This is going to be a fun little three shot. Lemon to come, trust me. Anyway I hope you enjoy as both Alfred and Arthur attempt o get their feelings across to one another. This chapter is NOT RELATED to "Something More" it's just a little something I have been thinking about posting.

Enjoy,

Kuro.

Part 1: Preheat

The kitchen smelled wonderful as the time rang, the smell of buttermilk filled the air. The buzzer was silence in a swift motion as a hand quickly opened the oven and looked inside. Resting on the tray was a batch of slightly burnt scones, slender shoulders fell and a sigh was released as he reached for an oven mitt. "Not again, why do they keep burning," he groaned as he reached into the oven and pulled them out. The pan was hot and he hissed with irritation as his green eyes swept over the tray. Every one of them was dark brown, bushy eyebrows lifted with irritation as he grabbed a spatula and chiseled the scone off the tray. As he expected the bottom was charcoal black, "Not again," he grumbled as he turned around and walked across the room. He swept passed the island which rested in the middle of the room, it was covered in a thick blanket of flower. The bowl had been well used and the remnants of multiple batches rested there. He heard a knock at the door and looked in its general direction; he hadn't been expecting company quite yet. "Arthur, come on dude open up!" called a rather loud and playful voice. Instantly Arthur knew who it was, Alfred, the American. He sighed as he looked at them, "Arthur? Are you okay?" asked a panicked Alfred. Before the Englishman could respond Alfred threw the door open.

"Artie I smell smoke! Are you okay!" he shouted and Arthur could hear his feet pound the floor. Arthur watched the tall young man slide across the floor and stop before him, his bright blue eyes were wide with fear and Arthur felt the heat seep through the mitts, he was still holding the pan. He felt the heat reach his skin and searing pain shot through his hand. "Bugga," he hissed as the pan fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor. The mitt fell from his fingers and he cradled his hand, in a flash he felt cold water on it. Alfred had grabbed his wrist and held his hand under the icy cold water. Alfred's hands were larger than he remembered, "Artie, why didn't you pay attention to the tray?" asked Alfred with a hint of exasperation. He didn't like Arthur's scones to begin with, and now he was more upset, "If you're going to cook pay attention," he snapped as his thumb touched the sensitive skin on Arthur's hand. Part of Arthur began to wonder when Alfred had grown up to be such a wonderful man. He could only imagine what he would be like with a wife.

"Are you okay?" asked Alfred after a moment and Arthur was snapped back to reality. The Englishmen simply nodded and looked at him, "Yes," he replied before turning his attention to the mess on the floor. He slowly whipped his hand and was about to start cleaning when Alfred grabbed his shoulder. "Sit," he stated as he slowly pushed Arthur down so he was sitting on the stool. Before he could protest Alfred was in his medicine cabinet and pulling out a tube of aloe which he had clearly stashed in there. He smiled sadly, Alfred remembered where everything was in his home. "Hold still, this will hurt a little," he said softly as he opened the tube and slowly put some on his fingers. Arthur's emerald eyes fell on Alfred, as he felt him gently rub the clear gel on his burn. It was cold and stung a little, but that sensation slowly began to dim, as his warm fingers slowly rubbed it in.

"Why do you insist on baking those dumb things?" asked Alfred with irritation. Arthur was snapped from his musings and looked at the young American. His eyes were filled with confusion, "They taste horrible," snapped Alfred. Arthur sighed; once again he had hurt his pride. In truth he baked them just for Alfred, he could remember the time he spent in the kitchen and how Alfred would sit at the table and read. He was quite a beautiful child and Arthur was proud to be his older brother. "Honestly, enough is enough, now you're burning yourself," said Alfred, Arthur glared. He didn't like being treated like he was a child, "You have no right, I can do as I please, I don't need you to dictate what a can and can not do," he bit. Arthur was on his feet and his eyes narrowed dangerously, "I was making them for you, you git!" he roared. He watched as Alfred turned red and yelled, "I never asked for them! I've told you hundreds of times that I can't stand them!" he pointed at the tray on the floor as he shouted. Arthur felt his pride as an Englishman being run through; naturally he would prepare tea and scones for a guest. "How dare you," he hissed as he slipped out of the apron and threw it on the table. "You have no idea do you? Have you forgotten even the most basic of principle?" he roared. His hands were in the air, face bright red and he looked as though he had lost it. "We have customs! Hospitality and etiquette before all else!" he spat.

He remembered his harsh lessons and training to be the man he was. To contain his emotions, keep calm and always look for the next move. "You are a guest!" he snarled as he pointed harshly at Alfred, "You wanker!" Alfred took a step backward and lifted his hands defensively, "A guest?" he asked softly. His ocean blue eyes changed, he looked slightly wounded, "Yes, a guest!" Arthur spat. Alfred's hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles turned white and he trembled slightly. "Is that all I am, a guest?" he asked glacially, the very sound of the word guest bore a hint of acid as he flicked it from his tongue. "Yes," Arthur responded quickly, his cold and distant tone was more than enough to get the point across. "No Arthur you're the one who doesn't understand!" he shouted. Arthur had enough, he was tired of fighting, tired of being generally treated like the underdog, and tired of always being trampled on by the young man. "I've had it," snapped Arthur as he marched out of the kitchen. "Where the fuck are you going?" Alfred yelled.

The Englishmen continued to walk through the house, he didn't respond. "Arthur!" shouted Alfred demandingly, "We aren't finished!" he spat. Arthur reached the door and responded, "Out, and yes we are!" Before Alfred could utter another syllable, the Englishman was out the door and marching away from the house. He was fuming and felt as though he had been betrayed. He had raised Alfred, protected him and loved him, only for him to be snapped at and criticized. It began to rain and Arthur hissed, he didn't grab his jacket and he could feel the water soaking through his clothes. The water poured from above, he became drenched as he walked through the streets. The logical thing to do would be to head home, but he wasn't ready to face Alfred. Not after that fight, he loved Alfred, he always had. He just couldn't figure out how to say it. Before he even realized where he was going he found himself standing outside of a rather flamboyant house. It was surrounded by roses and he could smell the sweetness of pastries from inside. He groaned as his eyes swept over the statues and perfectly manicured carpet of grass, the house was the epitome of French architecture. "Bloody hell, why of all times does that frog have to be baking?" he asked as he opened the small gate and crossed the porch. He rang the doorbell, the sound of the French national anthem played and he groaned. The name Francis Bonneyfoy was written in elegant script, "The concept of humility is lost on him," commented Arthur as he waited for the Frenchman to open the door.

"Oui, oui, je veux en venire!" he called as he quickly opened the door, "Merde, je peut effectivement perdre la quiche cette fois." His eyes widened as he looked at the Englishman standing in his doorway, he looked around curiously and then back to Arthur. "I believe you have the wrong house monsieur, yours is that way," he said as he pointed down the street. Arthur stood there before him, drenched, cold and wounded. He honestly couldn't understand why his instincts took him to see Francis but, at this point he could care less. Arthur could tell that Francis was honestly concerned about the Englishman coming to take jabs at him. "I'm not here to fight," he commented as he looked at his shoes. Francis was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed and a navy blue towel over his shoulder. He had a black apron around his waist and a pair of chefs pants on. It was apparent that he had spent a bulk of his day cooking, "Oh? So why have you come to see me? If it's to go drinking again I naturally will come however, it's a little early in the day for that, non?" he asked smoothly. Arthur sighed and looked up at the man; it was a mystery to him why he even went to the man's house. "Unless you are looking for someone to show you a good time," he commented in a sensual voice. Arthur grit his teeth and hissed, "I don't have any issues in that department! I need," he dropped his voice and muttered, "advice." He looked at the Frenchman and noticed a look of shock on his face, "You aren't here for a fight, Angleterre?" he stammered.

Arthur rubbed his temples and replied, "No, I'm not! Okay!" Francis' gaze softened and he moved to the side, "Venez, I will make us some tea," he said kindly. Arthur nodded his appreciation as he entered. Francis vanished for a moment and returned with a plush white towel, "Here, you're dripping," he said as he tossed it to the Englishman. Arthur caught it and nodded with appreciation. The house smelled of sweets and he slowly walked through the halls, which were covered in frescoes and filled with statues. It was bright and warm in the man's house and he felt as though he was trespassing. Francis sighed as he walked into his massive and open kitchen, which intimidated Arthur. It was apparent that Francis spent a great deal of time in this room; it was warm and reminded him of the French countryside. He noticed the wine cooler off to the side and the rack by the stove. Knife blocks were clean and he could tell the cutting boards were used. Stainless steel glistened in the light which poured through the window. He looked over to see that he had a massive oven and gaped at the man's six burner stove. Francis was busying himself with the kettle, "So tell me, what brings an Englishman to my home?" he asked curiously as he lit the burner and placed the kettle on the stove.

Arthur took a seat on one of the bar stools and looked down at his hands. He honestly didn't know where to begin; Francis was always open with his evening affairs. "It's about Alfred," Arthur began, there was a clatter in the background and he looked up to see Francis staring at him in confusion, a tin of tea had fallen from his hands. "What?" Francis asked, "Is he alright?" There was panic in his voice, momentarily the serious Francis was there, and it was a rare sight. "Yes, I think I'm the one who isn't," he replied nervously. It had to be that there was something wrong with him, after all it was Alfred who was alright. The Frenchman crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, he looked slightly confused but a warm smile curled his lips. "What do you mean?" he asked softly. It was clear he was standing there to avoid touching Arthur. "He's grown up and I," Arthur paused, he had no idea what he felt. His head was a mess, everything made little sense at this point. Alfred was like a younger brother to him, he had protected the boy all his life. Supported him only for him to turn on him during the Revolution, he was faced with him and asked to pull the trigger. The same emotion which had prevented him from doing it the first time filled him now.

A familiar pair of arms encircled him and Arthur was snapped from his painful memory. He could feel the prickled of stubble from the Frenchman's chin. "You haven't been this conflicted in a long time," commented the familiar lush voice behind him. It wasn't as beautiful as Alfred's, it was a little harsher from years of smoking. "I don't know what to do," whispered Arthur. He felt Francis release him after a moment and turn his attention to the angry red mark on Arthur's skin. "Is that a burn?" asked Francis slightly panicked. His hands wrapped around Arthurs and he examined it, "Angleterre, were you baking again?" he asked after a moment. The Englishman nodded and looked into a pair of furious blue eyes; he honestly didn't want to hear Francis yell at him as well for his food. "You burnt yourself over scones? What were you thinking you stupid sheep!" shouted Francis. One of the Frenchman's hands slipped over his face in exasperation, "You have to be more careful, this is why Alfred gets irritated with you," he commented as the kettle whistled. Francis whisked it off the burner and Arthur was on his feet, "What do you mean, frog?" he hissed.

Francis paused as he opened a glass French press, "Did you notice, he still looks up to you. He's concerned about you. He was going over to your house to see if you were alright," he commented. He poured the hot water into the press and allowed the leaves to soak. Arthur was greeted by the overwhelming smell of tea. Alfred was concerned about him, the statement seemed too far fetched for the Englishman to understand. "You didn't look right at the meeting, he was afraid you weren't feeling well," Francis commented and leaned on the counter. Arthur's green eyes shot up and he looked at the Frenchman's face, there wasn't a hint of malice or annoyance, for once he was being honest. "You bottle your emotions up and hide them so well, that he was afraid that one day you might not be able to carry on," he stated as he slipped a strand of his long blond hair behind his ear. Arthur sat there dumbfounded for a moment, that was why Alfred was at his house. He paused and looked at Francis, "You care for him, Arthur, we all know you do," he commented. It wasn't that obvious he had worked hard to hide his feelings, to lock them away so they would be safe. That wasn't true, they had bubbled up during the revolution. "Mon Chere, you love him. Not as a brother," Francis said after a moment.

The buzzer ripped through the air and Arthur jumped, the oven door fell open and the smell of a wonderful quiche filled the room. "Ah, tres beau!" Francis gushed as he pulled the pan out and placed it off to the side to cool. He looked at Francis and asked after a moment, "How long have you known?" Francis sighed and looked over at him, his eyes were filled with a distant sadness. "Long enough to stop being in love with you," he replied honestly. Francis' face morphed into one of sadness and he sighed. One of his hands rubbed the back of his neck nervously and he smiled, one which nearly broke Arthur's heart. Francis flirted with everyone, yet if he had known of the Frenchman's feelings beforehand he would have given him a chance. He shook his head and scoffed at himself, he wouldn't have, he would have pushed him away. "I'm sorry," commented the Englishmen, he suddenly felt as though he had shot the man. Francis held his hands up and laughed, "No blood no foul," he commented with a grin. It was clear he had been hanging out with Alfred.

Green eyes fell on the quiche again and he smiled after a moment, "Francis, could you help me with something?" he asked. There was a pause as the Frenchman reached into the cupboard and pulled out a pair of porcelain cups. It was one of the few things which Arthur appreciated about Francis, the fact that he still pulled out porcelain to serve tea. "With what?" he asked hesitantly as he placed the black and white cup before Arthur. The Englishman simply smiled and replied, "Baking, I want you to teach me how to bake scones which Alfred will eat." Francis paused and crossed his arms to think for a moment. "A recipe to make scones edible…" he mused and then grinned, "Ohonhonhon, I know just the one, and then you two can spend some wonderful time together," he proclaimed. It was apparent that Francis was back to his usual self.