A/N: Happy Holidays to all!

This is the third fic in my Twelve Days of Christmas jamboree. It may be read as a stand-alone. If you choose to check out other parts of this series, keep in mind that none of them technically need to be read in order with the exception of days 9 and 10.

Special thanks to AuroraBorealia, my bestie and beta reader. You have been so patient with me-thank you!

Many apologies for posting so late in the day. I'm sure this won't load until close to tomorrow. :0 I will do better with the fourth story!

Tags: 12 Days of Christmas, French Hens, Cooking, Banter, Bromance Fluff, Slash (M/M)

Enjoy to your heart's content!

And at last it came,

the time of which the poets speak…

(AKA the one time Britain's food didn't totally suck)

3

Flurries drifted in the air and onto the benches of the Thames. They provided a tiny shred of sparkle against London's dingy winter background. His people much preferred them to the non-stop rain of late.

Heaving a harried sigh, Britain shifted the shopping around in his arms. Both bags weighed heavy on his left shoulder; no doubt he'd have red marks under his coat.

Personifying an entire nation was indeed an exhausting task, especially during the winter hols. Too many things to do and people to meet to count. He did remember stopping by that nice wizard lad's house, though. One simply could not not thank Mister Potter for saving their entire magical population.

His earlier trip to a bustling Booth's was not nearly as pleasant; an extremely rude bird had run straight into his trolley and spilled Britain's hand-picked toffees. She hadn't even apologized, honestly!

But now he had everything he needed. He could go home and just be Arthur Kirkland for a little while. All he had left to accomplish tonight was to make a trial run of his splendid Christmas surprise. That bugger, America-Alfred, as he'd affectionately become in the Brit's mind-wouldn't know what hit him!

Once he had settled into his charmingly quaint home, Arthur started up the oven, put on a Gordon Ramsey cooking video, and broke out the entire seasoning cabinet. If only he could figure out where he left the blasted cutting board…

"Bounjour, mon ami~" came France's god-forsaken voice, threatening the sanctity of Arthur's precious kitchen.

Curses! He had left the window ajar to alleviate the oven's stifling heat. A pox on that damn frog-eater! Maybe if Arthur stayed quiet, he might go away…

"Britain, come now, zhat is no way to treat your guest! Or 'as it become tradition to let such gorgeous visitors as myself freeze to death in zhe snow?"

"What a load of bullocks. Ugh, fine," the green-eyed country huffed, opening the door. "I don't know why you bothered coming over. I can hardly imagine you want a cup of my famous tea. What's your game, France?"

"Francois, you mean. Oui, mon cheri, I over'eard zhat you were attempting to cook for l'Amerique. It is true, non?"

Arthur automatically bristled in the face of impending unsavory commentary and tapped his foot.. "Yes, it's true. If you've got a problem with that, I suggest you leave at once. I'll not have some foppish ninny ruin my surprise!"

Ever the charmer, Francis rolled his eyes and removed his cornflower blue cape with expert flourish. "Non. Je vais vous aider."

"Come again?" Before the Brit could protest, his longtime friend/rival had donned one of his best aprons and adjusted the oven knobs. "You're not going to tell me this is a terrible idea? Or laugh at me for trying?"

"Oh, but I shall laugh. It's sweet. Everybody knows 'ow much you adore zhat bratty, bespeckled country. You'll go through wizh it anyway; I may as well make sure zhat you do not burn your 'ouse to zhe ground."

Arthur frowned and thought for a moment. However much he wished to deny it, the Frenchman was actually being quite considerate. And he could use the help. "But," his lingering pride insisted, "it has to be my gift; you can't take over the whole bloody thing!"

"Non," Francis agreed patiently. "Allons, I will give you instructions and watch you try. Zhen I will give you zhe pointers."

The next half hour was a slew of commands, sass, and unnecessarily cruel denunciations of Arthur's limited spice cabinet.

"Tell me, 'ow is it you 'ave a cocoa-infused paprika blend and no herbes de Provence?"

"Oi! That was a gift from Chile!"

"Zhe country or zhe spice?" Francis deadpanned.

Their banter continued as they waited for the chicken to be done baking. Unfortunately for Arthur, Francis had insisted that they play cards to alleviate his boredom. What he predicted to be a victorious bout of rummy dissolved into a three-round losing streak.

"I call a rematch after dinner!" he demanded.

"And 'ere I zhought you wanted to kick me out," Francis laughed.

His merry delight stopped abruptly the moment Arthur even opened the oven. "Mon dieu, c'est ruiné!"

Arthur peered at the golden brown bird in question. "What's wrong? It didn't even burn this time! I did what you told me to, you twit. If it's anyone's fault, it's yours!"

The chicken did smell a little different, but not terrible. He prodded it with his fork and carving knife and ripped off a small chunk of the thigh to taste. As soon as the meat touched his lips, Arthur's face turned red with shame.

"I-I thought I pulled out the salt jar."

"Sucre. Un chef devrait connaître sa propre cuisine. What a waste."

"Speak English, moron." Arthur's mood was becoming increasingly fowl by the minute. Francis made the wise decision to make his excuses and leave before he could laugh and incur the Brit's wrath. He promised they would try again the next day. And this time, he would provide the correct ingredients.

2

The next afternoon, France called Britain with a tempting suggesting: perhaps they should try to cook at his place instead.

Arthur heavily considered it, but after a moment's thought, he knew it wouldn't do. He had set out to succeed on his own for the real date and that's just what he intended to do. If they worked in a different kitchen this time, he would just get confused.

Francis brought herbes de Provence, fresh butter, and a much smaller hen than the one Arthur had used the previous night.

This time, they got through the practice round with few setbacks. Once the chicken was in the oven at last, Francis started asking the hard questions.

"Britain-what are you serving on zhe side?"

"On… the side?"

"Oui, chicken alone is not a meal, unless you are some kind of barbarian. Oh, j'ai oublié, you are."

"Ha ha," Arthur countered. Gordon Ramsey had served his chicken with lemon-glazed asparagus. "Hmm, I doubt Alfred would much appreciate any overt vegetables. Perhaps string beans…"

"Look on zhe bright side; you aren't cooking for a country wizh a refined palette," Francis quipped. His face turned more thoughtful as he brought his hands to his hips. "I know I will regret asking zhis, but… what is it you see in zhat boy?"

Arthur stopped scrubbing the seasoning bowl. "Alfred may be annoying and childish sometimes-and he's obnoxiously loud-and he constantly insists on being the hero… but that's part of his charm."

If the Frenchman's arched brown gave any indication, Arthur had failed to make a valid point.

"It's just-he's so vibrant. So full of energy."

"Ah, oui. Youth will give you zhat."

The image of Alfred's sky blue eyes came to mind and made Arthur smile. "He's determined to help everyone, and even if he cocks it up half the time, the intention is there."

"I suppose I see what you mean. L'amour is a gift zhat only zhe be'older can truly comprehend. In her own way, Jeanne was just zhe same. Not a day goes by zhat I don't remember her courage and strength. Of course, she was never 'alf as brazen as votre Amerique, but she had an unbreakable spirit."

Arthur blinked. "Francis. You two weren't…?"

"Not 'ow you think, mon ami, get your 'ead out of zhe gutter. Our love was fleeting, like two spirits mingling on the wings of time, pure and beautiful… I will treasure those moments always."

It was always far too jarring or sobering to think of their quasi-immortality as countries. As such, Arthur did his best to avoid it as much as possible. He considered himself lucky to love someone in the same state as himself. Francis' pain sounded unbearable.

"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled. "It must have been difficult for you when she was killed."

"It was."

An awkward silence followed. Arthur wondered if he ought to offer some words of comfort to his friend. It was so strange to think of the flirtatious nation as anything other than a notorious playboy, much less someone whose heart had secretly been lost long ago.

Thankfully, the oven timer saved Arthur from having to say anything. He paused when opening the oven to look inside. This was it: his last trial run. It had to be perfect this time. If it wasn't… he supposed he could cover the table in English roses. Decoration had to count for something, right?

"It needs more time to cook," Francis insisted, flicking the meat thermometer. "Should be 73 degrees, to be safe. You don't want 'im to zhrow up your Christmas dinner."

The Frenchman's mobile rang just then, jovially playing his favorite romantic theme. Arthur rolled his eyes. And to think, he had taken Francis seriously for a second there.

"'Allo? Oui, mon petit lapin, c'est moi. Sacrebleu! Où est-ce?"

Arthur stared at the temperature gauge impatiently. As much as he wished he could understand what the frog was saying, he certainly wasn't going to learn French any time soon. He did understand one phrase, though, only because often France used it to refer to Canada.

When he finally ended the call, Arthur huffed in annoyance. "What's wrong with Matthew?"

"I completely forgot; I promised I would be zhere to watch mon Matheiu's hockey game."

Wrinkling his nose, Arthur shuddered. "What a violent sport. Don't the players get a ton of injuries?"

"Oui, but they are so sexy when they fight!" Francis threw the Brit a saucy wink and sashayed out the door. "Bien chance, mon ami! Zhink about zhose side dishes. I can send you instructions if you like."

"Whatever. Tell Matthew I wish him good luck." Fat lot of good it might do halfway through the game, but still.

The coat rack tipped precariously where Francis had whisked his cape away. When Arthur knelt to right it up, he noticed one of Alfred's hoodies had fallen on the floor.

A smile lit up his face as he picked up the green garment and hung it lovingly back on the hook. While Alfred usually preferred his classic bomber jacket, he sometimes donned casual-wear to Arthur's house. The thought that the American felt so comfortable at his house made him feel stupidly giddy.

Once, he would have chastised the younger nation for leaving his house without a coat, thinking only of his health and safety in the cold winter wind. Well, he could still yell at him. But secretly, he didn't mind one bit that Alfred left a piece of clothing: a small reminder that smelled like him.

Oh God, he prayed that Francis never found out about his mushy side. He would never hear the end of it.

France. Cooking. Chicken. Burning.

Burning!?

A string of unreadable curse words left the blonde's mouth. He rushed into the kitchen, withering at the stench of heavy smoke. Accepting yet another failure, he turned off the oven, ditched the charred, fowl-smelling disaster, and opened all the windows on the lower floor. The fire alarm went off (a bit delayed, now that he thought of it) and so he had to wave a towel underneath to stop the blasted racket.

It looked like he would be eating the Cup-Noodles Yao had given him as stocking stuffers, aptly labeled "for emergencies."

Resigned to the couch. Arthur spend the rest of the evening in his jammies watching Doctor Who reruns and drinking chamomile tea to soothe his frazzled nerves.

1

The long-awaited day had finally arrived.

Arthur wasn't ready.

He had all his ingredients. He had Francis' detailed instructions. He had not told the French nation about his failure, though something in the frog's tone of voice suggested that he knew. The idiot spent half of their brief phone conversation spewing nonsense about hot hockey players rather than focusing on the Maple Leafs' Phyrric victory (in which more than half of Matthew's team members were severely injured).

The more important half of the conversation was a debate over whether or not Arthur should go with a simple starch like mashed potatoes or make something more suited to Alfred's taste, like a healthy version chips. Francis swore that if Arthur touched the air fryer without supervision, he would prank call the British firefighters to prevent them from saving Arthur's burning house. Because he "deserved 'is fate."

Arthur did it anyway.

It wasn't so terrible, really. All he had to do was season the potatoes and zucchini and lay them out nicely in the fryer.

And instead of baking the hen whole, he cut the meat into strips and breaded it, going for a pan-fry. Nobody could argue with the British fry-up. Just like making breakfast.

Everything was just about done, Arthur thought gleefully. Until he checked the clock.

Damn. Only twenty minutes until Alfred arrived and he smelled like sweat and fried food. Arthur hightailed it into the shower straight away.

He had just finished toweling off when the younger nation rang the doorbell.

"Hang-on!" he shouted, pulling on his trousers. Not such a great idea when trying to walk down the stairs.

When at last he got to the door, Arthur froze. What if he didn't like it?

"Yo, Artie, ya in there, dude? I can see the lights, man."

Arthur's hand trembled when he turned the doorknob. "Oh. Hello there, America. I didn't expect you to be on time."

"Hey, you said there'd be food! And what's with the formal names? Ooh, nice train!"

The blue-eyed nation was admiring Arthur's window set-up, complete with a long toy locomotive. It chugged around the custom track and played a soft, jolly carol.

After a moment, Arthur cleared his throat. "Erm, are you hungry?"

"Starving, man!"

"Alright. Just… wait here one moment." Still slightly dazed, Arthur plated the food and placed it on his dining room table, which was already decorated and lit up for dinner. Alfred's Christmas presents were nestled under the tree. They hadn't really discussed whether or not they'd exchange presents on Christmas or beforehand. And Arthur hadn't thought of exactly what he wanted to say…

"Whoa."

The American's surprise entrance nearly made Arthur jump out of his skin. "A-Alfred. Here, please sit down." Remembering his inner gentleman, the older nation held out a chair for his guest. Alfred looked puzzled but he followed along.

"This looks great, Artie. Thanks for making dinner."

Arthur blushed. Now came the real test; did it taste nearly as good as anything Francis could have made? It truly was a simple meal: seared meat and fried vegetables.

To his dismay, Alfred's eyes bulged out when he tried the first piece of chicken. Arthur swallowed. It must be that bad.

"Hey, this is just like McDonalds, only healthy!" Alfred's voice shook with enchanting excitement. "There's like, way less oil and stuff."

"It's alright," Arthur sighed, "you don't have to humor me, Alfred. I'm sure it's terrible, as usual."

"I'm serious, dude! It doesn't even need ketchup."

Arthur dropped his fork with a loud clatter. That, coming from this American, was one of the highest compliments his cooking could receive. "Are you sure…?"

"Yeah! Did you try it yet?"

Ever so hesitant, the British nation gnawed on a piece of chicken. Wow. Way to go, Gordon Ramsey. Francis would eat his words tomorrow, mwahahahaha!

"Zucchini fries are totes gonna be the latest thing, just wait. I'd post this on my Insta, but I know how you feel about phones at the table."

"I-I'm so glad you like it."

"Why'd ya go and make American-style food? I didn't think it was your thing."

"Oh. Well, I thought you would prefer something more familiar. I suppose it isn't the most original. I even got the damn hen from France."

Alfred laughed and scooted his chair all the way from the guest spot at the end of the table over Arthur's side. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble, y'know. I'm always down for bangers and mash."

Now Arthur was just confused. "I thought you hated my food."

"Bruh. You know the reason everyone makes fun of your cooking is your crap scones, right? You make other stuff just fine. Why d'ya think my peeps build Brit-sytle pubs in our cities?"

It warmed Arthur's heart that Alfred and his people enjoyed British food and culture beyond their wonderful drinks.

"You shouldn't let Francey-pants get to you so much. You've got lots of great stuff!" When he leaned over to kiss Arthur's cheek, the Brit just about lost it.

"Doyouwanttogooutwithmemaybe?"

"Uh. What?"

Arthur calmed his nerves with a sip of lukewarm water. "Do you… want to go out... with me?"

"Um." Alfred blinked at him, his eyes gleaming like a summer morning. "Aren't we going out already?"

"Come again?"

"Oooohhhhhh. Did you not think last time was a date because I didn't give you a goodnight kiss? I would have, really, but I had a cold sore. Exchanging germs is not cool, man."

If he understood the American correctly, he thought they had been dating this whole time! Since when!? So many questions flooded Arthur's mind that he couldn't pinpoint the right thing to ask first.

Good thing he didn't have to. Never before had he been so grateful for his Alfred's forward nature. The taller blonde gently pulled him into a sweet kiss that made his knees go weak.

"Hey, Artie," he whispered, "wanna be my boyfriend? All official-like?"

"Nothing would make me happier."

Their kisses tasted of Christmas cheer and zucchini fries. Arthur could have flown to the moon and back on these feelings.

They lingered in the kitchen for a while until Alfred demanded that they play Mariokart on his Switch.

"Thanks again for dinner, babe."

Arthur was going to thank him, but instead he cursed because the American had used his distraction to snag Yoshi.

"Your language is fowl-er than the food!."

"I've made that pun so many times, I'd like to throw it out the window."

"I'll help ya out, Artie!." Alfred stuck his tongue out to the side and grabbed the imaginary ball that was Arthur's punny nightmare. With his strong pitcher's arm, he knocked it out of the figurative park.

"Thank you, love."

Softer yet, so that either of them could barely hear it, he added, "you really are my hero."

Omake!

The next day...

Britain sat down at his office desk with a hot morning cuppa. He opened his laptop screen and loaded the Google Translate page. Try as he might, he simply could not relieve his curiosity. What exactly had France been saying to him before?

It wasn't like he would stoop so low as to use romantic French words as pick up lines on America. Nooooo.

Je vais vous aider he typed out. His spelling was horribly botched, but thankfully Google understood what he was trying to say.

"I'll help you. Hmm, boring. Next."

He tried to remember what the Frenchman had said next. Something about sugar and a chef. He typed in the first few words and searched for common sayings. Un chef devrait connaître sa propre cuisine-that sounded right~

"A cook should know his own kitchen... WHAT THE HELL, YOU BLOODY WANKER!"

Classic USUK with a side of FrUK bromance and a dash of Joan. What's not to love?

Feel free to spread some holiday cheer in the comments if you like. Any and all flames will fuel the fire by which my characters snuggle with their significant others.

Happy hols and best of luck coming up with your New Year's resolutions!