It was about mid-day when France arrived, grocery bag in hand. He walked up the stairs to the door of the address Britain had mentioned as they talked over wine the previous night... Before everything went wrong. France stood at the door, mentally preparing himself for the possibilities. Finally, he knocked on the door, at first very light, then harder and harder. There wasn't an answer. France tried again, knocking as loud as courage allowed him, and soon he saw the door handle move. The seconds seemed endless to France as the door lazily inched open.
Britain heard the loud knock at his door, expecting a mail delivery or something. He unlocked the front door, turned the handle, and pulled the door back... To reveal... France! Britain slammed the door shut, shocked and heartbroken at the same time. "Britain! Mon cher please! If you'd just-" France pleaded, trying to reason with Britain. Then, Britain realized something. His heart skipped a beat... He could start over. He could start over! He could- but, no. France could not be with him and he did not want to be with France. Britain turned the handle yet again, only pulling the door back to leave a crack, to which he revealed an eye in the shadows. "Britain..." France's voice quivered with anxious patience. "Bri-"
"Go away, you bloody frog!" Arthur interuppted, making France step backwards. Britain could see him wince at the words, but also recognized the determination his eyes also posessed.
"Britain!" France said confidently, standing up straight and stepping forward.
"No! What did I tell you, you bloody git! Go away!" France was not phased, in fact, he took another step forward and began to hold out the bag of groceries. "Didn't you hear me, frog? I said-"
France stole his moment, speaking loud, but not yelling," I want you to make me scones, Britain!" His voice was shrill and confident. Britain stared blankly ahead at France, trying to make sense of the words that seemingly came out of Frances mouth. Though, that was impossible. France hated Britain's cooking, forcing him not to step foot in the tiny kitchen of the World Meeting House. Now France asked him to make him scones. Of all the chhoices, he chose scones. Britain always burned his scones, making charred pieces of dough and berries. France waited patiently, holding the grocery bag full of ingredients out in front of him. "Mon duex, I request you make me scones." France made a mocking tone of voice, while Britain snatched the bag from him, muttering curse words behind him as he led France to his small kitchen/ dining room.
France sat down at a small table with two ends. "Britain, do you have any bandaids?" France asked, still mockingly. Britain paused his task of unloading the groceries and turned.
"What in the hell do you need a bandaid for, frog?" Britain's eyes darted up and down France's body, gliding past the dark black turtle neck and skinny jeans France wore, and Britain glanced at his hands, his face. France's hair was pulled back, and he could see his face. Britain didn't see any injuries, but still looked at France, darting from his hair, to his clohing, to his ridiculous blue scarf, to his shoes, to his....Lips. He shook and thoughts of the body part from his mind, focusing back on France's eyes, which were trained on him, paused. "Well? Britain finally asked"
"Didn't I just tell you?" France brushed the words off with insult, knowing Britain wasn't listning. Britain flushed. He reached under the sink and pulled out a box, in which he retrieved a bandaid and passed it to France, who gracefully accepted the small piece of gauze and adheisive, allowing Britain to continue his cooking angrily. France talked to Britain, ignoring the obvious chill between them. Britain cooked with great difficulty, trying his best to hold back his hurting heart from France, who was so beautiful, and amazing. Britain flushed as he slid the scones into the oven and sliding into the chair behind him.
For a minute they stared at each other. They're eyes seemed to speak, but yet again, Britain darted his eyes away, fearing the love their hearts both yearned for. They made small talk while the scones cooked, Britain checking on them every two seconds, forgetting their conversation and focusing on the doughy masses that cooked unevenly. Every now and again, Britain got up, pulled the scones out, and realized that they were just as uncooked as before. Minutes passed, half an hour, an hour. They talked small, jumping from subject to subject, checking the scones, talking again. They were distant. Nothing was personal anymore.
An alarm beeped, Both France and Britain too dazed to realize the burnt smell coming from the oven. Britain jumped to the oven, pulling out the scones, charred and crusty. France stifled a laugh as Britain piled the scones onto a plate. Britain hung his head as he laid the plate in the middle of the table. France grabbed two wine glasses, only to find there was no wine. France poured water into the glasses and placed them on the table, grinning. As he sat down again, he realized the condition of the scones, and took one from the plate. He stared down at it with a horrified look crossing his face. Britain smirked, "Go on, you asked me to make you scones, here are your scones. Try them." Britain demanded, a demented tone outlining his voice.
France slowing bit into the rock- hard pastry, crumbs flying across the room as it split. France was paralyzed, his mouth fool of charcoal, his hand food of a crumbling mess. He took a swig of water, and handed the scone across the table, gesturing for Britain to take it. Britain took the scone calmly and bit into it. Surprisngly, Britain needed n water to wash down the dish, and ate the rest of his scone up, speaking easily, "It still tastes better than your food." A smirk passed over his face yet again as France stood up, mortified. His jaw hung open and his eyes were blank.
"How- my food is better that this cruddy mess of charred crumbs! How dare you!" France yelled to Britain, who stood there, and laughed. he laughed at the words France said, so full of life, no emptiness to them at all. France found himself beginning to laugh as well, realizing his plan had worked. They were, if not lovers, at least friends. But, they knew they were lovers at heart.
Britain wiped a tear away, his sides hurt from laughing. He then spoke smoothly and fluently, "Je' Taime, my friend." As their eyes danced to the tune of their beating hearts.
