They feel like silk.

_{[ Several things are happening here. Mostly, America is quite unaware of just how heated France might feel right now. He's a little too busy with how his own body warms, especially between the legs. It doesn't help that the Frenchman goes forth and caresses his sensitive ears without permission. Red looks mighty fine on the younger nation, and it spreads all the way across his face from embarrassment, frustration and arousal.

The sound he makes is a squeak, but he can't help but allow France to caress him because it does feel nice, but after a few seconds, he stammers out: ]}

D-Dude..!

_{[ Oh, he's batting at those hands again and this time taking a few other steps backwards. ]}

Just--! I don't know!! Go cook something!!
_{[ He's mad he likes it. ]}

[ He's admiring the fox ears in an almost trance-like state. A brief, mildly thoughtful trance that seems to be broken when America startles and swats at him again. To his credit, the older nation seems apologetic and lets his hands drop. Two steps backward become five and so on until he's put enough distance between them that there's no chance of accidentally touching. ]

I apologize... I don't know what came over me. Why don't you go sit on the couch and I'll make us lunch?

[ LIKE HE OFFERED TO BEFORE YOU HAD TO GRAB HIM, AMERICA! ]

I could always pretend that I am a line cook and make you pancakes, but it's a bit late in the day...

[ He tears his eyes off of the blond to open his refrigerator, peering inside. Honestly, it's a good place to take a few nice, deep 'don't fuck your ally who is significantly younger and packed enough baggage to tour the planet' breaths. Oof. ]

Or we could just order take out because I've been a bit tense lately and stayed inside the past few days and don't have much that I think you would enjoy. I really should probably fix that...

_{[ By the time France invites him to the couch, America is already there, hiding behind the back of the sofa, fox ears poking up, completely not hidden. Eventually, he peers over once he feels like the red has died down off of his face. He observes France. He's fairly certain this is observing and not letting his eyes graze over the older nation's body. Jesus. He's never observed France of all people this way.

I mean, sure, they got along rather well enough, but it's just a little weird when France as just a kid and he was a baby.

And yet, he doesn't seem to be looking away. It's very obvious he is.. observing. His ears fall flat against his scalp at the conclusion, though, and he pushes himself up on the couch so he's more visible. ]}

The fuck?! Why not!?

_{[ Weren't you just complaining about his cooking earlier? ]}

Pancakes are just fine! Don't you make crepes or something too?!
_{[ Seems like he's getting some drive out of ordering France around-- indulging in the fact that somebody would put so much effort into something especially for him sounds more pleasing than just ordering something now. ]}

You're France! All you do is cook and go on strikes! Why don't you have anything here?

[ They hang out fairly often. They've even experienced feelings of friction throughout the years. What's transpiring between the two of them is foreign to them, but France is thankfully more experienced trying to gracefully navigate the rocky terrain.

The abrupt response makes him straighten and shoot the younger nation a confused look, complete with a nose scrunch. Clearly, he hadn't expected such a strong reaction from the American. ]

Excuse me? I didn't think you of all people would be offended with ordering in. How many pizzas have you made me eat? What was it? Papa John's? [ He makes a face and clucks lightly, the urge to seduce his guest temporarily set aside. ] I would hate to be that man's child!

[ The set of his lips doesn't necessarily loosen but he does open the cabinet that had his beloved baking ingredients. As he is France, it is a rather organized process. Flour fears the idea of spraying everywhere under the nation's critical eye. He feels like he owes the blond an answer but it doesn't come sans sass. ]

I do many things, America. It's true that I spend a great deal of time in the kitchen but... I don't know. These moon blessings have strange consequences. [ He can see the fox ears out of his peripheral and shrugs, dividing his ingredients as he talks. ] I may have gotten short with a complete stranger and was later informed that while you are only given one moon that there are some residual mood swings tied to the other two you may experience.

So. I stayed in...

[ Huffing, he takes a pause and gets the first crepe out of the way. Always ugly. ]

I must say that I'm mildly curious to see what happens the next time around. It's a relief that it is only temporary. Did you know that?

[ France only approaches the couch when he's armed with two plates filled with savory crepes. It as a creative (which is the polite term for 'cobbled and rustic') blend of ham and cheese. This is more of a distraction, in truth, but he'll make sure to be better prepared for any future visits. If that happens. For the boy's sake, he settles beside him with a cushion's worth of personal space. ]

_{[ While France makes him crepes-- it seems to be crepes-- it's hard for him to tell and he's too nervous to venture any further-- he's as a typical hormonal teenager would be, his mind fogged with distracting thoughts that actually make him cringe in disgust. Fortunately, the smell of food has him sniffing the air-- again, very animal-like-- but he is patient and crumbles back down in his seat to continue to be angry. France won't see it from where he's at, but he's tucked his hands in between his legs.. it's only briefly to adjust himself.

He doesn't respond to the string of words that France gives him, but he does respond to the question. He whirls around to sit properly when the plate is delivered to him and hesitates no longer to dig in. Before his mouth is completely full, though, he does answer: ]}

Mm! Yeah! My bro Klaus said it would be temporary, so whatever, I'm cute like this so it doesn't bother me anymore.

_{[ He seems a lot less mad in such a small amount of time. ]}

[ He's found that feeding America -- for how much he complains and jokes about the snails -- is the easiest way to get him into a more agreeable state. It is probably one of his more noteworthy observations regarding the younger blond. His manners are still regrettable, but there's no changing that now. France gives him a look of mild reprimand but doesn't voice it. The name he mentioned was oddly enough one he'd heard since coming here.

Although he'd been flirting with Klaus -- which France also chooses not to speak of. ]

Well, I'm glad that someone informed you. I'm sure that it was quite alarming even if the ears are quite charming in their own way...

[ Even now his fingers itch to stroke them. If he was being honest it didn't just stop at the ears. He busies himself with cutting into his own crepes, stubbornly eating them. He then mourns that he barely notices the taste because he's too focused on how disarmingly cute he finds the younger nation beside him. Was a couch cushion really enough space. Swallowing, he rolled his shoulders and tried to glance at ANYTHING else.

God, he needed to redecorate...]

How are they? Did you want anything else?

'Course they're charming! They're on me!

_{[ It doesn't take him very long to devour the pile of crepes he was given. He's always had quite the appetite, but he's finding himself especially hungry during this phase of the moon. It should be a compliment that he eats them wordlessly without complaint-- France probably hears some pleased sounds rumbling from him too.

Just when France asks that question, America presents him with an empty plate. He taps his fork on the empty plate in a more demanding manner much like he was a few minutes ago. ]}

Yeah! Make me some more! Maybe some sweet ones.. throw some Nutella on that bitch!

_{[ There's a brief pause, and then, something very surprising comes out of his mouth. ]}

Please?
_{[ There's remnants of the once-crepes on the corner of his mouth, but he seems almost pleading in the eyes about this. ]}

[ France's mouth twitched in a faint, somewhat amused acknowledgment to America's comment regarding his newly acquired animal magnetism but he chooses to actually reassure the boy that it was about time something made him charming. He often teased the younger nation, not because he disliked him but due to an actual affection for his enthusiasm. He was the self-appointed brother to all. It was in the job description. Right now he's struggling in reigning in the less than familial desires just being this close to him causes. France has been so focused on not trying to molest his guest that he's not only lost the taste of his crepes but how far along he was in polishing off the plate.

It's not until America hands over his own empty dinnerware that he looks down, an eyebrow and unspoken question obviously very present on his mind. What the fuck? only you know, eloquent. And French! ]

It seems as if we are both going to need some more. I really don't know why I am so hungry; it has got to be C---

[ France's attention drifts to America's face, with those big, pleading eyes and the morsel of food clinging for dear life, probably praying to get past those lips. Never has the Frenchman identified with a crumb so hard. Clearing his throat, suddenly a bit too warm, he leans in. He manages to stop himself before his fingertips graze the boy's skin, remembering how shy he'd been when he'd gone in to touch his ears.

Ears or lips; which flusters America more?

Quickly, he just...waves a finger at the corner of the nation's mouth as if that would explain Everything. ]

You've got a little something just... there. The corner. Of your mouth that is.

[ Guess who is pushing himself off of the couch, trying to excuse himself to help both of them out. He does manage to reassure America that there will be more crepes soon from over his shoulder but. You know. ]

_{[ It's good food. Honestly, if he had to pick between France or England's, France's always won by a long shot. The guy knew how to bake even if some of his entrees were questionable for America's taste. He notes the shift in position-- the way France edges closer to him. It makes his posture stiffen, a brief and short gasp huffing from his mouth just as soon as he feels the light brush from the other male.

He's speechless.. for probably once in his life.

France gets up out of his seat and hurries to the kitchen, and if France dares to look over at him, he'll see him return to his previous position, peering over the sofa once more, ears drawing flat as pink rises to his cheeks. He's watching France, and not aware of how obvious it is.

Strangely, he doesn't seem mad that he was touched so intimately by the other nation. ]}

[ Part of him wants to tell America that it would be best if he went back to his apartment, to put a little distance between them where they could wait out the worst of whatever urges they're experiencing, but the other part enjoys the company. So, he ignores sending America back to his apartment which is literally down the hall --- not offensive at all (or well, he knows the younger nation well enough to understand that might be touchy so YES OFFENSIVE), instead pleading with whatever force that would listen to him to knock this shit off.

He's halfway through making another round of crepe batter when he finally acknowledges the fact that he's felt America's stare this entire time, tipping his head slightly to the side to give him a sidelong stare. ]

Were you thirsty, too?

[ Yes, he sees you. ]

Despite my talents in providing service to people, I don't think I can balance plates and glasses.

[ That's a bold-ass lie. ]

_{[ By the time France has finally felt his lingering gaze, America has gotten more comfortable, propping his arms up on top of the couch cushions, his eyelids fallen halfway over his blue eyes. Throughout all of this, he's been indulging himself by mentally undressing the other man-- not like he hasn't seen what he has to offer before. He sort of thinks it would be nice if France stripped right now, but that's kind of a weird thought, isn't it? He's never really thought of that before.

Whatever he says, it goes out his ears. ]}

I'm sorry, what? Were you doing the speaking thingy?

[ God, is he... are those bedroom eyes? His hand holding the whisk stops mid-motion for a moment while he tries to reason that he's grossly overthinking the whole matter. It was a trick of Texas obscuring the boy's eyes. It was fatigue bourne of a mid-afternoon snack.

The body language, however, does a good job at setting off a few warning lights in his mind. How many times has he casually sprawled across a couch in an effort to present himself in the most appealing manner for whichever poor soul had fallen into his affections? The older nation was hardly shy. There's something about how intently he's watching and how distracted he is that makes him feel... hot.

Again with the manners! His hand resumes its whisking while he turns a bit to face the younger nation, the lines in his brow unique to whenever he's only mildly frustrated. It's not the blond's fault... at least, that's what he keeps telling himself. ]

Are you thirsty? These are going to be sweet so you might need a drink.

[ He tips his head a bit to beckon him over. ]

Come here and help me out a little.

I'll help myself to something, don't worry!

_{[ Then, France asks for assistance, and after a brief moment of silence: ]}

'Kay.

_{[ No complaining whatsoever— a first. America was always willing to help, but with that came his desire to dominate the entire scenario and take things in his direction. France might actually expect him to take the whisk from his hand and do whatever he thinks is needed.

He stands next to him-- extremely close to him, letting their shoulders mesh together. There's a smile curved on his lips, and then, a true sign of the end times: ]}

What'cha need? I'll do what you need.

_{[ The fuck. ]}

[ France is beyond weirded out. He can probably count on one hand where America has been so well-mannered. Logically he knows that it's a fluke, some weird space thing that has the younger nation behaving, but... maybe he kinda likes it??? He needs to send out an S.O.S. ]

You know, if you continue to be this agreeable I might have to actually let you cook with me.

[ What is he saying? He isn't really the kind of man to shun people from his kitchen (okay, sometimes), but he certainly doesn't make a habit of inviting someone with America's culinary aspirations, either. It might help that it feels very nice to just brush shoulders.

His mouth opens and shuts at the offer and he stares at America for a second. And then he decides to give him a task he won't feel like he's going to hell for. ]

Why don't you grab the nutella for me? It's in the cabinet. Oh, and the powdered sugar.

[ France will enjoy himself just fine over here, making the first of the new batch. And the second, third... eighth. They're growing boys. ]

_{[ America isn’t sure what’s gotten into him, or France either, but he doesn’t see it as a problem like France might. Usually, they agree to disagree with things, but yeah. They’re both hungry and horny and feeling the same thing, but maybe America is a little oblivious as to what could be the issue. He very obviously takes in another deep breath through his nose, taking in France’s scent once more before he does what he is told— stepping away and turning his back to the older nation as he raids his pantry for the Nutella. Thank god space has Nutella. Something normal and something good. ]}

Hahaha! Not on your life, buddy. I’d rather you do all the hard work.

_{[ He stands on his tiptoes to reach a higher shelf for the jar of Nutella. ]}

I don’t know whose pastries are better between you and Italy. There’s really no way to know unless you both feed me and I can decide.

_{[ When he turns around, all horrors upon horrors have happened. He’s taken the liberty of sticking his index finger in the pristine, untouched Nutella and gotten a gracious scoop of the sweet spread all over his digit. He proceeds to stick his finger in his mouth, smooth lips curving over his finger as he sucks on it. The other hand holds the jar out to France as if nothing was amiss. He makes a small grunt noise to get his attention before sliding his finger out of his mouth, slowly and surely to remove any Nutella residue. Absolutely clean. ]}

Here ya go!

[ He wonders what the hell he actually smells like if America seems to be unable to stop being so obvious about it; the answer he'd gotten had surely been a joke. Oh, America; he's more than cheese and surrender. He's crepes too. The younger nation has never been so happily agreeable and it's kind of nice to not feel like he has to plead with him. It's short-lived when America responds. ]

Ah, that's the answer I expected from you...

[ Since it's expected, France also takes comfort in the predictable, comfortable habit of rolling his eyes at America's back. For the life of him, he can't find any actual frustration behind the gesture. It's simply there. The mild irritation slips from his expression when he turns his head to glance to the side to make sure the blond is looking in the correct place. He watches him just as he stretches and France's breath catches. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck with a side of fuck!

He narrows his eyes and tries to think of less pleasant things than sneaking up behind the blond. France barely manages to flip over the current crepe he was working on and curses under his breath. He will not be ruined in the kitchen, damn it. ]

We certainly are both very goo---- od, no! America!

[ The internal fuckfuckfucks are raging war with his proper sense of etiquette. France should not be thinking of smearing his dick in Nutella and telling America to go ham (which he is. shame.). He also wants to smack his hands for STICKING HIS FINGERS IN HIS NEW JAR. America isn't even in a rush to pull his finger free from his mouth. God, the grunt. Oh he's mad. Also...kind of impressed. ]

I would have let you use a spoon, you deviant.

[ But he's visibly hard now and kind of just. Stuck. With his hips facing the range in the off-chance that America doesn't notice and he can urge this thing down. His grip on the jar is a little firm but he sets it beside him on the counter, taking a nice slow calming breath. He looks a little jittery, but overall he's gotten good at hiding the need to pound one out in his long history of wanting to bang everything. RIP. ]

This is a delicate process. You can't leave them unattended for long or they burn. Did you see the sugar anywhere?

_{[ Eating Nutella out of a jar is common etiquette for him. It's just what you do when you see a brand spanking new jar so he feels like he's done nothing wrong. America merely tips his head when he's scolded and pops his lips together, enjoying the lingering sweetness on his mouth. The tip of his tongue pokes out, searching for any dribbles he might have left behind, though, looks like he's got it, but not without fully licking his own lips. ]}

Chillax, brah. This way I didn't have to a dirty up a spoon for ya, see? It's fine!

_{[ Though, he posture stiffens when he's reminded of the sugar. Looks like he'll have to turn around, stretch up nice and easy yet again. ]}

Oh, shit. Oops, sorry, hang on.

_{[ Thankfully, he's unaware of France's situation so he turns, once again bringing himself to the cabinet, rolling up on the balls of his feet again and swaying back and forth absentmindedly. He finds the powder sugar in its bag, safely rolled and secured with a clip. Pulling it from it's shelf, though, he does drop it with a slight gasp, only small bits of sugar spilling to the floor. He's good enough to pick it up, but he bends over, taking his precious time. Was his ass always that big? Did his pants always hang that low on his hips and show that much skin when his shirt rolls up in the slightest? Hmm.

The answer is yes, but France is probably just noticing that now.

America straightens up, brushing any stray bits of sugar and turning to France, handing it to him with a jovial smile. ]}

Sorry, dude. I should have gotten it the first time! Haha. So, are you done yet?

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that icon is suspicious.

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