The rain patted softly against the roof of England's manor. In the living room, England himself settled onto his favorite chair around the hearth of a warmly lit fire, quietly sipping his tea as he reveled in the peace. Being the personification of a country could be rather hectic; mass amounts of paperwork, meeting with dignitaries, monthly meetings with his fellow nations—but England couldn't find it in himself to complain. Oh, sure, there are times when he wants to pull out his hair or scream bloody murder at the sheer stupidity of it all, but in his heart of hearts he believes it's worth it. He would rather have this than never have a country at all, that is for certain.

So, here he is on a Saturday evening with no paperwork and no meetings, just the company of himself and the stormy English weather that never seems to end. Inhaling deeply, the island nation's eyes slid to a close as he took in just how peaceful this moment was.

All was good.

Ding Dong!

"Oh, bugger," England cursed under his breath, placing his tea cup on the table beside him before standing up to greet his uninvited guest. Now, who the bloody hell could that be?

"Oh, Angleterre~! Open up~!"

This time, his curse was louder. Damn frog.

"What do you want?" England called out, not even bothering to open the door. He may be a gentleman, but this was France.

"Just open up!" came the reply. Then, as an afterthought, he added: "Se 'il tu plaît!"

England gritted his teeth in annoyance. Perhaps if I humor him he'll leave. Remembering what happened last time he ignored the Frenchman when he arrived uninvited and unannounced, he shuddered.

The garden will never be the same...

"Alright; I'll open up. Just show some damn restraint for once, frog." The Brit ignored the crow of success from the other nation and unlatched the locks on his door. He raised a bushy brow at the excitement that was practically oozing off the Frenchman—not that this wasn't common, but it was a strange sight to see at his front door. "I'll ask again: what do you want?"

"I have something very, very important to tell you," France declared, entering England's house and purposely ignoring the Briton's indignant sputtering of 'I said I'd open the door, not let you waltz in as you bloody please!'.

France raised his own brow—albeit it was much more delicate than the Brit's—and folded his arms, plopping himself gracefully in a living room chair. England's eye twitched; that was the exact same chair he was relaxing in moments ago. "I believe this is the time you offer your guest tea, oui?"

"That's assuming you're an actual guest, you prat. If anything, you're more like a stubborn pest that can't take a hint and just croak already."

The French nation merely smiled, infuriating the Englishman further.

"Wait here," England said sourly. He left to the kitchen to whip up some tea. At least this was something France couldn't tease him on—if there was one thing England was good at, it was making a nice cup of tea. The bastard was just lucky he happened to have some mint tea on hand—not that he wanted to please France with his favorite tea, mind you.

"Here." France took note of England's short, clipped tone and sighed. If he was going to be bratty the whole time, convincing him of his reasons for being here will not go as smoothly as planned.

"Merci beaucoup," France said gratefully, inhaling the scent of the tea given. Despite their epic rivalry, England still managed to remember how he liked his tea made. The thought made his smile widen, unnerving the English nation.

"What is it?"

"You remembered how to make my tea."

"So?" England scoffed, an annoyed blush making itself known on his cheeks.

"It's been a hundred years since I last sat down with you to drink tea is all," France said simply with a knowing twinkle in his eye. He took a sip from his cup and hummed—perfect, as expected.

"Well, it's not like I care what you want in your tea, idiot," England huffed, his blush darkening. He looked positively annoyed as reached for his own cup of tea, pointedly glaring down at the Frenchman. "It was reflex; last time you came 'round you babbled on and on about how you wanted your tea with two spoonfuls of sugar and blah blah blah. Honestly, I just didn't want to hear your insistent whining."

"I thought you said it was reflex?"

"Shut up."

They sat in a surprisingly comfortable silence. England closed his eyes and attempted to regain the calmness he had earlier; it was in vain, however, because the calmness he attained was much different than the one previous. Although his eyes were closed, he could still feel France's presence in the room: he could smell his god awful cologne (alright, it was okay smelling cologne, but he wasn't going to tell the prick that); he could hear France softly humming under his breath; he could even taste the bastard's minty breath if he opened his mouth wider—not that he wanted to, thank you very much.

To say England was now frustrated was an understatement. Clearing his throat, he addressed France once again: "Why are you here, exactly?"

"Oh," France blinked. "I have a question to ask you."

"Well then? Out with it."

"Will you go on a date with me?"

England choked on his tea. What?!

"I-I'm sorry, I'm afraid I misheard you. It sounded like you just said you want to go on a date with me."

"That what I just said, oui."

"Get out of my house."

"Angleterre," France whined, pitching his voice an octave higher. It set England's teeth on edge—classic France; such a whiner. "You don't even want to hear my reasons!"

"Your reasons are probably just as stupid as you are."

"Oh, how you wound me," the blond sighed dramatically, placing a hand over the area of his heart. For a moment, England saw what seemed to be a flash of hurt sift through the Frenchman's blue eyes, but he quickly dismissed it. They insult each other all the time; if he's not used to it by now then he really was stupid.

"Still," France continued. "I want to go on a date with you."

England was unnerved at the choice phrase. 'I want to go on a date with you' was very different than 'I want you to go on a date with me'.

"Why?" England demanded. His palms were beginning to sweat and his cheeks were still a deep red—he was damn nervous at this point. Why? He wasn't too sure, honestly. You wine-bastard, he thought darkly, You're just trying to get me flustered! Prick!

France sighed and took another sip of his tea. "Arthur," he began, glancing up to see the Brit's expression. As expected, England tensed. The use of human names among nations was a rather touchy subject; it was an intimate thing among friends and those that particular nation trusted wholeheartedly. Needless to say, the nation in question considered France to be neither of those things. "I'm not asking you to marry me. I just want a date. One single date."

"Well, France, I don't see why I have to take you up on that offer—"

"You don't," France cut in smoothly. England promptly closed his mouth. Well, that was unexpected.

Beat.

"And...if I say yes?..."

France's eyes lit up, his smile finally taking on his flirty nature. "I'll make sure you have a great time, mon ami."

While England's French was a bit rusty—it still sickened him that he actually knew the language—he wasn't sure that term of endearment quite worked in this sentence. Noticing England hesitance, France shrugged and said:

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

This sent England's mind reeling.

"You? Not make me uncomfortable?" England asked incredulously. "Hah! Now isn't that a laugh!"

"Well, if you changed your mind we are having a world meeting in New York next month. If you're willing to say yes, just come look for me." France stood and sent England a wink. The Brit spluttered out obscenities and turned the other way, refusing to look his fellow nation in the eye. "Au revoir, Angleterre."

When England looked back up, France was gone.

Tch. Idiot...

Twenty-two days, seven hours, and forty seconds until the next world meeting. Not like England was counting, though. He was merely observing the time so he could prepare.

Yes, that's it.

To prepare.

.

.

.

"Bollucks."

Fifteen days, four hours, and thirty-nine seconds until the next world meeting. England was staring intently at his phone—either wanting to set it on fire with his mind or willing some invisible force to call, he wasn't too sure.

What he was sure about was the fact he was not going to be the one to call first. Not that he actually wanted to go, of course. He was simply going to humor the man.

Ring ring!

England snatched the phone so quickly it nearly fell out of his hands. Ignoring his beating heart, he answered the phone with as much poise and sophistication his gentlemanly heart could muster. "Hello?"

He frowned.

"Oh, it's you. What is it this time, America?"

No, England was not disappointed.

Five days, thirty hours, and sixteen seconds until the next world meeting. England was asleep and curled up on his sofa, his face a mask of exhaustion.

No, he did not stay up fretting over whether or not some idiot was going to call and whisk him off to some romantic date earlier than planned. Hell, he still hadn't agreed to the one proposed.

"Damn, frog-face..." the blond muttered in his sleep.

His dream was definitely not about him ducking his head to hide his blush as that wine-bastard tucked an index finger under his chin to bring them face to face. And that damn frog definitely wasn't dipping his head closer to England's own. And England's eyes definitely didn't flutter to a close like a flustered, prepubescent schoolgirl at the touch.

.

.

.

Oh, Hell.

Three hours and thirty seconds until the next world meeting. England locked himself in his designated hotel room and refused to leave until the meeting actually started.

No, he was not hiding like some coward. He was simply...biding his time.

A familiar voice flitted beyond his hotel room door making his heart leap up to his throat.

Definitely just biding his time.

"You look like major shit, bro."

"Don't call me 'bro'," England sneered. America held his hands up in mock defense and quirked up a brow.

"Seriously, though. You've been super jumpy lately. Is your economy going down the pits again?"

England chose to ignore his former colony and instead focused on the paperwork before him. It was a prepared speech he had for this meeting; hopefully the other nations will take what he's has planned to heart—

A familiar scent of cologne filled his nostrils and he inhaled sharply.

What was in his speech again?

"France," England called out, halting the nation from leaving the conference room. The meeting had just ended moments ago and all the countries quickly fled the room down to the café to grab a bite to eat. The meeting was a surprising success—most likely because England and France weren't bickering and inciting every other person to join in—and the only nations left in the room were the former empires.

"Oui?" France asked with a tilt of his head. England gritted his teeth; there was a twinkle in that damn fool's eye as if he knew exactly why he was stopped at this very moment.

"I've thought about your offer," England said carefully. More like he stewed in it for the past month, but those were just unnecessary details. "and I have my answer."

"Oh?" The Frenchman's face perked up considerably. "And that would be?..."

England hesitated.

"No."

And with that, he fled the room with as much grace as a headless chicken.

He tried to ignore the way his chest ached when he remembered just how crestfallen France looked at his response.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

England found France at a nearby café. The Frenchman was sitting alone at a booth, flipping through his phone in a bored fashion while absentmindedly taking sips from his cup.

No, England was not stalking France. He was just trying to make sure the man was okay. That seed of guilt from their previous interaction had grown into a snarling beast that demanded the Brit to check up on the Frenchman. So, in a sense, it was just in his caring, gentlemanly nature to look and see if he left the poor sop as a broken mess.

Now that he was here, however, he wasn't quite sure what to do.

As if moving with a mind of its own, his body found itself at France's booth. His mouth went dry as he stared down at the Frenchman. What was he doing here again? Perhaps he should just go. Yes, that sounded like a great idea—

"Angleterre?"

England started, not expecting France to actually notice he was there. "...Yes?"

"Is there something you want?"

Without another word, England slid onto the opposite side of France and hailed a waitress. "An Earl Grey tea, please."

France sent him a questioning look, placing his phone down on the table. "Angleterre," he repeated, furrowing his brows together. "why are you...?"

"Because I can," England said airily, thanking the waitress when she returned with his order. "What are you drinking?"

France blinked owlishly. "...Mint tea."

"Oh?"

"Oui, I was feeling nostalgic."

"Oh."

After a brief moment of silence, England spoke up again. "I enjoy punk rock music on occasion, I'm more partial to fish and chips than scones, and I'm a terrible swimmer."

"Quoi?"

"Well," England nervously took a sip from his cup to serve as a small distraction, wincing when the hot liquid burned the roof of his mouth. "in order for a date to occur, both parties must know a bit about each other. You don't know anything past my eyebrows and I know next to nothing about you sans the fact you're a giant ass. So, Francis, tell me a bit about yourself."

France smiled brightly.

England's heart continued to pound excitedly.

"Here's my stop," England said as they reached the Brit's hotel room. He glanced up nervously, unsure if he should invite the Frenchman inside. France insisted he walk him back and England graciously took him up on the offer.

If graciously meant he grew red with embarrassment and simultaneously tried to threaten the man for treating him like a woman and run away without looking back.

"I had a wonderful time, Arthur." England suppressed a shiver—his name just seemed to roll off France's tongue with little to no problem.

"Same here, frog," England returned good naturedly. When France turned to leave, England's hand quickly shot out a caught the Frenchman by his coat's sleeve. "W-wait!"

"Yes?"

"I—" England's mind was drawing a blank. He didn't want France to leave so soon, that's for sure; but what to say? Licking his lips, England continued, "Wasn't this a date?"

Francis blinked and suddenly his questioning stare morphed into a brilliant smile. "If that is what you wish to call it."

"Then you're not quite done yet, are you?"

What are you doing?! England's mind seemed to scream at him. Do you understand what you're implying?!

"Non, I suppose I am not."

Angry at himself for falling into this role, and angry at France for managing to be so infuriatingly nonchalant, England gripped France by the lapels of his coat and tugged him down for a kiss.

It didn't set off fireworks or make his stomach flutter with butterflies—it was awkward and their teeth clanged together forcefully, but neither nation bothered to pull away. When they managed to find a rhythm seconds later—it was France—England released his death grip on the other male's coat and sighed through his nose.

This was nothing like any of the kisses from his dreams were—not that he's dreamt of this before, of course—but it was nice in its own way.

France pulled away first, surprising the Brit. "See you on date numéro duex, mon chou."

England pinked and nodded dumbly, pulling out his card and slipping into his hotel room before he could open his mouth and say anything moronic. Stupid frog, it's not like I'm excited or anything—

He remembered France's tinkling laugh and the way he said his human name, his mouth caressing each syllable as if they were the most important words in the English language.

England buried his face in his pillow and fought back a large grin.

Okay. Maybe just a little bit.

Angleterre = England

Se 'il te plaît = Please

Oui = Yes

Mon ami = My friend

Au revoir = Until next time

Quoi? = What?

Non = No

Numéro duex = Number two

Mon chou = My cabbage/darling