"I'm telling you, Francis, I think I'm in love."

"With an ill-tempered, sour, bitchy little Englishman?"

"Correction: an ill-tempered, sour, bitchy little Englishman with amazing legs."

Alfred bursted out laughing at the exasperated sigh coming from his older friend. They were sitting across from one another at Francis's table, discussing the American's time at the bar. Of course, there had been a few more slaps to the face, rude name calling, and splashed drinks all over his clothes.

Needless to say, the more the leggy blond refused, the more the leg-crazed blond wanted.

The Frenchman shook his head and looked at Alfred seriously. "You're not in love, silly boy. You see a challenge to conquer. You and I both know, once you bed him, you'll be done."

For some reason, Alfred felt wounded at his words. Sure, he wasn't the most committed guy out there, but he wasn't a man whore either. He crossed his arms stubbornly and leaned back against his chair, childishly refusing to meet Francis's gaze.

"You avoid my eyes because I am right, oui?"

Oh, he hated when Francis did that.

"No, I just don't wanna look at your stupid face," he retorted.

The Frenchman groused, "Oui, oui, that's it. Of course, silly me for not guessing such an obvious answer." There was a pause before he spoke again."Seriously, you can't just look at his legs and say you've fallen in love with the man."

"Why not?" It was an honest question on the American's part. There was love at first sight, right? Didn't it apply here?

From the outraged look on his friend's face, he guessed not.

"Really, you know nothing of love. It's not a thing to belittle so, and it's not something you can use just to sleep with someone. Amour is a wonderful thing that people share with one another, and you spit upon it, mon ami!" There was so much fire and passion in his companion's eyes. However, this exact conversation had happened so many times, it no longer fazed the younger man.

"Yes, yes, I'm a horrible guy for not caring about anyone's feelings but my own, no one will ever fall in love with me because I'm incapable of love, blah blah blah." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Dude, you've said it a million times before."

"Obviously, I need to say it more, until it drills through your thick skull." The Frenchman sighed, disappointment evident."Anyway, mon ami, I have somewhere to be, and I'm sure you have a table at the bar waiting for you. Au revoir, lock up when you leave."

As he watched his friend get up and leave, a thought started to formulate in his head. It was a small thought, but it rapidly grew as he got up to leave as well. By the time he had turned off all the lights and was locking up, it was an outrageous plan that he fully intended to put into action.

He was going to make that leg-tastic blond fall in love with him, and show Francis that he could keep someone around.

X

There was three things that Alfred F. Jones hated: he hated the hell outta being stuck on a video game, he hated the hell outta when people forgot onions on his hamburgers, and he hated the hell outta people hitting on the pair of legs he wanted to hit on. Oh man, did he hate those people.

He had been sitting at a table, watching as young and old men alike hit on his Brit, for hours now. He could feel his blood boiling more and more with each guy that made passes at the blond server. To top it all off, he had been ignored by said blond all damn night. Every attempt to flag down the server had been met with glares and cold shoulders. Oh well, at least he could stare at those legs...

He tilted his head, shamelessly admiring his legs. The more he looked, the more he noticed how truly fantastic they were. He shaved them, and for some reason that pleased Alfred, and they were toned much like runner's legs. The Brit liked to shift which leg he balanced on while he was standing around, but would immediately switch to his left when he started talking to someone. He had a long stride, stretching and flexing his leg muscles for the whole bar to admire.

Of course, as much as he loved looking, he would much rather be touching. The only way he could touch was to make the Brit fall in love with him...

Alfred had no idea how to do that, though. He could get to know the man, but it was obvious that he wanted nothing to do with him. He could buy him candy and roses, but he didn't seem like the type to be wooed like a woman. He could throw money at him, but he could just tell he was a man with pride. Poetry, however, maybe that could work. He WAS British, after all, and he had heard they loved literature.

He flailed around until he found a napkin, and pulled out a pen he luckily forget about from his pocket.

The bespectacled man smirked; oh, he was totally going to prove Francis wrong.

Eyes strained and tired from the overuse and the bright florescent light, he read over his poem one more time, making sure it was as he wanted. He committed every word to memory, the feeling of victory bubbling up in him. It was perfect, it was gold.

It was going to get him laid tonight, he was sure of it.

Thankfully, the bar was close to closing and most of the patrons and servers had left. Besides a few older men sitting in the corner and the man serving them, there was only Alfred and his Brit. Since the server he had earlier left, the emerald-eyed man had no choice but to wait on the American. He just wished that he wouldn't constantly show his displeasure by repeatedly spilling beers on his pants. It wasn't going to make him leave. Or quit staring at his legs.

He watched the Briton across the room, setting a few glasses and the like in their place at the bar. This was perfect, all he had to do now was get his attention.

He placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, grinning like a loon and called out in mock sweetness, "Oh sweeeeeetheart~, could you c'mere for a minute?"

The server turned his head to look over his shoulder so fast, Alfred was curious as to how he didn't get dizzy. "Call me sweetheart again, and I will castrate you. With a rusted spoon." Oh, he got his attention, alright.

"Fine then. How about darling?"

"Only if you never want anyone to find your body."

"Whatever. Anyway, I wrote you something, so take a listen!" He noted the change in the Brit's demeanor. He seemed almost intrigued, and slightly less annoyed. Maybe poetry really was the way to go. Score for Alfred, none for Francy pants. He cleared his throat, confidence emitting from his every pore.

"Hey there, good looking

With legs so fine

Why don't you stop being bitchy

And just be mine?

I know you want me

Everyone does

I like your legs

Just because

I have a question

And I'm just hoping

Here it is, answer if you please

Nice legs, what time they open?"

He was a literary genius, one of a kind. He really needed to make this a song. He just knew he won the man over with that, there was no way it didn't work -

"THE HELL WAS THAT, YOU FUCKING GIT?!"

Okay, so maybe some people just didn't see genius when it was right in front of them.

"What do you mean!? That was AWESOME! You're just too bitchy to realize it!"

"BITCHY!?I'LL SHOW YOUBITCHY!"

The sound of shattering glass and metallic serving trays splattering against the wall was Alfred's cue to high tail it out of there. He wasn't running, however, it was a strategic retreat. That was manlier, way manlier. He was never one to admit defeat, especially at the hands of a leggy blond Brit that was definitely sexy when pissed off.

Maybe he should research this 'love' shit on Google.