My entry for the second round, UsUk, of Fanime-Sensei Strikes Back's Hetalia Romance contest! I know I'm submitting on the deadline again, but ah well! As long as I make it! :D

READ THIS:

France in here uses 'ze' for 'the', and 'zat' for 'that'. Just so you know. :3

Enjoy~

…xXx…

*tap, tap tap*

A dozen or so countries had gone with Britain back to his home after the world meeting for a night of playing cards and relaxation. Many preferred the older, Victorian age home to the local hotels anyway, and the gentleman didn't mind entertaining. Austria and Switzerland had followed Germany over, with Spain stalking the Italy brothers, and China tagging along with Japan. Canada and Russia, who had recently started dating, also came with France and, of course, America.

He's so cute today. His hair looks so soft . . . I wonder if he used any gel.

"Come on! The Volkswagen Bug is a classic!" Austria fought.

"Dude, the Firebird eats your Bug for breakfast."

*ta-tap*

Oh, and his clothes—when did he start wearing skinny jeans? They look good on him.

"I say Audi. The R8 is wunderbar."

"Ve~! I agree with Germany."

*tap tap*

I think he might have overdone it a bit with his cologne. I can smell his signature Calvin all the way over here.

"Stupid brother! That piece of junk can't even compare to the Ferrari 458!"

"In my opinion, ze sexiest car is definitely ze Bugatti Veyron, oh hon."

*tap*

Where's Texas? Maybe he got contacts or something, his eyes do look a little bluer than usual. Wait, nevermind, they're on the table.

"Da, but that car is insane."

"Hehe . . . Kind of like you, eh, Ivan?"

"Hai. What do you think, England?"

The country in question blinked, pausing in his pen tapping. He finally tore his gaze away from the American sitting across from him and turned to Japan on his left. "Huh?"

"What do you think is the best car ever made?" Canada said with a smile.

"Oh, that's easy. The Aston Martin DB5. You can't beat James Bond." Several of the countries murmured in agreement and went back to chatting amongst themselves. England set down his pen and glanced around, asking, "How did we even get on this subject?"

"Were you too busy over there drooling to pay attention?" France mocked, grinning knowingly at him.

He blushed in embarrassment at all of the stares he was getting and stood up. He cleared his throat, ignoring the Frenchman. "How about I go make us some snacks?"

"NO!"

"What? Why not?"

"I'll go help him." France chuckled nervously and got up swiftly, ushering the Brit toward the kitchen. He glanced back at everybody as they all gave a sigh of relief.

They entered the kitchen and England instantly pulled away from the man, not really thrilled that they were touching. He turned to face the Frenchman. "Why did everyone freak out back there? Did they not want snacks?" France facepalmed as he walked over to the cupboard. "What? Should I make them tea instead?"

"You can make ze tea, whilst I make ze snacks," he said firmly, mumbling something about how he might as well just feed everyone charcoal.

The Brit grimaced a bit but got out his kettle and tea set anyway. Maybe I should make Earl Grey, he thought, filling the kettle with water. Everybody likes Earl Grey. Except America. Maybe I should make him some coffee instead . . . Ugh, I don't even know how he can drink that foul stuff.

"Yo, Britain!"

Lost in his thoughts, the Englishman nearly dropped his kettle in fright when America swung in around the doorframe. He quickly set the water down on the burner and whirled around to face the loud country. He couldn't help but look the man up and down, his eyes wandering over the white cotton T-shirt hugging his abs and the snakeskin cowboy boots that his skinny jeans disappeared into. The blonde snapped his eyes up, not wanting to get distracted. "W-What, America?"

The American was still hanging off the archway. "Do you have any of that Jasmine stuff you were telling me about last time? I heard China sayin' it was pretty killer so I want to try it."

"Yeah, I think I might have a jar of it," he said, gesturing blindly towards some pantries as he stared into those bright blue eyes.

"Thanks, Iggy." America gave him a blinding smile, winking at him before vanishing out the doorway.

England reminded himself to breathe. He winked at me. Why did he wink at me? His heart was pounding and his hand shook as he moved to flip on the stove. And he called me that damnable nickname again. He makes me sound like I'm a kitten. He stared at the kettle for a few moments, his mind racing, and he didn't even notice France's hand on his shoulder until the man spoke.

"Could you be any less obvious?" he said, shaking his head.

The gentleman pulled out of the man's grasp once again, huffing, and went in search of the Jasmine tea leaves.

"Ah, you really are hopeless, mon ami," he muttered, earning a glare from the Brit. "Why don't you just ask him out already?"

That made the blood rush into his cheeks against his will. He snuck a glance back up at the Frenchman, embarrassed to see the man staring at him with a smirk. "I don't know what you're talking about, frog," he hissed defensively, moving to another cupboard.

"Come now, don't tell me you forgot you admitted your little crush for America to me?" the bearded man cooed. He dodged a box of baking soda thrown at him, chuckling at the Brit's red face.

"Shh!" England moved to grip the man's collar, pulling him close and lowering his voice. "What if someone hears you? And the fact is I didn't admit anything! You asked and I said it was none of your damn business! And it isn't!"

"Which means it's true."

"I-I . . . um . . ."

The Frenchman looked at him victoriously, getting another green-eyed glare. He pulled away, releasing the man's shirt and straightened his own. He looked down at his shoes, unable to remove the blush staining his cheeks. "Y-You don't have to rub it in, you bloody crouton."

"Aww, but you are so cute when you get all . . . flustered." France wiggled his eyebrows at him.

"I'm not getting flustered!" The Frenchman gave him a look and he spun around, going back to looking for the tea leaves. He gave a wave of his hand. "Besides, it's not like he would want to go out with someone like . . . me." England instantly turned sullen, pausing in his search.

"Here we go," France murmured to himself. He plastered on a sympathetic look and bent down beside the Englishman, patting the man's back. "Now what kind of attitude is zat? Of course he wouldn't, not with you acting like zat. But—seriously! You haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

The bearded man poked his nose. "He's sweet on you, mon cher~"

The gentleman gave another blush, smacking France's finger away. "N-No, he is not," he protested. The Brit gave a sigh of relief when he spotted the bright yellow container of Jasmine. For a while there he thought maybe he'd run out of the stuff, and he really didn't feel like seeing America's disappointed face—especially those puppy eyes. Whose heart didn't drop at the sight of those baby blues?

". . . terre . . . Anglettere!" England's eyes widened and he turned back to focus on the Frenchman beside him. The man gave a sigh, saying, "You really need to stop daydreaming. You didn't even hear me, did you?"

The Englishman tilted his chin up in defiance, standing and setting the leaves on the counter. He stood on his tiptoes, reaching for some cups as the kettle began to steam. "Why are you being such a bother, anyway? Weren't you—since apparently I'm incapable—going to make some snacks?"

"I already did," France said, pointing at a tray of sliced up cheese and ring bologna with crackers.

"I could have made that!"

"You would have found some way to poison it. Anyway, I'm not bothering you; I'm helping you because you are no fun to pick on when you're acting like your ass just sunk into ze Atlantic."

England muttered an insult at him, and started counting to make sure he had enough of the clear teacups. "6, 7 . . . Oh, yeah? And what makes you think I need help from a snail-snapper like you? 11 . . . 12, 13. Perfect."

"You suck at love." France rolled his eyes and picked up the large tray of snacks. The Brit looked ready to strangle him. Good. That meant he was at least listening. "All I was going to say is zat if you don't want to ask him out then . . . you know, MAKE him love you."

The Englishman froze, turning his narrow gaze on the bearded man. "Have you gone mad? You can't just make someone love you!"

"Oh, yes you can, Angleterre." France began to walk back to the sitting room with the food, giving him a wink that mirrored America's. "With a bit of magic, anything is possible."

"What?" England watched in puzzlement as the man left the kitchen. What on Earth is he talking about? Magic? How am I supposed to use magic to . . . Green eyes widened in realization and he gasped.

A love potion?

"Are you talking about a love potion?" he called out. He could hear France humming from the hallway. He took off after him as a low whistling sounded behind him, an excited smile growing.

If he could slip a love potion into America's tea, then he would at least have a chance at being with him! America would drink the potion and then he would be falling head over heels for the first person he looked at—who England was going to make sure it was himself. Why didn't I think of it before?

He slid to a stop right in front of the Frenchman as he came back out of the sitting room with empty arms. The Brit clapped him on the shoulders, surprising them both.

"That's a brilliant idea! For once you have a stroke of genius, old chap."

"I don't know whether to thank you or hit you, Angleterre."

"Neither, preferably. Now I must go find the potion; I'm sure I've got one somewhere . . ." The Englishman spun around and took off for the basement, the whistling becoming increasingly louder from behind him.

France shook his head at the man's eagerness and ran into the kitchen, quickly moving the kettle to the rack and turning off the stove. "I swear," the Frenchman murmured to himself as the whistling died down. "Only you could burn water."

England burst through the heavy wooden doors that led to his basement, his shoes smacking on the cold stone as he flew down the wide staircase. A wave of musty, chilled air hit him as he sprung off the bottom step. The familiar cavern was already lit with a yellow glow by hundreds of candelabras lining the wall, continuously burning thanks with the help of some spell casting. His magic circle carved itself into the gray stone in the center of the room with runes of all shape and origins.

But what he was looking for was off to his left, in one of the many shelves that held spell books, ingredients with magical properties, and, of course, potions.

The Brit skipped over to the potion section in his shelving and bent down. He skimmed through the different shaped vials and tubes, striking colors of liquid held within them—bright neon blue, grotesque and bubbly violet, and opaque white. None of these were what he was looking for, though. He frowned in concern as he scanned through the vials again, pushing some out of the way.

Do I not have it? he thought. His heart gave a painful thump as he felt his hope slithering away. The gentleman moved to the ingredient section, checking to see if it was misplaced. I've probably hidden it away somewhere. It is a powerful tonic after all.

He sighed in disappointment as he came up empty, shooing away a bothersome spider. The black body of the arachnid bobbed a moment as it crawled back in front of him, catching his eye. The spider bounced once more before scampering over to a small hole in the rock wall.

England lifted his hand warily and—waiting until the spider moved out of the way—poked his finger into the hole and pushed. A small click sounded and then a whirring as the stone next to his finger popped out and slid to the side. The secret compartment revealed a clear, thin bottle with a dark ruby liquid inside, a sharpie drawn heart on the glass. Yep, this was the love potion. Even looking at it was alluring.

He reached inside and grabbed the potion, the vial warm to the touch, and nearly fainted with relief.

The Englishman pushed the button again so the stone slid back into place and looked down at the tiny arachnid again. "Thanks, little guy," he said gratefully before standing up and heading back over to the staircase.

His mind slowed as the rest of him ran to get back to the kitchen as fast as he could without tripping on the stairs. Should he really be doing this? Once he gave America the potion there would be no turning back and he would have to deal with all of the consequences that came about. But . . .

America wouldn't really love me, would he?

England's feet slowed a bit as he moved past the sitting room and he peaked in the doorway. Everyone was talking and having a good time while they played a round of poker—until America layed out a Full House. Many of the players threw down their cards and groaned. Spain instantly layed out his cards, though, and made sure to rub his Straight Flush in the American's face. America complained childishly and some of the countries laughed at him, like Russia and China. Romano punched the Spaniard in the arm, yelling something about how he was a cheating bastard. The man just grinned and reached for the money on the coffee table.

Switzerland held up his hand to stop the man, making everyone turn to him. He cleared his throat and, still keeping his poker face on, layed out each of his cards. A ten of diamonds, a Jack of diamonds, a Queen of diamonds . . . Everybody gasped in disbelief as he layed the last two cards—a King and Ace of diamonds—and said, "Royal Flush."

The Brit let a quiet chuckle escape him as everyone cheered, some "oh's" thrown in there for Spain as he looked crestfallen. Austria patted the smiling Swiss as he reached for the pile of coins. America let out that loud, hulking laugh of his, already over the fact that he lost.

He turned away from the door and walked back towards the kitchen. It was good to see everyone getting along, even it was just for the moment. They all needed a breather once in a while, which is why he had invited some of them to come over. His house was always more homely when he had others over and he enjoyed the lively company.

What the heck? Might as well give it a shot, he thought with a newfound resolve, glancing down at the potion in his hand. Though he would never admit it aloud, quite a few of his spells didn't even work so what was the harm in trying? Love potions were complicated enough to make as it is and if he had made even a tiny mistake during the process then the whole thing would be a useless dud. And if it didn't work, then he would get America to love him the hard way!

But there was still that little throb of doubt in the back of his mind telling him what he was doing was wrong.

"What took you so long!" The gentleman snapped out of his thoughts and looked up to see France standing on a stool in front of one of his cupboards. The bearded blonde looked down at him with a frustrated expression.

"Is there a problem?" he asked slowly, not really sure what to expect.

"Ze problem is obvious!" the Frenchman huffed, throwing his hands up in the air in contempt and gesturing to the entire room. "You. Have. No. Wine."

England scoffed and stepped over to his silver tray of cups. "Of course I do, I'm not that tacky." He paused in surprise as he looked down at the cups. They were already all filled with the steaming, warm yellow liquid, little white flowers floating neatly in the middle. "Did you pour the tea? And why are you looking for wine, aren't you having any? Jasmine is delicious."

"I did pour ze tea, you meanie. Making me do all ze work . . . And yes, Jasmine is good and your tea is one of the few things that you make without charring ze hell out of it—ugh, why am I being so nice today?" France smacked his temple as he stepped down from the stool. He muttered a few unintelligible things in French before turning to him. "Zat is not why I'm looking for ze wine, though. I don't really feel like getting your potion mixed up with my cup and accidentally drinking it and falling in love with your tasteless ass."

Both countries shivered at the thought.

"Anyway," France continued, "did you find ze potion?"

England held up the clear bottle, the burgundy liquid sparkling with flecks of light from the window. The bearded man's blue eyes lightened as he took the potion from him, holding it up for inspection. "This is ze real thing?" he asked, pointing at it in wonder. "How does it work, exactly?"

The Brit gave a curt nod. "Well, all I have to do is slip it into America's tea and make sure that I'm the first person he sees after he drinks it. It'll be sweet, just like the tea, so he won't even know." The man's voice was low as he explained the potion to the Frenchman, his eyes on his shoes.

France didn't fail to notice this, and he clapped his hand on the man's shoulder. "Are you alright? You know you don't have to do this if you really don't want to, Angleterre," he said, holding up the vial.

"No, no . . . I'm fine," England murmured. He gave a deep breath before taking the potion back from the Frenchman slowly. Not giving himself another chance to second guess what he was doing, he spun around and pulled the cork from the bottle. A misty, white smoke escaped after the cork, fizzing and sparking into a heart shaped cloud before dissipating. He cautiously tipped the container on the edge of one of the teacups, letting a single drop fall into the flowery liquid. Placing the cork back into the top of the potion, he turned to set the potion on the counter, catching France looking at him weirdly.

"Zat's it?" he asked incredulously. "You're not going to use ze whole thing?"

"What, were you expecting fairies to come dancing out of the potion, singing a gleeful song about l'amour whilst mermaids swam around in the cup and cheered me on?" The Brit raised an eyebrow at him sarcastically. "And if I used the whole bottle I might as well just feed him acid and subjugate the whole world to a lascivious American who gropes anything he sees. Kind of like you, nancy-boy."

France stuck his tongue out at him childishly. "Fine, do whatever you want, saluad," the man said, twisting around and walking toward the hallway. "I'll find ze wine later. I'm going to hang out with Antonio—I like him better, anyway."

England rolled his eyes, taking a sip of the flavorful Jasmine out of his own teacup, and picked up the heavy tray of cups carefully. He waited a few seconds, making sure everything was stable and, keeping one eye on the potion tainted cup and one on his feet, made his way back to the sitting room behind France. The countries gathered on couches and cushioned chairs around the coffee table all looked up at him as he entered and he gave a small smile.

A spot was cleared on the table for him and he set the tray down gingerly on the mahogany. As soon as it was safe, he picked up the potion infected cup, making sure no one took it as everyone grabbed their share of tea, thanking him, and walked the short distance to where the American was sitting on the floor beside the couch Russia and Canada occupied.

His heart began to flutter rapidly as he knelt in front of him, the man giving him that pearly smile again. He found his cheeks heating up slightly as he looked at that tussled blonde hair again, those sparkling blue eyes who sat behind Texas, concealing themselves once more.

"Iggy?"

England shook his head, his hand holding the tea trembling as he handed the loud country the cup. I shouldn't be doing this, he thought sadly. Green orbs peaked through his lashes as America thanked him, saying something about how it smelled fruity. The Brit shook his head once more as the man in front of him lifted the cup to his lips.

A sudden urge overtook him and he placed his hand over the cup, stopping him.

"Wait!"

I can't do it.

"What's the matter?" America gave him a quizzical stare, lowering the potion from his mouth.

"Don't drink it." He looked up at him pleadingly.

The American gave him a confused, determined look. "Why not? I wanna try it."

I can't force you to love me.

"Please stop!" The Englishman yanked the cup away from his former colony, the tea sloshing precariously close to the top. The blonde stared at him wide-eyed, making his heart sink in defeat. "The cup ha-has a crack on it so I-I'll get you a new one," he sputtered, standing up hastily and rushing out of the room. He could feel everyone's eyes on him.

The Brit sprinted to the kitchen and practically threw the tea into the sink, hearing the cup shatter against the stainless steel. He turned the hot water on full blast, letting it wash away the smaller pieces and the last remnants of the foul substance down the drain while he picked up the larger cuts of glass and tossed them into the basket beneath the sink.

The Englishman slammed his hands down on the counter angrily, feeling his eyes begin to prick with tears. "Bollocks, I can't do it!" he shouted into the sink, his voice echoing back loudly around him.

"Well, zat's apparent, isn't it?" a voice said from behind him.

England shut off the water and dried his hands, pausing a moment. His muscles were tense, his nerves frayed from the attempted 'poisoning' of his crush. He took a shaky breath and tried to calm himself, calling out, "Go away. I don't feel like talking, Francis."

The voice sighed and movement was heard behind him. "Where's your wine?"

"Bottom pantry, in the back on the right there's a bottle of pinot noir, 17 . . . 1776."

"Well now," France began, his searching audible. "It's obvious zat you've been saving this particular bottle for a special occasion."

"That occasion will never come," England whispered, his voice thick. He blinked rapidly, fighting away potential tears, and reached in his cupboard for another teacup and a wine glass.

There was silence for awhile as the gentleman prepared another cup of Jasmine for the American, aside from a small 'ah ha' from the Frenchman when he found the bottle.

"Why couldn't you go through with it?" the man asks leisurely.

England glared at the kettle in his hands. He bloody sounds as if he's asking about the weather! "Because," he began gruffly, "I just couldn't. I can't make him love me—I'll just end up hurting him in the end."

"What if he knew about it?" France asked provokingly, his words hitting a nerve.

His lip quivered against his will as a couple tears streaked down his flushed cheeks. His eyes burned and he sniffled, desperately trying to keep from breaking down. He gave up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeves frantically. "Oh, sod it! Even if he drank the damn thing there's no way someone like him would ever fall for . . . f-for . . ." His words came out in gasps as he cried into his hands, his shoulders rocking.

France exhaled in frustration behind him, shouting, "Oh, merde—Would you just turn around already?"

England whipped around furiously but stopped, the barrage of insults he was ready to scream at the man dissolving off his tongue as he paled in dismay. Heart nearly beating out of his chest, his tears continued to fall from emeralds as they met hidden sapphires.

America pushed away from the counter opposite him and crossed the tile over to the Englishman. Large hands reached out and cupped his wet cheeks as the man ducked down, pressing soft lips against his own.

Wha . . ?

Shocked to the core, panicking, England lifted his own hands to push the man away. Instead, his palms seemed to snake up the country's T-shirt and shoulders, his fingers tangling themselves in that silky golden hair and pulling him deeper into the kiss. Heat spiked between them and he closed his eyes, just wanting to enjoy the moment in case it was real. His heart was soaring and he blissfully ignored everything around them. America pulled away for a second but found his lips claimed by the Brit once again as their lips grazed each other heatedly.

He's so sweet, like sugar.

The two finally broke apart, breathing heavily, and stared at each other in silence for a few minutes. America released his now dry cheeks and instead settled his hands around the Englishman's waist, the smaller blonde's arms around his neck. The man looked up into those blue orbs with a mixture of confusion and lust, not a trace of sadness left.

The American grinned at him and laughed. "I guess I finally got to try that tea!"

"W-What?" England panted, still trying to recover from their breath stealing kiss.

The taller country leaned down and kissed the man's forehead. "I can taste it on you," he joked, giving him a wink like earlier. He then turned more serious, giving a small squeeze to his hips. "If you wanted to be together so badly then why didn't you just ask?"

The gentleman blushed fully, his ears even turning red. "U-Um, I d-don't—!"

America leaned down next to the Brit's ear, his warm breath tickling the skin there as he spoke. "Or you could of confessed to me like the cute girls in Japan's animes do to the boy they love."

"I-I'm not a girl, though!"

"Haha, either way works for me."

"You . . . you git!"

"Ahem."

The couple both turned towards the Frenchman, parting from each other in embarrassment. America's left arm never left the Englishman's waist, however, nor did the crimson stain abandon his cheeks. France beamed at them triumphantly and held up the 1776 pinot noir.

"I believe this counts as a special occasion, oui?"

England managed a heartfelt smile and chuckled. He grasped the wine glass on the counter beside him and tipped it at the Frenchman, glancing up at his American to find him gazing down at him adoringly.

"Let's celebrate."

…xXx…

I hope you liked it at least a little bit! (hoping I make it to the next round)

Look up any of those cars at the beginning because they're all drool-worhty! Especially the Bug xD My current fascination is the R8, though, in case anyone cares (though I know you don't ;P)

Thank you for reading and review please!

~WhisperWeeper