How Not to Seduce An Englishman

-Busby's Teapot would like to stress that she owns this, but not Hetalia, if she did, well, Britain would take his shirt off-

Alfred sighed loudly, drumming his fingers on the desk and trying desperately hard to avoid meeting those hypnotic green eyes that he could feel glaring at him, their intensity burning the side of his face. Probably because America didn't do subtle, so it was pretty darn obvious he wasn't paying attention to Germany.

But little did the owner of those green eyes know, but America had a problem. And another huge huge dilemma on top of that problem, much bigger than whatever Germany was prattling on about…

Fortunately, America had come up with an awesomely heroic plan to deal with his problem.

Seduce Arthur within two weeks. Then it was his birthday and otherwise, Britain would avoid him until mid-way through August.

He couldn't wait that long, he wanted blissful happiness and he wanted it now.

It was going to be his birthday present for himself, just for being so awesomely heroic all of the time.

His dilemma was that he hadn't the faintest idea how to go about it. He was American, open about his feelings and his normal process would be to just walk up to whoever it was and ask them on a date.

But such boldness wouldn't work on Britain because he was well British. That meant sarcastic, prudish, emotionally retarded, closed-off, irritable, unromantic, sceptical, awkward and unsympathetic all in one unintentionally charming and handsome package.

In other words, without help, he was screwed.

Help! He scanned the meeting room, still avoiding Arthur's gaze, until his eyes landed on the answer to all his problems.

The country of romance.

France.

"First thing to remember: the English love to be surprised."

Arthur Kirkland was a sensible man. He dressed in tweeds and cords, drank tea, always carried his briefcase and had even had the swallow tattoo from his pirate days removed (he had kept the nautical star on his hip bone and Celtic knot on his shoulder as fond reminders of his wild youth).

The only time he wasn't even sensible was when he went out drinking. Particularly when he went out drinking in the bizarre trio he had formed with Prussia and Denmark.

And the day afterwards, he would spend huddled under his blankets shaking and cursing himself for being such a lightweight. People knew to avoid him on these days. Make that most people, because when Britain eventually slouched down to his kitchen intent on cooking himself a fry-up, despite it being three o'clock in the afternoon, he was faced with a tall blond.

America was cooking in his house.

"I'd better be hallucinating," he grumbled to himself, rubbing his temples and slouching over to turn on the kettle. The sound drew America from the fat spitting in the frying pan and he grinned at Arthur.

"Morning dude!" he greeted loudly.

Arthur winced, "What the bloody fuck are you doing in my house?"

"Well Gilbo"-Gilbo? Seriously, not even Gilbert called himself that-"Told me you went out drinking last night," he said, turning his back to Arthur as he fiddled with something on the counter top. "So I thought I'd surprise you and make you an awesome hangover cure."

He stepped aside and gestured to his creation with a flourish.

"The Heroic Hangover-Fighting English Breakfast Hamburger!"

America puffed his chest up proudly, interpreting Britain's silence as a positive.

Arthur wanted to cry. His delicious bacon, wonderful fresh eggs, magnificent mature cheddar and scrumptious sausages had been crammed onto a burger?

"What the hell have you done to my food?" he growled.

Alfred's bright smile faltered. "Err Arthur?"

He was ignored as the kettle finished boiling and Arthur prepared himself a cup of tea and sat down to drink it, fuming silently.

The culinary abomination was placed in front of him.

"Could you at least try it?" America asked pleading. Britain glanced at him wearily and was faced with America's wide-innocent eyes. He sighed heavily to himself – why was it he could never refuse that face?

He could feel his arteries clogging just looking at it.

Resigning himself to the inevitable murder of his taste buds, he gingerly lifted the burger to his mouth and took a bite. Alfred had sat down opposite him at the table and was leaning forwards, eyes shining in anticipation. Arthur chewed slowly, making a show of savouring the food.

Surprisingly, it actually tasted quite pleasant.

"Well?"

Britain looked up to see America's eager faces not six inches from his own.

"It's nice," he conceded, frowning slightly at the seeds atop the burger bun.

America really needed to stop smiling like that in such close proximity to him, he was starting to feel drunk again.

He also needed to stop cheering and dancing around Arthur's kitchen – he did still have his hangover after all.

"Now fuck off Alfred."

"Second: they liked being backed into a corner – it's kinky after all those years of dominance."

The following day, just before he went in to the G8 metting, Arthur received a bizarre phone call that went something along the lines of this:

"Hello?"

"ARTHUR MY EYES, THEY HAVE MELTED!"

"Hello Gilbert."

"SERIOUSLY I NEED TO GET VERY DRUNK, RIGHT NOW!"

"I can't, I have a meeting."

"SCREW YOU! I'LL ASK FRANCE!"

"France is here too."

"DAMN! Well I'll go ask Denmark then, HA!"

"Okay, bye then Gilbert."

"FUCK YOU LIMEY BASTARD!"

Britain just blinked as the dial tone sounded and with a shrug, entered into the conference room.

"Whoa Arthur dude, what was Gilbert so angry about?"

"He didn't say."

"Maybe it's something to do with Austria, after all, he was hiding from him at my house yesterday morning, was he not?" a familiar French voice joined in.

"Oh yeah, he was."

Arthur blinked in confusion – Alfred was at France's house? Why? As his brain filled with images of possibilities, many of which involved compromising situations that made his blood curdle, Germany called the meeting to order.

It was the typical disaster it always was – half of it was spent debating where the eight member was; Japan agreed with everything America said, no matter how illogical (how was exposing anyone to cosmic radiation going to help the world economies?); Italy got bored and started cooking some pasta in the corner; Germany was ignored as he tried to restore order; Russia just sat there being himself (i.e. very, very creepy) and Britain got into a very valid argument with France (he was not emotionally retarded, just because he didn't have the perverse impulse to make a move on everything that breathed!) – and by the end no progress had been made (unless you counted poor Germany's intensifying headache).

When he hadn't been arguing with Francis, Arthur had spent the meeting plagued by thoughts of what Alfred could have been doing at France's house in the morning. Especially since Alfred had visited him afterwards. He gnawed on his lip as he considered this again, loaded his notepad and pen into his briefcase, but was stopped from leaving the room by none other than the American.

Speak of the devil.

"Hey Arthur dude what you doing now?"

"Erm…" Britain blushed, subtly taking a step back as Alfred seemed a little too close for comfort.

Ever persistent however, America followed his movement.

"I- I hadn't really thought about it," he stuttered, backing away a little further.

"Well I found an awesome American restaurant here in Paris, if you'd like to join me?"

No matter how terrible American food was, it sounded far more appetising than the stuffy French cuisine Francis always tried to make him eat. (Snails? Really?) Unfortunately for Arthur, his answer caught in his throat and he could only answer with a small nod.

As his back hit the wall, he gulped, realising he couldn't get away, as Alfred moved ever closer, seemingly unaffected (Arthur was too agitated to notice the small blush on the American's cheeks) and he desperately tried to pull his gaze away from Alfred's blue eyes to look for an escape route.

With a sly smirk that one would have expected to see on Francis, Alfred leaned forward until his lips were barely brushing Arthur's ear.

"Good," he whispered huskily. With that, he was gone, leaving Britain in a frazzled state as he stared wide-eyed into the middle distance.

"Bloody, fucking ARSEHOLE!" he shouted, kicking the waste bin in his frustration.

He hated losing control of a situation like that.

And he hated America. Really. Especially the adverse effect he had on his normal bodily functions.

"Fuck."

"Thirdly: don't let his gentlemanly façade fool you, suggestive comments are the way forward."

Britain had contented himself with reading his book and sipping his tea in the shade of his back porch. The previous evening he had gone out with Gilbert (Denmark was busy for some reason), but he had barely finished one beer, spending much of his evening absentmindedly tearing up coasters and the label on his bottle during their conversation, Gilbert had taken great delight in telling him that this was a sign he was sexually frustrated. Arthur had blushed slightly and then asked Gilbert what was up when he called ("Roddy and Vash were…they were… MEIN GOTT, THAT POOR PIANO!").

Therefore, he was merely tired and not hungover, which was fortunate as he had Alfred and Matthew as guests (Alfred had insisted since they had another G8 meeting in Paris the following day, he would stay in Britain as he liked the food better (and he could also carry on with his attempted seduction) and poor Matthew didn't really have a choice in the matter).

The pair of them were playing a rather disastrous game of catch on the grass since it was a rare pleasant day. Sunbeams danced down on Arthur's enormous garden, illuminating the vibrant green foliage and a light breeze whistled through the trees in a gentle soothing song that was disturbed by Alfred shouting to him,

"YO! ARTIE, WANNA JOIN US?"

"I think I'll pass!" he called as the American jogged a little closer, eyes sparkling from the exertion. Britain suppressed a groan – when did he become so mushy?

Alfred winked slyly at him, "Are you sure? I'll let you be pitcher…"

He started choking on his tea, but was proud when he managed a strangled 'Yes I'm sure' in response.

"Aww," the tall blonde pouted. "I'll be gentle, I'm really good with balls."

Now a curious shade of purple, Arthur started choking on air (he would argue this takes some real skill) and tried to compose himself as best he could. He then threw his book at Alfred, missing the American completely before retreating inside to cook dinner, muttering curses under his breath.

…

After burning the sausages, the potatoes and a pan of boiling water, Arthur had given up trying to cook a meal for him and his guests and had ordered in a takeaway from the chip shop around the corner.

They sat in the garden, enjoying the beautiful hues the setting sun painted upon the sky and batting away the pesky flies as they ate.

Alfred had great fun eating his sausage, laughing as Arthur's face burned hotter than Matthew's vindaloo curry. He refrained from doing the same with each and every one of his chips, instead seeing how many suggestive comments he could fit into the meal, directed at the poor Englishman.

"Wow Arthur, you've got a lot of food there, we need to work that off later, huh?"

When he dropped his fork on his crotch: "Want me to kiss it better?"

When he started choking: "Don't worry Artie, I have an excellent gag reflex."

Poor Matthew sat there, picking at his curry, feeling very queasy as his brother's comments became progressively dirtier and Arthur's face became steadily redder.

As soon as he finished the last of his chocolate sponge ("This sauce is very moist, do you reckon it works as well as body cream does?") Arthur stood up quickly and retreated inside again. He could be heard stomping upstairs. Grinning, Alfred skipped inside after him, leaving Matthew to clear up.

"Maple."

He loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and was just placing the leftovers in the fridge when a loud shout broke through the otherwise silent house.

"NO YOU FUCKING GIT, I CAN GET A FUCKING SHOWER ON MY OWN!"

"Next: He acts like a prude, but he's secretly a pervert; he will love it if you show up at his house naked."

Tired and weary, Britain opened his front door, dropping his suitcase, kicking off his shoes and throwing his coat in the vague direction of the coat rack before trudging upstairs, his bed and sweet, sweet sleep being very enticing prospects.

After the rather interesting debacle of a further G8 meeting the day before (let's just say Arthur attempting to help Feliciano with his pasta and causing the pot to explode was the best thing that happened) and then spending the day with Gilbert trying to prevent Elizabeta from following Vash to Austria's house with her video camera whilst trying to be vague enough so as Liechtenstein's innocence remained intact (why Switzerland had let Prussia and Hungary babysit is a complete mystery), he was needless to say, utterly exhausted.

Not bothering to turn on the lights to his bedroom, he fumbled around in the dark, tugging off his tie and slipping out of his trousers and socks and then flopped onto his bed in his shirt and boxer shorts, sighing contentedly.

It was then he processed that there was someone else in the bed with him.

Turning over slowly, he was met with a pair of blue eyes that twinkled, even in the dark.

"Hi."

Arthur screamed (in a very manly way, of course), toppling out of bed and landing on the floor, tangled in the bed covers. He groped around on the table beside the bed until his fingers found the switch to turn on his small lamp.

Immediately he wished he hadn't.

Alfred was stretched out languidly on his bed and he was very, very naked.

Fuck.

"WHAT IN HELL'S NAME ARE YOU DOING, YOU FUCKER?"

Alfred just grinned lazily and Britain felt his throat constrict as he tried very hard not to let his eyes travel down that muscular chest, that toned stomach, that lar- oh shit, shit, shit!

He turned away, cheeks burning furiously and America smirked.

"Just put some fucking clothes on."

Smiling to himself, Alfred complied, sliding on his boxer shorts. Britain kept facing away from him, arms crossed as he stared steadfastly at his crimson wall.

"Are you done?"

"Yes."

Sighing in relief, Arthur turned around, only to promptly take in a sharp breath and flush as he was greeted with America's unfairly delightful chest (seriously it should be illegal for him to go shirtless).

"Oh for God's sake, put a shirt on you insufferable git!"

"Why, am I just that irresistible?"

"Of course, I can barely contain my desire," Arthur's reply was loaded with sarcasm. He managed to find Alfred's t-shirt on the floor and threw it at him.

No longer feeling quite so sleepy, the smaller blond pulled out a pair of loose cotton pyjama bottoms and tugged them on before unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wait, wait, how come you get to be shirtless?" Alfred protested; his blush barely noticeable in the half-light.

"It's my house."

"How does that work?!"

"It just does," Arthur muttered, clambering onto the four-poster bed.

Alfred averted his eyes away from his friend's lithe figure, instead staring awkwardly at one of the intricately carved posts, all his earlier confidence gone.

With a sigh, Arthur pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed, patting the spot beside him as invitation for the American.

"I have no guests beds prepared and it would be unfair to make you sleep on the couch or the floor," he explained at America's stunned expression. "There's plenty of room in here."

Alfred gulped – Arthur wanted to sleep in bed with him? His mind was screaming at him that being in bed with the man that he sort of, maybe loved whilst said man was wearing few enough clothes that it conjured up mental images of many unspeakable deeds was a terrible, terrible idea.

He slid into the bed as Arthur turned the lamp off and then both of them shifted until they were comfortable (and with plenty of space between them).

"Goodnight, git."

Staring up into the darkness, Alfred was so very aware of the warmth emanating from Arthur beside him. In his mind, he replayed all of his four failed attempts at following France's advice. Only one remained, and if that failed he was giving up.

Sighing, he turned to stare at the back of Arthur's head and the gentle movement of his breathing.

This was going to be a long night.

…

In the fuzziness of his still sleepy mind, it registered that his duvet was heavier and warmer than he remembered and that it also seemed to be breathing.

Then the events of the previous evening came to mind and Arthur frowned slightly, he really didn't know what had Alfred acting so France-like. He hoped it wasn't some practical joke. He didn't know what he would do if it was.

Slowly, so as not to wake the other blond, he wriggled around so he was face to face with the slumbering Alfred. He looked so peaceful and happy, his hair falling in his face and a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Arthur placed a gentle kiss on Alfred's nose and then carefully slipped out of the bed, padding downstairs so he could make breakfast.

He pulled some sausages and bacon from the fridge as well as some hash browns. When it came to his own food, he wasn't that bad of a cook (though things did often end up a little crispier than they were supposed to be) and the smell of the bacon was enticing enough to draw Alfred from his sleep (but, then again, pretty much any food could achieve this) and he soon appeared at the door to the kitchen, yawning widely.

"Morning."

He blinked and stared at Britain, slightly dumbstruck at the sight of him in his pink apron and pyjama bottoms, his lips quirked up in a lopsided grin and green eyes twinkling brightly.

"Yeah…"he replied eventually, "Morning."

"I made breakfast," Arthur said proudly, placing two plates of highly unhealthy English breakfast food on the table.

"Thanks!" Alfred said gratefully, grabbing his knife and fork to start shovelling his food unceremoniously into his mouth, earning an amused smile from Arthur who ate his more slowly, cutting up his food into bite-sized portions.

Since the previous two meetings had been even more unproductive than usual, France had called a third summit for the following day, and so Alfred decided to stay at Arthur's and spend the day with him, perhaps seeing the sights of London (again).

Catching Alfred eying his last bacon rasher, Arthur sighed, and pushed his plate over towards him. Alfred grinned and shoved the whole thing in his mouth, barely bothering to chew.

"You're an idiot," he said, shaking his head fondly.

Alfred winked, jokingly. "But ya love me anyway, huh?"

"God knows why."

"And last: the British only pretend to like their privacy, so if all else fails, go to a public place and be OBVIOUS. Confess your love for all to hear."

After getting Britain to himself for a whole day, Alfred was on cloud nine. They had spent their time ambling around London, laughing and bickering about silly things. Francis' last piece of advice came to the forefront of his mind every so often, but he pushed it aside, wanting to enjoy his time with Arthur (no matter how cute said man looked when flustered and blushing furiously).

This explained why he had spent the whole summit so far with a dreamy expression on his face as he stared at Arthur across the table, who was listening to Germany for once, occasionally jotting down notes.

France, being the country of romance, noted this immediately and leaned over with a conspiring grin on his face.

"Amerique, are you okay?" he asked. Without waiting for a nod, he continued, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love."

"I am."

Alfred froze as he realised that he had just admitted that in front of Arthur and he blushed slightly, staring down at his hands. Arthur had also frozen, gripping his pencil tightly and continuing to look straight ahead, trying to make it appear that he wasn't intently listening to France and America.

"Really? Avec qui?"

"You know very well who," he mumbled.

"Ah yes, a certain gentleman in this room, non?"

Arthur's pencil snapped in his hand, loud in the otherwise silent conference room, as even Ludwig had stopped to listen in curiously.

Alfred remained silent, but lifted his head up to glare at Francis.

"The one you needed my advice for, I'm guessing," France pressed on, smirking victoriously as the American's blue eyes flickered to Arthur.

"What was my final piece of advice again?" he mused, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. Many, many images of violent ways he could harm Francis filled his mind, his favourite was to strip him naked, pack him in a box and mail it to Russia with a postcard saying 'I'll be one with you'.

"Oh yes, something along the lines of confessing your love in a public place, non? Well this meetings not exactly public, but…"

He trailed off meaningfully, giving America a challenging look. Why, oh why did he have to be the one who claimed he would never back down from a challenge? Gulping he stood up, clenching his slightly trembling hands into fists. He could do this, he was a hero, and heroes are never afraid to confess their love for the girl (or guy, in this case).

"Okay," he said, swallowing thickly. "But let me explain first; even heroes need some help when they're in love, especially if the person is scarily wonderful without even realising and emotionally retarded. So who's better to ask for help in romancing the unromantic than Francis?"

There was a cough from somewhere in the room that sounded suspiciously like 'everyone'.

"Except the advice didn't help me at all as said person only got angry or very flustered, although he is adorable when he gets all pink and indignant."

Germany cleared his throat awkwardly.

"The first thing: surprise him, wasn't exactly hard. The following two were a bit trickier as both are more suited to France: to back him into a corner and to make as many suggestive comments as possible. And the last one," America paused, not wanting to admit to it, mainly because he knew Arthur would guess immediately. "The last one, I'm still trying to pretend never happened, and that was to show up at his house, naked."

Looks of horror, amusement and confusion appeared at the faces of those around the table, but Alfred didn't really notice them, as he had eyes for only one person.

Arthur was so still, it made him wander if he was even breathing, his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open, but the emotion behind them was unreadable.

"I'm not that emotionally retarded," he muttered lamely.

Alfred's hopeful expression faltered and he slowly started to sit down again.

"All you really needed to do was ask."

He froze instantly. ...Did that mean? It couldn't possibly...could it? Slowly, he raised his eyes to look at Arthur.

He couldn't restrain himself at the sight of the Englishman's smile, both tender and unsure, and he threw himself across the table, peppering his face with kisses.

Laughing slightly, Arthur half-heartedly tried to push him away, but he persisted until Germany's voice broke though to them.

"Moving on."

Reluctantly, Alfred pulled away, smiling sheepishly and fixing his crooked glasses.

Throughout the remainder of the meeting, the two kept sharing glances, blushing and grinning like the love struck idiots they were. At least the others made a bit more progress.

Well not really.

At the end, Arthur approached him and Alfred noted how his cheeks were beginning to ache from all this smiling. Almost shyly, the Englishman reached up and placed a brief kiss on Alfred's lips.

"I love you too," he paused thoughtfully, as Alfred suppressed the urge to do a victory dance, and then added, "Git."

FIN

A/N: ...I had way too much fun writing this. It really should go in the folder 'Why Teapot should not procrastinate when there is much homework to be done' as this is the result of one very (un)productive Sunday. Oy vey. I was thinking to myself 'What would happen if America went to France for advice on seducing Britain?' and then this happened. It sort of goes with my Switzerland/Austria oneshot as this is referenced in a scene where Gilbert and America are at Francis' house. And I'm rambling, sorry.

Well I hope you enjoyed it, at least.

Teapot, over and out!