Trouble with a Side of Canadian Bacon

UnluckyWriter: Er…yeah. This came to be when I had a plot bunny snipe me in English class. Yeah… This fic's really long, repetitive, and downright mortifyingly idiotic. I love it. XD Originally going to post this all as a oneshot, but after this baby hit over 17,000 words and still not even close to finishing, yeah… This'll be a twoshot, or possibly a threeshot. Depends on how much words and yada. Enjoy~!

Rating: T

Main pairing:Franada (France/Canada~! XD), and various implied/mentioned others, of course.


Disclaimer: I don't own this awesomely screwed up anime/manga/whatever. Be happy. =D


"So, you up for a dare?"

"Hmm…?" Francis duly noted, glancing up from his frappacino to the Prussian. "Pardon?"

The albino German rolled scarlet-colored eyes. "You've been bored lately, right?" Gilbert Beilschmidt asked almost rhetorically, giving the Frenchman sitting across from him a cursory look.

Francis paused, thinking thoughtfully.

Even from a young age, he had always been a player and partygoer, sleeping around and living the nightlife. Now…it has gotten too repetitive. Dull. As a result, he no longer was his exuberant self, opting instead to sigh and mull over life as it passed by.

Basically, he was just extremely bored.

"Oui," Francis answered, after contemplating a bit, "I am bored. What of it?"

The feral grin that slid on his best friend's face almost made the Francophone regret asking.

"Then it won't hurt to do a dare, right~?" Gilbert practically sang out, wiggling pale eyebrows suggestively.

Francis gave a bland stare. "I refuse to sleep with you."

Gilbert spluttered. "Mein Gott- WHAT?" The Prussian made a disgusted face. "That's…revolting. Repulsive. Horrifying. Terrible-"

"Oi, oi," Francis interjected crossly, "Keep that up and you'll hurt my feelings."

Gilbert snorted. "It's true. For me, anyways. You're my buddy and all, Francis, but-" Same repulsed look. "-no. Just…no. You aren't as awesome as the awesome me!"

The Frenchman of the duo gave a sour glare. "Honestly, mon ami, how in God's name did someone as narcissistic as you, managed to get someone like Elizaveta?"

"My awesomeness seduced her. Duh," Gilbert retorted matter-of-factly, smirking fondly at the thought of his spitfire Hungarian of a girlfriend. Then he coughed and leaned forward on both elbows, saying, "Anyhoo, back to the subject at hand…You up for an awesome dare?"

Francis yawned. "I have nothing better to do."

Gilbert smirked, and with a flourish of his pale hand, gestured to the left of the café. "Then I dare you to flirt with that guy!"

Francis followed the Prussian's finger and his eyes landed on a honey-blonde, glasses-toting youth who was perusing through a selection of books in the bookstore right next to where Francis and Gilbert's café spot was located.

The French male turned unimpressed blue eyes onto his friend. "Est-ce si."

Gilbert bristled indignantly. "I don't know what the hell you just said, but seriously, what?"

"You know I'm a natural flirt that can flirt with anyone, regardless of gender," the rugged blonde deadpanned. "I've flirted many times before, Gilbert, so why must I do something so repetitive now?"

"Well, why the hell not?" The friend in mention shot back. "You're bored, I'm bored. We're drinking coffee in Starbucks, and there's a dude over there that needs to be harassed." A grin. "Get after him, tiger."

Francis Bonnefoy could tell there was more to the Prussian's explanation (the shit-eating smirk that threatened to widen on the pale face told everything.), but nonetheless, the French stood up from his seat, coffee stool skidding outwards slightly.

"Fine," he agreed, shrugging nonchalantly as he started in the direction of his intended target.

Gilbert snickered, sitting back in his seat as he watched his blonde friend enter the bookstore next door, seeing the latter beginning to accost the victim through the large glass window. The albino took a sip of his mocha. This was going to be interesting…

The intended target's back was still turned as Francis drew nearer, and French noticed that it wasn't too broad, but was broad enough to signify the male gender (or really manly women…). Wondering what the target's face looked like and figuring that he'll see it soon, Francis sidled up to the stranger's body, and with a cheeky grin planted on his scruffy face, purred out in an ear, "Bonjour, mon cher…"

The Frenchman took a quick step back as the target squealed in shock, flinging books in the air as they whirled around, limbs flailing.

Violet eyes met the Frenchman's cobalt blue. "Wha-"

"I had thought," Francis said smoothly, suddenly cutting off the other's exclamation, "that a person with such an attractive back wouldn't need an attractive face." He smirked charmingly. "I see I am wrong. Gladly so, in fact."

And it was true. Blonde hair framed a fair-skinned face complete with ruby-red cheeks and gray spectacles on a finely structured nose. Wide, strangely colored violet eyes stared back at Francis, and a light shade of pink mouth trembled. Overall, the stranger was a lovely, adorable thing.

Francis nearly whistled at his catch.

The stranger, with a panicked look on his face, began to slowly back away, stuttering, "I- ah- nice to meet you-but- um-"

He nearly let out a scream as Francis swung out and caught his stray right hand, holding it gently yet firmly.

"Oui," The Francophone agreed, smirking saucily, leaning down slightly before kissing his captive's hand. "It is nice to meet you, too, ma chère petite."

Said 'ma chère petite' sputtered in an undignified fashion. "Wha- 'my little dear'- don't call me that! I- I have a name, you know!"

Francis was getting more interested as the conversation proceeded. Normally, his targets would immediately flirt back, making his quest a little easier, but this stranger…who was abnormally too cute… This was getting exciting. The Frenchman felt something stir within his chest, but he ignored it in favor of talking to his blonde hostage.

"Ah, ah," Francis laughed, still holding the other's hand tightly as they squirmed to escape. "I see you understand my mother tongue. Très bon, très bon. My name is Francis Bonnefoy." He smiled disarmingly, leaning to kiss the captured hand again (ignoring the indignant squeals from the other, of course.). "Will you permit me your name, mon cher?"

"N-no!" The blonde stranger answered loudly, yanking his hand away successfully and backing up a few steps, a particular accent leaking into his tone. "I don't talk to strangers, eh!"

"Canadian, aren't we?" Francis noted, stalking closer to the nearly hyperventilating spectacled victim. "Even better, oui?"

"I don't know you, s-sir," the Canadian squeaked, cowering against the bookshelves as he was being continuously harassed by a creepy stubbled Frenchman. "So- n-now if you'll excuse me, I have to go-!"

"Why," Francis began, blocking the other's escape with swift ease. "How can we be strangers, mon cher, if we've talked this long, oui? Non, non, this will not do. Mon cher, we are friends, not strangers. Friends."

The poor Canadian blonde nearly wept as French arms surrounded him and snuggled happily against his waist. "But I don't know you!"

Francis chuckled breathily, rubbing his cheek against the other intimately. "Even better," the Frenchman replied seductively, "You shall be mine." Now, he didn't know where that particular statement came from (he had to admit; it was a slightly disturbing statement, even for him.), but at that moment, Francis meant every word as the truth.

His blonde target swore. "Mother of god-"

"Oui," the European agreed easily, "God must have planned this, for we are meant-"

A harsh push and Francis skid back a few inches. Feeling his hands empty of the stranger, he blinked. "Wha-"

His question was abruptly cut off as the stranger reeled back, and with a mighty yell, swung forward and punched Francis in the face with a sickening, 'CRACK.'

Francis flew back a good six feet, knocking over bookshelves and literary materials as he sailed from the harsh fist. A few minutes later, the dust settled and in it was found the Frenchman, lying in a pile of books and broken shelves, eyes blinking rapidly in a daze.

"Oh…" Francis groaned, rubbing a spot on his face. That punch was going to leave a nasty mark.

Speaking of which, he looked up to see the stranger shaking in his tracks, panting in exertion, hand still up in the air in a clenched fist.

The stranger, noticing that Francis came to, glared frostily yet heatedly at him behind silver rims, cheeks flushed tomato-red. "I refuse to be push around!" the stranger hollered, shaking his appendage threateningly. "No more! I've had enough from creepy jerks like you! Vous bâtard bite!" And with a few more choice French and Canadian-English curses towards the European male, the stranger hightailed the scene like a bat from a cave.

Francis just laid there in his pile of carnage, bewildered beyond belief. Than a smirk began to play on his lips.

Gilbert stumbled cackling into the book store, almost spilling his half-empty mocha as he clutched his side in mirth.

"Oh, mein gott-!" The Prussian snickered, taking in his French friend's batter state. "I wish I was there to hear what you said to the poor kid, but seeing it from the window was just as good!" More obnoxious laughter ensued.

Francis stared back calmly. "You set me up," he accused lowly, and hearing no negative claims to the fact, went on. "Who was that person?"

The grin on Gilbert's face grew wider. "That, my friend, is Matthew Williams," he declared, waving his mocha dramatically. "We were roommates back at college a year or two ago. That kid, lemme tell ya, is quiet. Literally. So quiet, I forgot he was there half the time back then!" An amused snort. "Kesesese~ going back on memory lane, I remembered pranking the poor guy most of the time spent together. Couldn't help it, really. He was just so…prankable. Kept it up 'til one day, he just snapped. Now that, was a memorable day." The Prussian glanced at the now-forming bruise on Francis's cheek and cracked up again. "Knowing how he would snap just like that under a form of pressure, I couldn't help but lead you to him, man," Gilbert wheezed out, offering a shaky hand to the disgruntled Frenchman. "You were perfect for the job, kesesese~."

"I see," Francis said wryly, accepting the pale hand. "Gil."

The Eastern German took a sip from his mocha. "Hmm." Came his response.

And with a straight face, Francis said, "I think I am in love with Matthew Williams."

Gilbert spat out a stream of coffee. "Say whaaat?"

The French of the duo smirked.

Gilbert deflated, letting out a relieved breath. "Oh…that kind of love." He made a face. "Seriously, man? You're going to messed with Matthew to get into his pants? He's a nice kid!"

"A 'nice kid' that probably have never been shown the art of making love," Francis replied, dusting off his clothes.

Gilbert groaned. "Why him?" He questioned as the two began trekking to the exit, ignoring the ruins and shop owner's enraged yells behind them. "And why the hell're you playing this game again? Didn't you say you were bored and shit?"

Francis shrugged, blinking as the rays of sunlight lit in his eyes outside the store. "He seemed…different. New." A sly leer. "And he was quite attractive, I must add. True, I did say I was bored," the European male went on, "And I've played the 'love' game many times and have always succeeded…but I wonder…how it'll fare against him. Matthew." He tested the name with relish. "Behind that nice and quiet exterior is a caged and raging beast." A lick of the lips. "It'll be a new experience to bed him. And that's why, Gilbert, that I love him."

The Prussian snorted. "Yeah, sure you're in love. Your love is merely getting into people's pants."

"It's still a love of a sort," Francis told him. "So I am in love, mon ami."

"That totally isn't awesome. Matthew's a nice guy, he doesn't deserve your weird-ass wooing crap," the albino countered. He sighed. "But I can't stop you…though, you don't know where he lives, do you?" He sounded slightly hopeful.

Francis grinned. Behind his back, he withdrew a normal, brown wallet of common proportion. "It seems God is on my side today, my friend."

Gilbert stared. "Wait…" The sight dawned in his mind. "Oh man, that's his wallet, isn't it?"

"Like I said," the Francophone told the other as he walked ahead of his gaping albino friend. "God is on my side today."

Gilbert spluttered. "God didn't do that! You molested the poor kid's ass pocket to get his wallet!"

Matthew Williams was nineteen years old and a sophomore in college. Underneath the various info of the Canadian was the address of his current residence.

Francis beamed in victory as he drove to the house in his white Prius, and a few minutes later, he arrived at the destined location in a form of a small, yet cozy two-story red-bricked house.

"This is fate," the Frenchman chuckled faintly under his breath, stepping out of his car and slamming the door firmly. He strolled down the walkway to the house and up to the front door. With a smirk still etched on his rugged face and a bouquet of roses in his left arm, he lifted up his free hand to press the doorbell.


Francis waited, and before long, he heard fumbling on the other side of the house and a variety of quiet, nasty curses.

The blonde cocked his head to the side. He hadn't known that Matthew cussed all the time…

As he thought that, he heard the lock click and the door snapped open, the smell of light alcohol whiffing out.

"I told you girls again and again- I don't want any more of your blasted cookies-!" The green eyes of the occupant who had spoken widen almost comically at the sight of the French male. "What the bloody hell?"

Francis stared back in surprise. "Angleterre."

Arthur Kirkland scowled, expression darkening. "What the bleeding hell are you doing here? What do you want?"

"I would've never thought you would come here," Francis remarked calmly, regarding the Englishman cautiously. His tone grew softer. "After what had happen, I honestly thought you had gone-"

"I see you're still as annoying and talkative as ever," the Englishman scoffed, turning his head away slightly. "Enough chitchat, answer my damn questions. What do you want?"

Francis started a little. He had forgotten how temperamental the Briton was…

He sniffed the air. There was that smell of alcohol again…

"Angleterre," Francis began, looking at the slighter blonde incredulously. "Are…are you drunk?"

Arthur's face began to flush. "I don't know what you're talking about- and stop changing the subject, Frog."

"It's the middle of the day, noon, in fact," the Frenchman insisted. "And you're drunk?"

"Yes I am drunk!" Arthur burst out angrily. "And in admitting that, I must be sober."

"Vous êtes triste, l'enfant délirant," Francis muttered lowly, shaking his head in pity.

"What was that, Frog?" Arthur seethed darkly, hands clenching around the doorframe threateningly. "Never mind that. Answer my question. What do you want?"

Francis clicked his tongue disapprovingly at the display of animosity, but he nonetheless took out the stolen wallet and showed the picture. "The address on here says this is the house, but you are obviously not him. Do you mind showing me where ce petit chéri, is?"

The British male narrowed his eyes. "That's-"


The European duo whirled around in shock, staring at Matthew who had dropped a bottle of wine.

The Canadian in mention gaped in horror at the sight of Francis.

"Th-that's him!" the blonde youth stuttered, pointing a finger accusingly. "He's the man that accosted me in the book store!" He took a step back. "How did you find me?"

"Ohhonhonhon~" Francis chortled happily. "God helped me in finding you, mon cher," he said as he held up the other's wallet and the bouquet of roses. "Oh yes, these are for you, by the way."

Matthew's jaw dropped. "You stole my wallet?" he almost shrieked, ignoring the flowers entirely as he wrung his hands in agitation. "What kind of man are you?"

"A man in love, chéri," Francis said calmly, smiling coquettishly at the Canadian.

Before the spectacled blonde could say something else, Arthur cut in.

"Wait, Matthew," Arthur interjected, staring at the large multi-color bruise adorning the French's face like a stoplight. "Did you…was this the twat that you punched in the face…?"

Matthew swallowed. "Erm…yes?" He answered nervously.

Arthur stared at the two of them silently before suddenly, he fumbled into his pocket and pulled out an decent amount of money.

"You wanted that medical book or something or other, am I correct?" Arthur questioned emotionlessly.

Matthew fidgeted. "Yes…? But what does that have to do with all of this…?"

A grin grew on the Englishman's face. "Take the money. It's a reward for giving a good knock out to that Frog."

As Matthew began to sputter in protest, Francis proceeded to say, tone furious, "Fils de pute, Angleterre, what are you to him?"

Arthur ignored the Frenchman in favor of bending over and picking up the wine bottle, peering at the label suspiciously.

"Not beer, not rum, not even scotch," the Brit mumbled crossly. "French wine." He snorted in disgust. "I've had enough of frogs for one day. But no matter. Alcohol is alcohol." With that said, the blonde popped the cork of the bottle off, tipped his head back, and took a hearty swig.

Francis stared at the scene, repulsed. "At least put the wine in a wine glass," he told the other. "Not drinking it like a pirate slob."

Arthur flipped the bird. "Sod off," he said, impressive eyebrows furrowed. "I'm having a bloody hangover and you aren't helping, not even a bit." He glared. "I bleeding hate your guts, have I told you that?"

"Stop avoiding the question, Angleterre," Francis responded. "Like I said earlier: what are you to Matthew?"

"Stop talking about me as if I'm not there!" Matthew cried. "And I don't even know you!"

The Francophone dropped his attention to the Brit in favor of blowing a kiss to the Canadian. "Je vous adore, mon chéri."


"Hey! Mattie!" A voiced boomed out loudly from outside the door. "Dude! I finally found your house!"

The three men in the hall all simultaneously turned their heads towards the front door as the sound of stomping feet drew closer.

"Didn't know you moved into a place this nice," a blonde man with spectacles and looks resembling Matthew's, except with shorter hair and sky-blue eyes, called out, strolling into the house. A harsh American accent was weaved into his voice. "I thought you were still livin' in the college dorms, little bro-"

The American stopped into his tracks, staring at Arthur.

Arthur stared frostily back.

The newcomer's lip curled. "Mattie," he said, referring to Matthew. "I've told you a long time ago to stay away from that guy." A spat of disdain on the last word. "What the hell is this, then?"

Forgetting his current predicament, Matthew rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Alfred," he said tiredly, "Just because you dislike Arthur, it doesn't me I have to dislike him. And I'm old enough to fend for myself now, thank you very much, Mr. Hero." Heavy sarcasm laid thickly in the Canadian's voice. "You know, your reaction is the reason why I didn't tell you who I was living with."

Alfred F. Jones, Matthew's twin brother, frowned at the younger's bout of rebellion. "Mattie," he began, "You're my lil bro and I'm just looking out for ya, okay? So what the hell is he doing here in your house?"

"Obviously," Arthur piped up, anger evident in his tone and figure as he crossed his arms. "this is my house, moron."

"That so," Alfred gritted out, glaring in blue-eyed irritation. "What, you forced my brother to come here or something? Trying to sell innocent Mattie drugs? Or trying to get into his pants-"

"Alfred!" Matthew yelped, face fire-engine red. "It's not like that, you stupid older brother! I was running low on money to pay for the dorms when I bumped into Arthur! Since we're familiar with each other and all, he offered to let me stay in his house, and I accepted. It was purely consensual." He paused a pregnant pause. "And we are not having a sexual relationship of any kind." A face. "Sorry, Arthur," he told the big-browed Briton slightly apologetically. "But you just aren't my type."

Arthur merely sniffed. "Ditto. I have a type myself." He glared at the spectacled American in the hall. "Wanker. I don't do drugs and I'm not a pervert that's trying to get into anyone's pants."

Alfred scoffed. "Sure, fine, you're not a druggie. You're just an old-man alcoholic." A gesture at the wine bottle. "And whoa, wait… you have a type?"

As if to remind everyone that he still in fact, exist, Francis had somehow managed to get close to the Canadian without anyone noticing, and leaned closer to the younger, purring, "Is that so, mon cher? Am I your type then?"

Matthew squeaked and leapt away, nerves frazzled once again and on the edge.

Before the Francophile could get nearer his target, Arthur stepped in, glaring venomously, body in a protective stance. "Back off, Frog," he spit, "Go be your froggy, perverted and disgusting self elsewhere; leave Matthew alone."

That got Alfred's attention.

"Who's this?" The American questioned suspiciously, evaluating Francis like an inspector in an airport on the lookout for potential explosives. "What is he, Mattie? A bully or something?"


"That 'guy', as you so eloquently put it," the Englishman of the lot cut in smoothly, waving his wine bottle. "Is a stalker of your brothers. Now he's the one that wants to get into your brother's pants."

"I do not!" Francis denied vehemently. "I love Matthew Williams, mon chéri."

"I don't even know you," the soft-spoken male said exasperatedly.

Francis blew another kiss, winking suggestively. "True love knows no bounds, dearest."

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "You love my brother so you could get into his pants, huh?" he questioned lowly, shifting his weight towards Arthur's front door. "Okie dokie, artichokie. Mattie, hold Creeper's attention a little while longer so I can go back to the car and get the chainsaw from the trunk. Knew it would come in handy one day…"

Francis blanched. "It's nothing like that, mon ami!" the stubbled Frenchman protested. "My intentions are entirely…honorable, I assure you."

"We met in a book store!" Matthew annunciated each word with a grind of the teeth. "You were harassing me sexually. How can love come from that?"

"God had a hand in our fates, mon cher," Francis declared heatedly.

"And you want a hand in Matthew's pants," Arthur added helpfully.

"All right, that's it," Alfred decided. "You want the chainsaw or the handsaw? Either one is fine." He tilted his head towards the Briton. "There's hate involved, definitely, but whattaya say we team up for once against this pervert?"

Arthur grinned in a feral fashion, making shivers of horror run up Francis's spine. "Why the sodding hell not? I'll agree with you this one time, git. Beating up the Frog'll be fun."

"Non, non!" the Frenchman on the end stick of the threats put up his hands in a defenseless sign. "Why won't you all let me pursue Matthew? I promise I'll be gentle."

Matthew cringed. "Why me?" he tried hopelessly.

"If Matthew doesn't want anything to do with you, he just doesn't want anything to do with you!" Alfred hollered, stalking towards his brother's stalker. "And since I'm the older bro, here, I'm going to enforce his decisions, dipshit!"

"I love your brother," Francis tried to say, beginning to inch away from the obviously enraged, protective older brother of the twins. "Why won't you give me your blessing into pursuing Matthew?"

"Like hell I'll give my 'blessing' on creeper's like you," Alfred told the elder haughtily. "And claiming you 'love' my little bro? Yeah, sure. Ain't gonna happen, bub. Now, prepare to face the awesome Hero's wrath."

"A-Alfred!" Matthew protested lightly, getting in his American brother's path to the Frenchman, forgetting how he was the victim in the latter's advances, instead, opting to be a good person and try to save someone. "D-don't you think this is going to far?"


The Canadian promptly face palmed at the blunt answer. Francis leaned in, fingers dancing lightly on the younger's shoulders.

"Lovely try, mon cher, though I think it won't be enough to keep me alive any longer." A sly grin. "Will you give me the kiss of life after I fall?"

"Oh, god-"

Before any more violent action from the American or more perverted innuendos from the wily French towards the poor stressed out Canadian, Arthur cut in, bringing the attention of the others to him.

"All right, all right," the Englishman complained sourly, flicking the wine cork at a disgruntled Alfred. He took another drink before swinging upon Francis. "You there. You claim to 'love' Matthew, yes?"

"Oui," Francis agreed, putting his chin on an uncomfortable Matthew's shoulder, ignoring Alfred's death glare. "I have never been sure of anything else, Angleterre."

"Whoa, wait a friggin' second," Alfred burst out, shooting a glare at the nonchalant Briton. "You know that stalker?"

"Amazing deduction at that fact, Watson," Arthur congratulated blandly. "Now shut the bloody hell up and listen to what I've had to say, twit."

Becoming oblivious to the younger spectacled blonde's quiet curses and insults, the Brit went on, after taking another swig and hiccupping. "I know the Frog and his ways, his habits, and his personality. That lowlife is a player, manipulator, and a pervert." Francis at this point began a whole new array of angry protests, but Arthur gave a warning look, fire ablaze in his green eyes for the first time since anyone had gotten there seen. "Saying that, the Frog also gets bored of various…playmates. Quite easily in fact. So in that statement…" He turned a look upon Matthew, who in response, merely shifted uncomfortably. "Why not give the Frog what he wants?"


"What?" Matthew said incredulously with Alfred echoing not far behind.

Even Francis had the audacity to stare in shock. "Angleterre?"

"You're saying we should let that hobo screw Mattie?" Alfred said in disbelief. "You nasty, traitorous, lying, pimp-"

"No, you idiotic moron," Arthur snarled crossly. "As if, you twisted piece of fuck. I meant, that if the Frog indeed 'loved' Matthew, than why not let him prove it? By going on dates and whatnot, I mean. We'll supervise, of course." He glared. "I did not mean for them to have a sexual hobby of any kind, twat."

"You could have been more specific," Alfred bit out in a huff, cheeks beginning to color red as he turned away. "But… I suppose that plan isn't half-bad," the American admitted grudgingly.

"A-Alfred? Arthur?" Matthew gaped, looking from his brother to the Englishman.

The two suddenly co-conspirators looked back at the younger apologetically.

"Sorry, Mattie. Just trying to find the best way to help you, man."

"Yes, I truly feel guilty, Matthew," Arthur coughed lightly into his hand. "But to get that Frog off your back, we'll have to resort to this. Endure, lad, endure. This shall all be over soon and you'll go back to your happy life."

Matthew slumped dejectedly as the Frenchman glared.

"What makes you think it'll be over, Angleterre?" Francis questioned, not feeling so amused as before. "How do you know that I will give up?"

The Englishman stared steadily back, face stony. "Because I know you."

A quiet, awkward moment ensued, before the impressive-browed man sighed and said, "Back to the subject at hand." He shared a look with Alfred, both silently agreeing to something. "Let's get this over with. Frog, I'll allow you to woo or whatever shite you cook up, except sexual favors, towards Matthew. Matthew, you allow the blasted Frog to woo you and accept his gifts and so on, except sexual happenings. You two are to go on dates and other party-like things, with Alfred and I to watch over, of course." He gave Francis a harsh look. "And Matthew? If the Frog's harassment goes too far, alert me and I'll shoot him on the spot, regardless of consequences."

"Not before I run him over with my car," Alfred decided to add his two cents in, giving an equally sharp look towards the Francophone.

Francis pouted at the not-so- hidden, underlying threats at his person.

"Is this all right?" Arthur questioned to the Canadian victim and French predator, looking determined.

Francis smirked. "Of course, Angleterre. This is absolutely perfect."

Matthew fidgeted, unsure. "I don't know, Arthur…"

The Briton shrugged. "Don't worry, lad," he said kindly, eyes looking gentle despite alcohol consumption at the younger blonde. "Considering it's the Frog, he'll leave you alone soon as long as you hold firm. I'll be here to watch over you."

Matthew wilted, looking highly unnerved, yet somehow comforted by the Englishman's assurance. "Okay, fine. I'll do it."

"There you go," Arthur said, stepping close to give Matthew a friendly clap on the back, both smiling wryly.

Francis and Alfred watched the proceedings, faces envious at the display of affectionate friendship.

The Frenchman switched his gaze from the smiling Canadian to look at Alfred, who's envious gaze was on… Matthew? The rugged blonde paused. What was the American jealous of his brother for…?

Before he could break down his new question further, Alfred proceeded to interrupt the moment, saying, "Okay, okay, enough of this bonding crap. Let's get this party underway." He tilted his head towards the younger brother and stalker. "So what, they get to go on a date or something tonight or?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, smart one," the Brit said, tone disdainful. "They'll go on a date."

Francis began to protest. "But, Angleterre, this-this was unplanned and unaccounted for! I haven't chosen the place yet, and all the preparations-"

"Oh, for crying out loud," the Briton said disgustedly. "Stop whining like a bloody girl and man up already. Lord. And besides, I've already chosen a restaurant. Not only will you pay for yours and Matthew's meal, you'll pay for mine and the brother as well."

"Mon dieu," Francis breathed, cobalt-colored eyes wide. "You are not serious-"

"You agreed to this, Frog," Arthur reminded. "And since you still want to pursue Matthew and all that, you'll have to answer to me and my decisions."

"But- Angleterre- pay for you and the American-"

"You can't always have what you want," Arthur said calmly. "Now, you can either give up your pursuit now, or you can still pursue and disagree to my claims. Don't worry. My gun's in the coat closet right across from you. I can shoot you in the leg and have you arrested for 'property trespassing.'"

Francis stared back in mortification. "You…you…that's absurd! 'Shoot me'?"

The drunk Englishman merely shrugged. "We're living in Texas, I'll have you remember. Guns to shooting is practically a guaranteed right."

Alfred gave a look towards the Brit, impressed and awed.

"So, what is it, Frog?" Arthur pressed, pointedly at the man in mention, green eyes triumphant.

Francis heaved a sigh. "Oh, all right," he decided. "I'll pay for you and the brother, also. Of all the things-" he let loose a few French curses, glaring acidly at Arthur. "Oh, yes, and Mathieu?"

The Canadian let out a yelp as the bouquet of roses was thrust into his face. "These are for you, mon cher."

"Erm, thank you," Matthew cringed, taking the flowers delicately like it was an explosive.

"Gotta hand it to ya, old man," Alfred was saying towards Arthur, the latter beginning to stroll towards the kitchen. "Inventive thinking back there."

"Yes," Arthur mused, "More so than you, at least."

"Hey-" Back to angry square one.


Arthur paused in his trek, hands holding his wine bottle loosely. "What, Frog?"

"My question from earlier," the Frenchman told, frowning. "What are you to Matthew?"

And, in a tone of voice that answered the Francophile's question like it was the most simple and obvious thing in the world, Arthur said, "I'm his babysitter." With that statement told, he went into the kitchen.

The Italian Crescent was a decent-looking restaurant, Francis decided, grudgingly admiring Arthur's taste in food places.

The four, dressed in nice, formal wear, were waiting in the lobby, and a few minutes upon arriving, their server came to greet them.

"Ciao~!" The assuming to be Italian brunet man said happily. "Welcome to the Italian Crescent, the most wonderful place to eat pasta, drink wine, and meet pretty girls, veh~!"

Francis stared at the server in surprise. "Feliciano?"

Feliciano Vargas opened his closed eyes to look back at the French. A grin grew on his youthful face. "Big Brother Francis~!" the Italian cried joyously. "It's so good to see you, veh~!"

"And I, too," Francis chuckled, going to hug the bouncing brunet. "But, mon ami, what are you doing here? Don't you already have a job as an Art teacher?"

"Si," Feliciano agreed, "I do, Big Brother, but a few weeks ago, some arsonist came and burnt the art building down! It's been all over the news as another crime scene linking with all the other burnt buildings in the city! The school promised that when they found better accommodations, I would have to find another job in the meantime, veh~! So I had to go and look for other kinds of work, but none would accept me, so I gradually became penniless." He wiped away the sudden tears on his face. "I was so scared, veh~! But luckily, Ludwig, the gym teacher at the same school I go to work, had a second job here, so he set me up with his boss for me to work! Now I have a job, money, and I get to eat pasta, veh~!"

"Why, Feliciano," Francis said in concern, "If all this had happen to you, why didn't you tell your big brother, mon cher?"

"Because Big Brothers Antonio and Romano said to not to because you were off sleeping around, and they were afraid I might get STDs, veh~" Feliciano said simply, grinning.

Matthew gaped at Francis in horror.

"It's not like that, Mathieu!" The Frenchman tried to pacify. "Those people are of the past! You are my main concern now, mon chéri!"

"You're his brother?" Alfred asked, glancing at the Italian man. "Hmm. Don't see any family resemblance."

Feliciano laughed. "No, no," he said cheerfully, "I call Big Brother Francis that because he use to take care of me all the time when I was younger~! He's just like Big Brother 'Tonio and fratello! Except he taught me different things, veh~"

"Er…What kind of things?"

"I didn't teach you anything, Feli," Francis said, feeling a sense of uneasiness creep upon him.

The Italian cocked his head slightly to the side. "Veh? But you said those books that were actually porn would teach me something-"

"All right!" Francis cried out suddenly, cutting off Feliciano in a panic. "We've dawdled enough, let's find ourselves a table, oui?"

"Aye aye~!" The Italian waiter sang out, flouncing away in excitement. "Follow me, veh~!"

The group followed, Matthew uncomfortable with sudden new knowledge, Arthur smirking in stride, and Alfred shooting disgusted looks at Francis. The Frenchman wilted in despair.

"Veh~ Big Brother Francis…?" Feliciano questioned, glancing at the Frenchman in mention as they strolled along.

"Yes, Feli…?" Francis drew a wary hand through his hair. "What is it…?"

The Italian pointed at the ugly, large bruise adorning the French's face. "How'd that get there, Big Brother?"

Alfred and Arthur shared a snicker.

Francis frowned sourly. "It's…nothing, Feliciano," he said, mustering a half-ass smile. "It was an accidental mistake, that is all. It won't happen again…" He shot Matthew a lecherous smirk.

Matthew squeaked and shied away, hiding behind a glaring Arthur.

Feliciano nodded, not noticing the commotion behind his back. "Veh~ Okay~!"

A few moments later, they arrived at their designated area.

"Here you go~!" the Italian of the lot crooned amiably, gesturing at a large four-seat table to the group. "Your table~!"

"Wait," Arthur interjected, green eyes gleaming. He waved a hand towards Francis and Matthew. "Can we sit separate tables?"


Matthew shot Arthur a panicked look. "What?"

"What the heck, old man," Alfred said, frowning.

"Well, this is supposed to be their date, right?" Arthur questioned primly, hands reaching out to grab the American by the elbow and dragging the younger to another table. "Let's leave them a tad bit of space, git. We don't want to be rude."

Feliciano clapped his hands as if hit with a sudden bolt of inspiration. "Ohhhh! A double-date, veh~! You guys'll get a discount then~!" He said happily.

"This isn't a double-date-" The twins and Arthur began to say in shock before Francis cut them off.

"Oui," he smiled, "This is a double-date." He quickly reached out and grasped Matthew's hand, ignoring the latter's squeak of surprise.

Arthur shot him a pissed off and incredulous look, likewise Alfred.

'For the discount,' Francis mouthed.

"Veh~!" the Italian cheered, flailing his arms in a windmill fashion. "Sooo cute~!"

"Italia!" a harsh voice barked out, making the ditzy brunet jump. "What have I told you about wasting time?"

"Ah, Ludwig~!" Feliciano greeted, smiling with pleasure. "Ciao~!"

"Don't act so familiar to me at work!" a tall, blonde waiter with a German accent snapped out, marching in the direction of another table with drinks on a platter. "Get back to work!"

"Okay, Ludwig~!" the Italian man agreed readily. "Ti amo, Doitsu!" He made kissing noises and waved energetically for emphasis.

Ludwig blushed at the sight and hurriedly made his escape from the sight, cursing underneath his breath about 'oblivious Italians' and 'PDA in an work area'.

"Ah~! Doitsu, he's so kind and strong~" Feliciano swooned dreamily. Then he caught himself and smacked his forehead. "Veh~! Look at me! Getting all distracted and such," he scolded quietly, frowning. He looked up, smiling at the disgruntled group. "Sorry for the wait, but what do you guys want to drink?"

After Feliciano had gotten their orders on the drinks and went off into the kitchens, the four men still stood, awkward and unsure for some uncomprehendable reason.

"Well, that's that, then," Arthur broke the silence with a cough. He gestured to a different set of tables. "Frog, Matthew, you'll sit there." He nodded to a table five feet away from the two's assigned table. " The git and I will sit over there."

"Why do I have to sit with you?" Alfred grumbled, glaring at Arthur.

Arthur merely shrugged, taking a seat at his own respective table adorn with a white cover. "Unless you want to sit somewhere else and act like a twat who's not on a double date," the Briton said, "Then we won't get a discount and you can pay instead of the Frog." He shrugged again.

The American grunted in irritation before taking his seat as well, grabbing a menu and persuing through it. "Manipulative old man. You just want a hot, sexy blonde next to you to make you feel better."

"In your dreams, brat."

"Why you-"

As the two began to argue, Francis brought his attention back to his 'date'. He smiled charmingly. "Bonjour, mon cher…"

Matthew groaned. "Why the French? And the- the nicknames!"

"Pet names, my dear Mathieu," Francis told him, fingers lightly playing with the silverware on the table. "Pet names are very different from nicknames. It signifies the close bond we have, ohhonhonhon~! And besides, I am French, therefore, I must speak my mother language, Mathieu."

"But-" The Canadian tried to say before a yell interrupted him.


Francis and Matthew turned to look at Alfred.

The spectacled blonde in mention's face was contorted into pain as his hands were hidden beneath the tablecloth to clutch…something.

"You asshole," Alfred gritted out, frowning rancorously across the table at the suddenly smug-looking Brit. "Really? There, of all places?"

"Eh…Alfred?" Matthew questioned, looking at his older brother quizzically. "Wha…what are you doing…?"

Alfred sat up, looking a little embarrassed. "Nothing, Mattie," he tried to appease, laughing lightly. "It's just…uh…nothing."

Francis saw a flurry of movement underneath the Englishman and American's table. He paused. "Are you two…playing footsies?"

Alfred and Arthur stared back, looking guilty.

"Whaaa? No! Where did ya get that stupid idea?" Alfred laughed again, pasting a wide smile on his fair-skinned face. "Really, dude, really?" A flurry of movement again.

Francis blinked. "But I just saw-"

"That notion's absurd," Arthur scoffed, lifting his chin up pompously. "I would never participate in a childish game with the likes of that git-" With a sudden movement, Arthur's chair seemed to slip out from under him and he fell back, hitting his head on the wooden floorboards with a painful THUD. "…"

"Score!" Alfred whooped, springing from his chair joyously.

Everyone in the restaurant promptly stared at the wild American.

Noticing he was the spectacle of everyone's attention, he flushed red and managed out, "Uh…I'm just…watching NFL, yeah…totally. The Dallas Cowboys just scored, guys!" He held up his Blackberry phone for proof.

Matthew regarded his brother blankly. "I thought football season was over."

"…It's the reruns."

"…I see." The younger brother didn't bother to question further. He turned back to Francis. "As I was about to say before, sir, I'm sorry to say, but…we just met each other. Therefore, we don't have a…close bond. So no pet names."

Francis just smiled. "Even better, mon cher," he said merrily, "We can get to know each other, oui? So why not start with the pet names now to ignite our passion?"

Matthew flailed for words to say. "Th-that's what I mean!" He exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "We don't have a passion, or-or- or anything! We shouldn't have a passion with each other, and- wait, how old are you?"

"Twenty-six," the Frenchman said, as if the fact was normal and not ludicrous. "And you are nineteen, mon cher."

"See?" Matthew tried to prove his point. "Though I'm slightly disturbed about how you know my age, but that's not the point! The point is that you're seven years my senior."

Francis gave an unimpressed look. "And?"

The Canadian sighed. "So, since you're obviously older than me, shouldn't you chase after someone your age instead of a teenager like me? Like…get someone with more…experience." He blushed pink on the last word, looking faint.

"Ah~ but mon cher," Francis cooed, smirking at the other's tint on the cheeks. "Where is the fun in experience when you can create new experiences, oui?"

Matthew resisted the urge to bang his head upon the table and it's cloth. "You're really not getting my point, are you…" He murmured almost in despair, violet eyes aching to give a twitch.

"But Mathieu," Francis said, "Age shouldn't matter in the terms of love, oui? And that there, mon chéri, is my point."

"But-" Matthew started to say before his French stalker's hand shot forward and grabbed his own, prompting a gasp.

"Mathieu," the Francophone said as seriously as he could muster, "Don't you believe me when I said I love you, adore you?" He leaned in close, whispering in a red Canadian ear. "Need you?"


Francis paused, hearing the noise and feeling a breeze next to his hand. He glanced down.

A steak knife laid embedded into the table, still quivering.

Slowly, the Frenchman turned cobalt eyes to the table next over.

Alfred grinned disarmingly. "Hahaha! Whoops," the American said jovially. "I was teaching the old man here that I could throw knives better than he could, but as luck would have it, the knife kind of slipped, eh heh heh…" Though his tone sounded innocent, the evil smirk that appeared on his face seemed to contradict. "Sorry~!"

"Alfred!" Matthew scolded, wrenching his hand away from the Francophone's grasp. "You do not throw knives in a resaurant! It's dangerous!"

The blonde brother merely pouted. "I said I was sorry, Mattie."

Francis gave an inaudible swallow. Maybe he shouldn't act so physical towards the younger brother when the older brother was obviously good with knives…

Seeing how the Frenchman kept his hands distant away from his twin's, Alfred grinned. "Take that, old man," he whispered conspiratorially at Arthur, beaming in victory. "Beat that."

Arthur merely smirked behind a hand. "Oh, I will, brat."

Back to his current situation, Francis noticed Matthew was givining him a leveled, stern look. He raised an fine eyebrow. "Yes, mon cher?"

"Don't call me that," the Canadian said, frowning. "And really, I have to ask. Do you know how creepy you are? Don't you think it's…disturbing that you're chasing someone like me?"

A nonchalant shrug. "It is all in the name of amour, mon cher."

"You're beginning to resemble a pedophile, no offense."

"Only if you were under the age of eighteen, Mathieu, and last I checked, you were perfectly legal, ohhonhonhon~"

"Okay, I meant it to be offensive."

"Now, now," Francis clucked his tongue. "Why won't you fall for me, also? It isn't hard, mon cher, it'll be the best thing that'll happen to you."

"Because I have no interest in you," Matthew shot back, "At. All."

"I'll be a loving, amazing lover," the Frenchman's voice dropped down a few notches into a smooth tone.

Matthew sniffed. "I could care less."

"I'm wealthy."

"Yes, says the person who complained about paying for two other people in the group."

"I'll spoil you rotten, Mathieu."

"I actually prefer myself fresh, thank you very much."

"Touche. I also prefer you fresh myself." Another smirk.

Matthew shuddered. "Y-you're scaring me a little, s-sir." Nervous laughter.

"Oh?" Francis droned pleasantly. "Then I hope I am scaring you the…right way, mon cher. And please, call me Francis."

"Actually, you're scaring me quite a bit. A lot. Really scary," the spectacled Canadian stammered, scooting his chair back a few inches, nervous sweat beading on his skin. "I don't understand you- I mean, this all doesn't make sense."

"What part do you not understand, Mathieu?"

"Stop that," the younger said, "See what I mean? We barely- if at all- know each other. We just met in a bookstore. You're seven years my senior. And I'm assuming you have…experience on other people…"

Francis pursed his lips. "And how is that all bad, Mathieu?" The Frenchman demanded, leaning imposingly over the Canadian. "Oui, I agree I have more experience on people, but is it so wrong to make a change? To go after someone different for a change of pace? What is wrong?"

"That's the point!" Matthew exclaimed heatedly, waving his hands agitatedly. "You don't see? Okay, let me put it bluntly, sir, are you really in love?"

The Francophile paused, looking at the other almost uncertainly, not understanding the issue. "Oui."

"Then are you in love with me?" Matthew asked, "Or just in love with love?"

Francis blinked rapidly. "I- I-that's ridiculous, Mathieu!" He declared, laughing uneasily, but his voice cracked slightly. "Of course I love you, I told you before many times, have I not?"

"Yes, you've said so, many times," Matthew agreed easily, triumph shining in his eyes, making the hair on Francis' neck stand up. "But have you ever meant them?"

At those words, the French froze, form immobile and still. With a sudden lurch, he lunged forward, both hands clasping Matthew's shoulders tightly, not letting the other move. The latter sqeaked and began to squirm, but Francis wouldn't let that come to be. The elder looked down at the younger, blue looking into violet eyes, and he mused, taking in the other's features, how different from his usual tastes, how kind, how determined, how…unusual. Francis had never been challenged this way before, had never been forced to question his game and it's morals, never had to face a person such as the male sitting right in front of him. It was…so very different. The Canadian was out of the ordinary behind the kind, bashful smile and exterior. If he was thinking clearly at the time, he could've become conscious to the fact that the younger could prove fatal to him, could change everything that he stood for. Yet, unthinkingly, Francis still wanted to win his game he had made and claimed.

"I'll show you, Mathieu," the Frenchman promised, not knowing why he was promising or what he was saying, only that he refused to lose. "I'll show you that I'm not lying and that I love you, mon cher."

"Holy shitting maple!" Matthew shrieked, smacking the rugged man's hands away and veering his chair back hastily in escape.

"Ah, I'm sorry, mon cher-" The Francophile tried to apologize, shocked at his own behaviour, when suddenly, a squeal of terror rang out, and a platter complete with drinks came crashing and spilling down into the French's lap.

Francis doubled over, hissing in pain as his…vital regions…was bashed by a convenient uncorked, grape-flavored, wine bottle (who the hell ordered wine?).

Feliciano stared at the steadily darkening stain on Francis' crotch area in horror, math agape.

"I-I'm sorry, veh~!" the Italian wailed, wringing his hands in fear. "I-I was trying to get your drinks to you, but I tripped and madre de dios, what have I done…?"

The Frenchman tried to comfort the younger man, but grimaced instead. "I-it's all right, Feli, I-I'll be fine-"

"I need this job!" Feliciano promptly ignored the other's remark. "I cannot afford to be fired, veh!"

"No-no! It's fine, really," Francis told the brunet, making a face at the state of his stained purple, white dress pants. That wine stain was going to be a bitch to wash out… "Calm down, Feliciano."

"Oh, yes," Arthur decided to cut in, chin in hand as he gazed at the scene contemplatively. "Just be glad that it was wine that decided to land in your lap and not… hot, scalding, soup." He shot the Francophone a warning glare. The French male shivered.

The smirk the Briton gave made Francis consider the fact over what really made Feliciano tripped…

"True, true," Feliciano agreed worriedly. "B-but what about your pants, Big Brother?"

Francis took a peek down at his mess. "I…I can handle this, mon cher."

"But people are going to wonder why there was a dark purple stain on your pants in that place!"

A sucked in breath. "I- I am French. We French people have pride that goes far beyond the limitations of normal mortals. Walking into the general public in stained pants will not damper my…spirits, Feli."

"I suppose that is true," Arthur mused, "But then, walking out with wine-stain dress pants will possibly prove to the said general public that French people indeed drink so much wine, that they…have issues, in the long run, if you catch my drift." Another calculating smirk.

Francis stared. The he turned to Feliciano. "I need pants."

The Italian shifted nervously. "Veh~ We do have pants, Big Brother, but- but I'm not sure it'll be fine to you-"

"I honestly stopped caring at this point, Feliciano. Get me pants. Please."

"Veh~ then follow me…" Feliciano proceeded to hand over the platter to Francis to cover up his unfortunate accident, and the two filed away into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Francis came back. Arthur took one peep and promptly broke out cackling, Alfred likewise as the two trembled in mirth over their table, sniggering and stealing more glances. Even Matthew's lips twitched at the sight.

A peeved Frenchman stood before them… in hot pink My Little Pony print sweatpants.

"It's all they had," Francis growled, taking his seat moodily.

Alfred choked. "Fine, fine, we didn't say anything…Pinkie Pie." More guffaws ensued.

Feliciano flailed. "It's true, veh~! All our extra uniform pants were taken up for cleaning by Ludwig earlier this week, and Feliks was the only one that had an extra pair of his own pants on hand!"

Off to the side, Arthur gave another smirk and whispered, "I suppose I win, brat."

Alfred stopped giggling to glare, though he didn't argue. "Shut up, old man…just…luck…it's just luck."

"I'm sorry, Big Brother~!" Feliciano pleaded, whirling his arms. "Please forgive me~!"

"It's all right, Feli," Francis said tiredly to the younger brunet, hands beginning to flip through the menu. "Now, can we order? I'm feeling rather famished, mon ami."

"Veh~! Let me get some more drinks (I'll be more careful this time!) and I'll take your orders, si?"

After the Italian had taken the groups' orders and flounced away, the group lounged around, Alfred complaining how the restaurant didn't have hamburgers much to Arthur's chagrin, and the two began arguing once again, their voices beginning to rise in volume.

Matthew and Francis watched the panorama, expressions sharing a look of disdain and irritation.

The Canadian of the duo swiveled back to glance at the Francophile, and seeing the latter's still rather morose appearance, felt a sense of pity and shared embarrassment , so he smiled encouragingly and shyly mumbled, deciding to forget the earlier and quite creepy and scary outburst from the French, "Though the pants are ridiculous, I suppose you…suit them, sir."

Francis perked up at the other's soft tone, grinning. "Ah~ mon cher, as kind as your words are, no need to lie, oui?" He then shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Mathieu, I-I express regret over what I did earlier. I'm sorry, mon cher." He gave a muted chuckle. "I honestly don't know what came over me, Mathieu, I was wild, uncontrollable, and acted like a baboon."

"Eh heh, it's okay," Matthew absolved, giving a light laugh in return. "Yes, you acted quite suddenly, and it scared me, but it's over now, eh?" The Canadian was about to say more, but then realized he was getting too close to the other in a friend-like way, so sat back, becoming quiet once more.

Francis grinned, beginning to revert back to his former, perverted and exuberant self, then faltered, becoming conscious of the fact that the Canadian was trying not to act like they were beginning to become somewhat like friends. "Mon cher, why do you insist on shying away from moi? Am I that detestable…?"

"N-no!" Matthew exclaimed, fidgeting. "I-it's just- you were hitting on me not just fifteen minutes ago! I can't just forget the fact that you're still here because you're trying to make me fall in 'love' with you so that you can get into my pants!"

"Nonsense," Francis clucked his tongue nervously, wondering if he was that obvious in his advances that Matthew had figured out his plan (though, he had to admit. His plans were obvious.). "I told you I loved you, did I not? And I'll hold true to my vow and go after you, not to try to get into your pants, non, but to woo you and hope you'll fall in love with me, also~!" He winked suggestively. "Though, mon cher, I should think that will indeed happen, ohhonhonhon~!"

The Canadian victim flushed a light crimson as he spluttered, "D-don't get cocky!" The curly-haired blonde twist to the side, looking grumpily into the distance. "I'm not that easy to get to fall like that, sir."

Francis merely grinned artfully. "That's why I'll try my hardest, mon chéri." The Frenchman leaned back in his seat, looking at his dinner partner fondly. "You are so different, Mathieu," he told the other. "So very, very different."

Matthew frowned, looking self-conscious. "Is…is different bad?"

A laugh. "Oh, non, I'm merely stating a fact, mon cher. You are different, yes, but maybe that's why I want to follow after you, dearest."

Indignant fury. "For the last time, don't call me that! Or anything else! Jeez."

Further laughter. "Ah~ You are unusual, more so than my past various conquests…"

"I rather not be another of your 'conquests', thank you very much."

"And you shan't be, dear Mathieu, you are far more~"

"…Your compliments won't get you anywhere, sir."

"…Well, damn. At least I tried, ohhonhonhon~"

An hour and a half passed by when dinner ended, the group bidding their farewells to a cheerful Feliciano, an irritated Ludwig, and a snobby Feliks Łukasiewicz exclaiming, "Like, French-dude, you better totally, like, wash and return my MLP sweat pants, or like, I'll have to sic the totally Bad-A Italian mafia on you, and like, they'll kill you for like, desecrating my favorite sweatpants, because, you know, it like, has Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash, on it. Yeah. Totally."

After dropping from out of sight of the Italian Crescent and into the parking lot, Francis stopped waving and dropped his smile. He swiveled to Alfred, glaring accusingly. "You were supposed to watch him."

Alfred recoiled, looking angrily right back. "Hey! Don't lump all the blame on me! How was I to know that the old man would be sneaking alcohol in between sips? What am I, his babysitter? I thought that was the old man's job, not mine!" He shook the drunk Briton that was currently hanging on his shoulder roughly. "Stupid old man alcoholic. And you call me irresponsible."

Arthur gave a low grunt to indicate that he heard the insult.

Matthew sighed in a dreary sort of fashion. "Now Arthur's drunk…again. This is the second time today…"

Francis shook his head, the group coming within sight of his Prius. "I don't remember having him get this so…so uncontrollable, back then…Mon dieu, he danced on the tables."

"Heh, heh," Alfred snickered, hoisting an obviously plastered Briton over his shoulder more firmly. He held up his Blackberry triumphantly. "Got it on film, too. Facebook, here I come!"

"I don't think that's wise, Alfred," Matthew groaned, jerking open a door to let his older brother clamber with his load into the vehicle. "Arthur'll get angry…"

The boisterous American snorted. "Yeah, like he can even know how to work a phone or computer. Who cares what he wants!"

"St-stupid git," Arthur slurred, blearily opening a dazed green eye. "I care." He gave the bespectacled blonde a lop-sided glare. "You do what -hic- whatever you're goin' to -hic- do, and I'll -hic- hurt ya…"

"Sure you can, old man," Alfred said mockingly. "And I'm the Queen of England."

"You're -hic- not bloody British, you -burp- wanker."

"And that's why. Hey, get offa me!" Alfred complained, trying in vain to pry the barnacle-grip-like Englishman off of his person. "Leggo!"

"My Eggo," Arthur exhaled noisily, clinging ever more tightly to the American's arm. "My waffles. Give 'em -hic- back, you thief."

"Arthur, I'll make you some waffles tomorrow morning, I promise," Matthew said, trying to help out his twin. "Just let of Alfred's arm, please."

"Let Angleterre be, mon cher," Francis said exasperatedly, climbing gracefully into the driver's seat. "He has always been this clingy back in the day when under the influence."

Alfred gave a sour look at the dozing Briton lying on his shoulder. "Oh, really…"

Matthew mounted himself into the shotgun seat, buckling his seatbelt on. "Eh, you sure do seem to know a lot about Arthur, sir…"

"Francis, mon cher, call me Francis," the Frenchman repeated, starting up the automobile. "But oui, I do know many things about Arthur. We were neighbors long ago, after all." He turned back to check up on the impressive-browed man in mention. Noting how stiff and tense the American looked, and what sort of glare that was being blasted his way, Francis was, needless to say, confused. "What?"

Alfred gave him a cursory look. "Just…neighbors…?"

Francis felt defensive all of a sudden, and grew flustered. "Oui…?"

The questionable, bespectacled American settled back in the car seat at the answer. "Huh."

The Prius paused at a red light, engine purring softly.

"How long have you known Arthur…Francis." Matthew cringed at saying the other's name, feeling it was like a taboo. "Sir. Sir."

Francis' smile dropped. "Oh, Mathieu," he sighed, "It was like a lovely lullaby, hearing you say my name. But ah, yes- I've known Angleterre since we were both young. Since he was born, in fact, ohhonhonhon~!" The Francophone smiled fondly at a long ago memory. "He was so tiny, back then, but such a mean little, fighting bastard, even to this day." Another quiet laugh.

Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Matthew's lip curve at the comment, eyes gazing warmly in the distance.

"So it seems…" he heard the Canadian murmur.

"No -hic-, Teresaaa~" Arthur's voice was heard from the backseat. "Leave me be -hic-…Can't…get….it…up…anymore…Too tired…"

"…Who's Teresa, old man…? One of your ex's that left you 'cause of your crappy personality?" The tone was joking, but Francis could've sworn there was some accusation laced in it.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Now, now, mon ami." He said, boredly, hands steering the wheel with smooth agility. "No need to be jealous. Since it's Angleterre, he is probably still a virgin, therefore 'Teresa' is probably a fictional character from one of his dirty books or whatsoever." A pause. "Non, definitely still a virgin. Poor thing…"

"What?" Alfred stared bewilderedly at the driver's seat. "What…really? Wait….Oh! Ugh! TMI,you hobo! Too much freaking information!"

Even Matthew looked appalled. "S-sir!"

Francis shrugged as if what he had uttered wasn't scandalous towards the Englishman at all. "What, Mathieu? It is true. I can tell." He smirked. "Just like I can tell that you are also one, too~!" Another red light. He leaned towards the distressed Canadian. "Do you want to change that, mon cher?" A leer.

A Nike shoe collided with the Francophile's blonde-curled head.

"Hey! Back the hell off from my lil bro, you 'tard!" Alfred scowled, a hand supporting the Briton as the other was still in the air in motion of the shoe-throwing. "Just cause the old man and I agreed you for you two on this date, it still doesn't mean I don't think all of this is shit."

"It was just a joke, mon ami," Francis groaned, rubbing the bump on his head. "I meant no harm in it, right, Mathieu?"

"Eh…" Matthew still looked slightly anxious. "Y-yes…?"

Awkward silence filled the car.

Five minutes later, they arrived at Arthur's house, the night blanketing the landscape gently. Car doors opened and slammed shut, the only noise in the quiet neighborhood.

"Man, you better let go when reaching to bed," Alfred grumbled, handling a confounded Arthur up the little steps and to the front door. "Hey! Mattie! Do ya mind me spending the night here? Since, you know, I haven't planned to book a hotel yet and all that jazz, and it's night and yeah…"

"Oh, you can stay as long as you want, Alfred," Matthew called back, closing his respective automobile door. "But, eh, you'll have to handle Arthur in the morning about that, though, eh heh…"

"Pffft, he'll be easy to handle, so no worries, Mattie," the American of the lot huffed confidentally. Opening the front door, he began to lug the drunken Brit in, hesitating inside the doorframe. "Hey," he said, eyeing Francis and Matthew suspiciously. "Coming, Mattie?"

"In a bit, Alfred," Matthew answered, rolling his eyes at the obvious protectiveness from the older twin. "I'll be fine, jeez."

"Hmmphh." The blonde American gave a wary glare towards the Frenchman. "You do anything to Mattie that he doesn't consent to," the spectacled male threatened lowly, "and I swear I'll make your life a living hell."

"Cas-hic- castrate the -hic- bloody Frog…" Arthur unexpectedly added his own touch to the threats, surprisingly asleep and in dreamland (which, when pondered, must featured a many type of scene which involved Francis tortured/ killed.).

"What the old man said," Alfred seconded the comment, still glaring at the French stalker.

"Alfred!" Matthew huffed out indignantly.

"Like I said before, Mattie, you're my lil bro, and since I'm the big brother, I'm not allowed for you to get hurt by creepers like that guy."Another heated glare.

"Oi, oi," Francis said, raising his hands up in surrender and obvious defenselessness. "No need to call me names, mon ami. But, I assure you," a determined look from dark blue eyes. "I won't do anything dishonorable to Mathieu… At least, not without his consent, of course." A smirk.

Alfred stared fiercely, before relenting slightly. "Fine. I'll hold you to that, Creeper." He yawned. "Night, Mattie," he said, stumbling into the house with a mumbling Arthur following. "Seeya in the morning."

"See you," Matthew grumbled, waving nonchalantly. "Brothers."

Francis had to smile at the tired tone the younger incorporated. "Be glad you have a brother such as him, mon cher," he told, "Not many has siblings that would care such as Amerique."

Matthew cringed again. "Now Alfred has a nickname? Oh, maple…"

"Jealous, Mathieu?" Francis teased, leaning on his white Prius to stare at the Canadian. "No need to worry, mon chéri, my heart will still belong solely to you."

The violet-eyed male rolled annoyed eyes. "Yeah, sure. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed."

"Invite me along?" Francis purred, inching closer to the younger. "I'll make it worth your while, Mathieu…"

"Haha- No."

"Your place or mine, mon cher?"

A wry smile. "Both. You to yours, me to mine. Now, good night…sir."

"Good night, Mathieu," Francis bidded, bowing elegantly. "Expect to see me soon, mon cher."

"Like you'll remember," Matthew muttered. "You'll forget me by tomorrow. Everyone does."

At the sound of the bleak tone in the Canadian's voice, Francis frowned slightly, and strode over to where the former stood, reaching out to place a hand on the younger's shoulder.

Matthew stiffened up, eyes glancing curiously, yet warily, up at the Frenchman.

"I'll promise you this, Mathieu," Francis began to say, "I won't forget, and I'll guarantee that you will see me tomorrow." A smirk. "Beauty and amazing personality and all."

The Canadian snorted. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." But he, nonetheless, smiled, stepping away. "Good night."

"Adieu," Francis said warmly, watching the younger blonde amble up the door steps and into the silent house. "I'll have you soon…Mathieu."

Tomorrow will be a new day, after all.

The sun was shining down cheerily when Francis drove up to the driveway.

The Frenchman grinned as he stepped lightly out of his car, locking the door shut and hefting another bocquet of flowers, this time daisies, in the crook of his arm more steadfastly. He sauntered up to the door and rang the doorbell.

Seconds passed and the door opened, Alfred F. Jones having answered it and looking quite frazzled and unkempt from having just woken up.

"Wha…" the American blinked before coming to. He frowned. "You."

Francis leered. "Oh yes. It is moi."

"Thought you had given up and all that," Alfred growled, leaning against the doorframe dauntingly. "Would've been the highlight of my life."

The Francophile scoffed. "Like I can forget your brother just like that. His beauty and internal mentality keeps luring me back here, Amerique, like a siren's call to sailors." He paused, studying the other briefly. "Hmm," he mused, chin in hand. "You resemble a great deal as Mathieu, mon ami, though, your attitude needs a great deal of work." Another smirk. "And besides, no matter the resemblance, Mathieu is the better looking of you two."

"Why you-"

"Al!" A voice called out from the interiors of the two-story house. "Is that Tino? Has he arrived?"

Alfred gave another acidic glare towards the French before replying, "No, Mattie! It's someone else." He muttered lowly, "A frog with an ugly mug, that is…"

Francis was offended. "Oi-"

"Eh?" Matthew asked, coming along to the door to witness the commotion. He was met with the form of the Frenchman, instead. "Oh." The Canadian blinked. "Uh…good morning…?"

"I'm back, mon cher," Francis said, blowing a kiss towards the younger twin and ignoring the older's dark glare. "I promised, did I not?"

Matthew gaped. "I-I honestly thought you were fibbing! I didn't know you were going to keep stalking me!"

"There's a difference in stalking and pursuing love, Mathieu," Francis told gaily, "And I for one, am doing the latter." He held out the daisies in front of his target's face. "And these are for you, mon cher."

The Canadian made a face. "Flowers again…?"

Francis pulled back slightly. "Non? Do you not like flowers?"

"No, no," Matthew denied, shaking his head. "I like them, but I just don't have anywhere to put them, considering you bought me a whole herd of roses yesterday!"

"Nonsense," Francis said, "That was a mere bocquet, not a herd."

"Sir," Matthew sighed, reaching out to accept the daisies unwillingly. "As much as I am…touched, that you bought me these things, I do not want anymore."

"Then, mon cher, do you want chocolates, instead?"

"What- no! I said I didn't want-"

"Moi moi~!" A sweet voice called out, prompting the attention of the three men standing in the doorway.

A slight, pale man hopped out of a mail-delivering vehicle, beaming happily while caring a small cage. "Hello, Matthew~!"

Matthew smiled, obviously relieved to see the other. "Hello, Tino! How are you? And is Berwald doing all right?"

"Good, good," Tino Väinämöinen laughed, lifting the cage up gingerly. "And Berwald's doing fine, also, thank you for asking. Oh! And here's your package, haha~!"

"Ah," Matthew exclaimed, deciding to ditch the flowers to the floor (ignoring the buyer of said fleurs crestfallen look.) and rushing forwards to accost the Finnish man's package. "Thank you! And, eh, do you know how much so that I can pay Berwald? He's helped me a lot, and I really want to pay him back, you see-"

"Cost, smosh," Tino blew a raspberry, frowning playfully. "No need to pay, Matthew! You've helped us out many times since we moved here, so it's no problem, really." The pale blonde took a peek at the watch on his wrist and gasped. "Oh! Sorry for cutting the greetings short, Matthew!" Tino cried, speeding towards his automobile. "But I have to hurry delivering the mail! Goodbye!"

"Bye, Tino," Matthew bidded readily, watching the other drive away before striding back into the house, humming a tune as he set the cage gently down on the wood floors.

Alfred and Francis followed, the latter uninvited, but no one took much notice.

"Hey, there," Matthew was saying softly when the duo came into with earshot of the Canadian. "Miss me?"

"What are you talking to, Mathieu?" Francis inquired curiously, looking down at the younger with the cage.

Matthew started, obviously having forgotten that he wasn't the only one in existence, and chuckled uncertainly. "It's my pet-" the maple-loving male began to say before something ambled out of the cage fluidly.

Francis stared. "Is that…" He blinked. "Is that a polar bear?"


A small, cub-sized polar bear sat on the rug, yawning widely. It cocked it's head inquisitively, staring up at the bewildered Frenchman.

"A polar bear…is your pet." Francis was truly so perplexed that he couldn't put the statement as a question.

"Dude, you still have that little guy?" Alfred asked, leaning down to get a better look at the small bear. "It's been years since I saw him. How'd ya get to keep him from the authorities and shit?" The American reached out a friendly hand to pet the bear, and then the animal somehow smiled.

It had some of the most sharpest teeth Francis ever had the experience of seeing.

"Uh…" Alfred was wise enough to pull his free appendage back to his person. "Nice…chompers."

"Yeah," Matthew laughed, reaching down so that the cub would scramble into his arms. "You might not want to get near his teeth, lest he bite, right Mr. Kumakaro?"

Francis swore the bear frowned before biting the Canadian on the arm with savage gusto.

"Ouch!" Matthew drew the disgruntled bear back gingerly. "What's with you? I didn't leave you alone that long!"

The bear gave an unimpressed look.

"Hey, who was the one that decided to eat the peanut butter when he was told not to?"

The bear grunted.

"That's what I thought." Matthew shook his head before addressing the other inhabitants of the hallway. "Sorry about that, I had to leave him to Berwald, the vet, for three nights because he had gotten food poisoning, so that's why he's a little grumpy."

"Ah~" Francis nodded, as if everything he was witnessing made complete and utter sense. "I see. But Mathieu, I thought that, ah…pets that aren't…of the usual norm, are not allowed in this city?"

Matthew huffed crossly. "Down the street lives a girl that owns an African serval cat that she bought from Ebay, thanks." He sighed. "But…yeah. Since I moved here from Canada, the authorities weren't exactly welcoming to my bear, but I met Arthur and he helped me out by making my polar bear legal, thanks to Arthur's connections."

"Hmm…really now…" Alfred muttered, an indescribable look in his blue eyes. He held out his hands inquiringly. "Mind letting me hold 'im, Mattie?"

Matthew started a slightly, before nodding and handing his polar bear over to the American, warning, "Be careful, though, he'll bite."

"Nah," Alfred laughed obnoxiously confidentally, clutching the irritated bear a little higher in midair. "This little guy wouldn't bite the Hero, right?" He brought the bear closer, smiling sunnily. "Right, Mr. Kumakaro?"

The bear gave an audible twitch before it twisted and bit Alfred's thumb.

"Holy fucking-" the cow-lick-haired blonde screeched in pain, dropping the polar bear in shock. "OWWCH!"

Matthew caught his pet, it having narrowly missing the ground by a mere inches. As the bear clung tightly to the the Canadian, said owner began yelling back. "Alfred! You almost dropped him, you stupid moron!"

"It bit me," Alfred accused angrily, showing his younger twin a bleeding thumb. "Look! Look at my awesome, heroically injured thumb, Mattie!"

"Stop acting like a drama queen and man up, geez!"

"Why you- what if your bear has friggin' rabies? Huh? Ever wondered about that?"

"That's preposterous! He already had his rabies shots-"

"Lies and blasphemy!"

"Just shut up!"

Francis watched the two siblings bicker in awe, almost admiring at the intensity of the argument.

The Frenchman was debating on how to break up the fight when Arthur stumbled into the hallway.

"Will you two shut the bloody fuck up?" The Briton roared, punching a hole in the wall. He regarded the damage of his house in surprise. "Well, shite. That wasn't supposed to happen." Shaking his head, he turned back to the confounded brothers. "What the hell is it this time? I have a bleeding hangover still from last night, and you two are screaming like a hoard of monkeys."

"Sorry, Arthur," Matthew apologized, sheepishly, cuddling his polar bear.

Alfred scoffed. "Get over your hangover, old man. No one cares."

"Shut up, brat. Until you grow up, this is man talk. Which, by the way, you are no part of because you are still a brat," Arthur said, lifting his chin in challenge as the American glared.

"I didn't know there was such a thing as a 'hoard of monkeys', Angleterre," Francis remarked offhandedly.

Finally noticing that there was another person in the general area, the Englishman swiveled to frown at the French.

"You," Arthur said in distaste (which made Francis wonder if everyone liked to label him as 'You' in that awful-sounding voice…), lip curling. "What are you doing here?"

Francis puffed his chest out in a proud gesture. "Isn't it obvious, Angleterre? I am chasing Mathieu in the name of amour, of course." He threw a winning smile towards the victim in mention, the latter groaning in annoyance.

Arthur shot the stubbled man an disgusted stare. "I honestly thought you would be gone by now…" He turned an alarmed look to Matthew. "You- you didn't encourage the Frog last night… did you, Matthew?"

Matthew looked appalled and highly disturbed. "No!"

The Briton sighed in relief. "That's good to hear. But…" He gave another sour look towards the increasingly getting amused Frenchman. "Well, Frog…I have to give you a bit of respect…you didn't back out…Not that I enjoy that fact, no."

"And here I thought you wouldn't give a backhanded compliment, mon ami," Francis sighed desolately, waving his hand. "No matter."

"Shut up, Frog," Arthur uttered cantankerously. "Your voice grates on my already thin nerves." The Englishman noticed the polar bear in Matthew's arms. "Ah. He's back, hmm…?"

"Eh, yes," Matthew smiled, squeezing his bear a little too tightly, it growling its discontent lightly. "Tino just delivered him back to me." The Canadian laughed a tiny bit. "No more peanut butter, right, Mr. Kumakaro?"

In response, the bear bit him again.

"Ouch!" Matthew shouted, shaking his bear away. "Why do you keep on biting me? I'm your master!"

The polar bear merely gave the bespectacled blonde a cross look.

Alfred snickered, ignoring his former contempt at the animal. "Looks like he hates you, too."

Arthur gazed at the polar bear thoughtfully before reaching out and taking the bear in his own arms. "I thought his name was Mr. Kumajiro."

And to everyone's complete shock, the Briton was not bitten.

Mr. Kumajiro, now that his name was gotten right, smiled in his polar bear way, and promptly licked the impressive-browed man playfully on the nose.

Arthur sputtered, cheeks an embarrassed shade of flamingo-pink. "For the love of- take him back, Matthew!"

The Canadian begrudgingly took back his pet, pouting at the thought that the whole time, he, the owner, forgot his own bear's name, whilst his drunk babysitter, remembered. How humiliating.

"No worry, mon cher," Francis interrupted his target's thoughts smoothly. He sidled close, making the bear growl at him, already disliking the Frenchman. The latter ignored the animal for all it's worth. "We all have our off days, oui?" A smirk. "Want moi to make it all better, Mathieu?"

Matthew stepped a little away, looking rather alarmed. "No!"

"Hey! What'd I say about you staying away from my bro, huh?" Alfred exclaimed, waving his hands threateningly. "I am about to freaking bashyour face in, buddy boy-"

"Oi," Arthur interjected, frowning. He pointed at the raging American's hand. "Moron, if you had been paying attention, you would've noticed that you were dripping blood on my carpet. Stupid tosser."

Alfred blinked and regarded his bleeding thumb, having noticing it for the first time. "What the…" He perked up and glared at Matthew's polar bear, remembering who was the perpetrator. "You."

The bear grinned. Francis was, honest to god, beginning to think the bear was a secret robot from the government agency…considering how human it looked when it made facial expressions.

"It's that thing's fault!" Alfred snarled, stalking towards the cub and making Matthew back away nervously from all the attention. "It bit me!"

Arthur yawned. "Oh, yes, with that violent attitude, one has to wonder why you don't get bitten," the Englishman said sarcastically.

"Who you callin' vio-"

"Just get in the kitchen," Arthur cut short the other's words brusquely. He pointed towards the room of choice. "Bandages are in there."

Alfred stared like the Englishman had grown multiple arms and another head. "Say what…"

Matthew sighed. "Hurry up, Al," he said infuriately. "You're making the floor all messy from your blood. Get it bandaged! Arthur'll fix you up, he's great at that."

Both mentioned blondes sputtered at the comment.

"I'm not great at that stuff! And-and even if I was, I wouldn't tend to that sodding git-"

"Yeah! Who'd want an old man like him to tend to anyone's injuries? Least of all, mine!"

The American and Brit stopped their tirades and proceeded to glare at one another.

Francis was slowly receiving a migraine. "Oh, mon dieu," the stubbled man heaved a sigh. "The sexual tension is going to kill us all."

Matthew snorted. "As much as I hate to admit it," the usually soft-spoken blonde said sternly, his polar bear pawing at his arm in want of attention. "I have to agree with…Francis (another cringe at the utterance of the French's name). You guys better get over whatever kind of tension that was concocted, and man up and work together. For my sake. And my virginity. Please."

Alfred and Arthur stared back at Matthew unsurely, faces blank.

Francis leered at Matthew even more at the word 'virginity'.

Matthew died a bit inside.

Desperate, the Canadian decided to use threats.

"If you guys don't do as I say, then I won't cook anymore waffles."

Arthur's green eyes widened almost comically.

"Get in the kitchen. Now." the Englishman said hurriedly, hands flying up to push the American of the group into said room. "Hurry up so I can bandage your sodding finger, twat!"

"Hey, what's up with you?" Alfred asked, frowning at the other's actions. "You still drunk or something'? All he said was that he wasn't going to make anymore waffles, that's all, dude."

"Shut the bloody hell up," Arthur hissed in such a way that it made shivers run up everyone's spine imperceptibly. "You don't understand. Matthew, when he threatens, means said threats. I need those waffles. So, god help me, I will have those waffles."

Alfred gave a concerned look at the slighter before saying to his twin, "Okay, Mattie…what kind of crack have you been putting in those waffles of yours?"

"Just get on with it!" The Briton snarled, opting to drag his American captive into the area of culinary arts. "Go!"

"Pfft. You wouldn't be as pushy when you find out I posted that video of you drunk on Facebook and Youtube…" Alfred muttered lowly, feet beginning to pick up.

"What did you say, clot?"

"Nothing, old man~ Your hearing must be getting worse each year!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

The kitchen door swung close, cutting off the millionth argument.

"That was uneventful," Francis commented, flicking his long blonde hair to the side. "Right, Mathieu?"

"Don't call me that," was the Canadian's immediate response. Setting his bear down, he went over to the daisies that were dropped earlier, picked it up and began dusting it slightly, brow furrowed. He glanced at the Frenchman, cheeks slowly began to flush. "I…I'm sorry for disregarding the flowers you bought for me, like that. I shouldn't have done it, seeing as you went out of your way to get it for me…"

"Ah, ah," Francis laughed gleefully, noting the other's flush. He suddenly reached over, hands going up and tilting the Canadian's chin back.

Matthew stopped breathing, eyes wide and staring up into the French's cobalt blue.

Mr. Kumajiro watched the scene warily as he sat on his rump, little tongue lagging out of his mouth.

"Do no apologize, Mathieu," Francis said, smile still on his lips. "There is nothing, nothing,I wouldn't do for you, for you are worth it."

Matthew gaped.

The Francophile slant down slightly, face coming closer to the Canadian nice guy's. "And mon cher~" He said happily, eyes closing in merriment. "In saying that, may I receive a lovely kiss from you now, Mathieu?"

Matthew blanched, snapping out of his awe-induced daze. "M-maple tree- no-"

"YOU BLOODY GIT OF IMMENSE PROPORTIONS!" Arthur's clear, British voice rang alarmingly out from the kitchen door. "NOT THE WAFFLES, YOU-"

"Oh- oh dear," Matthew broke away from the Frenchman's hold, beginning to scurry towards the kitchen area.

Francis was busy internalizing his anger and fury at Arthur for interrupting his moment like that when the Canadian paused.

"Eh, sir…" He almost looked like he was ready to stab his abdomen in pure mortification, but Matthew managed to choke out a, "Have you eaten breakfast, yet?"

Francis slapped a delighted grin on his facial features. "Non, Mathieu~" he chortled, beginning to follow. "And with that said, am I allowed to taste your fine…waffles?" A perverted smirk appeared at the term, 'waffles', signifying what kind of 'waffles' Francis wanted to devour.

Matthew went pale. "Oh, god, not that kind of waffles!"

Before he could sputter anymore, another cry came from the kitchen, and then an ominous-sounding 'CRASH'.

The Canadian chose to scramble for the kitchen door instead.

Yawning, Francis and Mr. Kumajiro ambled slowly behind, taking their time.

The Frenchman blinked when he was met with the sight of a flailing American, a raging, nearly sobbing Briton, and a flustered Canadian trying to bring order to all the chaos.

"The fat git killed the food, Matthew," Arthur bellowed frightfully, wielding a spatula threateningly at the blonde, bespectacled, 'git'. "Killed it!"

"He's lying!" Alfred yowled, shaking his still bleeding finger wildly. "And drunk! He was burning the waffles! And I don't know how anyone can burn those damn things, but he could."

"G-guys-" Matthew tried to say before he was cut off once again.

"The stupid moron wouldn't sit still!" Arthur was saying, getting rather spirited. "I was trying to bandage his thumb, but he got fearful of the antiseptic, and ran to the waffles, flinging blood and shit into the poor, hapless things!"

"I was trying to cook," Alfred insisted. "The old man here was trying to pour alcohol on me while cooking waffles. He was burning those things, even though he was using a waffle cooker! And antiseptic? That wasn't antiseptic, that was alcohol! You don't poor alcohol on a wounded hero's injury!"

"Hmmph, that's how they use to treat wounds, brat," Arthur bit out before taking a swig from the beer bottle. "Useful thing, alcohol."

"What time period are you from?"

Dark smoke was slowly rising from said cooked waffles, which, Francis noted, were still laying precariously in the skillet. Observing the questionable red blotches on the breakfast food, the Francophone made sure that he and everybody else wouldn't eat Alfred's 'bloody' waffle, and proceeded to toss the thing into the trashcan.

Matthew watched with wide, violet eyes.

"My waffles…" he muttered, tone short from heartbroken. "Wasting a waffle…" With that said, he straightened up, slapped a determined and quite POed glare on his fair-skinned face, and proceeded to roar, "Everybody sit the hell down!"

Quietness ensued as the main source of the chaos turned to take note of the weary Canadian who had, quite suddenly, but thankfully in a small quantity, snapped.

Matthew's eye twitched as he panted from exertion. "No more," he gritted, shaking a fist harmlessly. "Arthur, Alfred, you guys sit your asses down now and be quiet as I fix the breafast you guys destroyed."

"M-Mattie," Alfred said, eyes big from his usually calm and soft-spoken brother's uncharacteristically loud and violent outburst. "You all right, man? And it wasn't my fault-"

"Sit. Down."

The American did just that as Arthur began to express regret by saying, "I'm sorry, Matthew, I-"

"Arthur. Sit down and tend to Alfred's thumb before I get even more angry at you attempting to cook when I said not to," Matthew interrupted, smiling a tad bit too sweetly-turned- feral smile.

Arthur swallowed audibly and sat his arse in the seat, beckoning towards the American for the wounded appendage. The two worked in silence, Arthur's movement smooth and graceful (despite the apparent drinking of alcohol from earlier) in wrapping the patient's thumb, and Alfred stayed quiet, only wincing now and again from the other's pressure.

"There," Matthew said, satisfied. "Aren't we all happy when everybody's all calm? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll-" He shot a warning glare at Arthur and Alfred, the latter duo looking slightly guilty. "-be taking care of breakfast."

With that said, the Canadian proceeded to clean the carnage, pouring a new mix of waffles into the cooker and placing the lid down, steam rising from the waffle-cooking machine. Grabbing a skillet, Matthew placed it on the stove, turning the heat on as he strode over to the fridge, opening the door, and grabbed a package of unidentifiable meat, ripping the package wide open.

"What is that, Mathieu?" Francis asked, curious.

Matthew started, having obviously forgotten the existence of the Frenchman, and laughed sheepishly. "I'm cooking Canadian bacon," he said, setting the mentioned item down in the skillet, popping and hissing noises coming from the contact.

Alfred snorted. "Ham."

Matthew stiffened, swiveling to glare at his older twin brother. "What…?"

"You Canadians call it 'bacon', but it's obviously 'ham'!" Alfred made a rude gesture towards the animal protein. "Just look at it!"

Matthew glared stonily. "It's bacon."


"Bacon." Matthew's lip curled. He shot an imploring look at Arthur. "Arthur agrees with me, don't you?"

The Briton looked uncomfortably away, taking another sip of his beer. "Well, Matthew…I, ah, might…have to agree with the git on this one, just once…"

Matthew spluttered. "Wha-what?" He spun upon Francis. "You agree with me, don't you?"

Francis battled with himself, wanting to disagree since the Canadian bacon was obviously actually ham, but the puppy-moe stare his target was shooting him with was just too seductive to ignore. "Oui," the Frenchman agreed, smiling nervously.

"See?" Matthew said triumphantly.

"The Frog's words don't count," Arthur stated grumpily, downing another drink.

The Briton's ward gave a hard stare. "Stop drinking alcohol so early in the morning, Arthur. You've had enough last night."

Arthur faltered at the dark-laced tone, but tried to not give up. "I- my business has no-"

"Angleterre, Angleterre," Francis tsked pityingly, shaking his head. "At such a young age as an alcoholic." A sigh. "How low you've fallen, mon ami."

"That's right," Alfred laughed. "You need coffee to get you going in the morning! Not beer, old man, it'll ruin your liver at the state of your health."

Arthur hissed. "Like you should talk, fatty. I'm not the one gulping down fatty, greasy burgers, now am I?"

"Hey! Don't talk about my patriotic food like that!" Alfred bristled. "Just for that, I'll make you drink coffee, seeing as you hate it so much."

Before the Englishman could react to the younger's words, the latter had swooped in and stolen the beer bottle, running to the sink and pouring the liquid down the drain.

Arthur gawked. "You-you bloody bastard!" He cried, scampering wildly over to the drain. "No! That- you wasteful, moronic-"

"It's for your own good," Matthew answered in his brother's stead, tending diligently to the waffles and Canadian bacon. "Too much alcohol is bad for you. Alfred, go make the coffee."

The American brother saluted. "Aye, aye, lil bro of mine." He went off in search of the coffeepot.

Arthur followed dejectedly behind. "But-but-"

Francis watched the happenings, greatly amused.

Mr. Kumajiro merely sniffed in disdain.

Five minutes later, all four males sat at the dining table, Matthew setting each person their respective plates.

"Maple, anyone?" the Canadian said happily, setting the syrup bottle on the table. "It's wonderful in the coffee."

"Er…no," Alfred replied, slowly sliding his coffee mug out of reach.

Arthur slumped in his seat, taking a fork and stabbing it depressingly in his waffles. "On my waffles, Matthew, not the disgusting coffee…"

Francis took a bite of the food. His eyes widen imperceptibly. "Mathieu, did you make all this from scratch yourself, mon cher?"

The violet-eyed nineteen-year-old scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Yes…?"

"It it delicious, Mathieu," Francis complimented, chewing mildly. He smirked. "Though, I wonder if you'll taste this wonderful, if not more-"

Arthur kicked the Frenchie underneath the table harshly, glaring in contempt as the latter doubled over in pain. Matthew looked scarred for life. Alfred was not amused.

"Why are you still here?" Arthur and Alfred questioned both at the same time, each with looks of identical homicidal tendencies.

Francis cowered underneath the looks of anger, laughing timidly. "About that, mon ami, I- ah…Mathieu invited me for breakfast, oui."

"Eh, he's right, guys," Matthew said, prompting horrified looks from his brother and babysitter.

"Well, Frog," Arthur said, narrowing his eyes while cutting into the Canadian bacon. "After you finish, you can leave."

"Ah," Francis replied, already shaking his head. "That I cannot do."

"Do you want a reason to?" Alfred asked, light glinting off his glasses in a way that one couldn't see behind them. The spoon in his grasp suddenly seemed lethal.

The Frenchman of the group swallowed. "I- I mean, I was hoping to treat you all (Even though I only wanted Matthew) on a trip today, of sorts."

Arthur gave an unimpressed stare. "Right."

"Arthur!" Matthew scolded, frowning slightly. He faced Francis. "Sorry for his rudeness. He's really cranky in the morning."

"All day, actually," Alfred coughed into his coffee, snickering.

"Shut up, brat."

"Anyway," Matthew cut in, "Where is the trip going to be, sir?"

"Francis, mon cher," The Francophone reminded as usual. "And…well… the trip is at the, ah…zoo." He looked slightly embarrassed.

Alfred snorted. "How cheesy."

"Childish," Arthur retorted.

"Eh…" was Matthew's response.

Francis scrambled to defend his case. "It is a lovely day out, mon ami," he said, frowning in an offended way. "And I had thought it would be a change of pace of your daily life to go somewhere different from the usual city."

"I would've agreed with ya," Alfred drawled. "when I was five."

"You still are five," Arthur responded, grinning slyly.

"Shut up. At least I'm not sixty-five."

"I think it's a great idea," Matthew told Francis quickly, wanting the fighting to cease. "I'm willing to go."

Francis beamed. "Lovely, mon cher, positively lovely."

Alfred sputtered. "You can't be serious! It's a zoo."

Matthew gave him a look. "And…?"

"What the moron is saying, and I'll translate," Arthur said, frowning his big-browed frown. "That going to the zoo is for children, and that we're all grown men." He turned to Francis accusingly. "Not only that you're a cheapskate Frog, you're a cheapskate pedophile Frog. Atrocious."

"I am not!" Francis exclaimed. "Angleterre, you told us all that I could pursue Mathieu all I wanted, and that he could not refused until I give up. I am trying to prove that I won't, mon ami."

"I did…?" Arthur's drunken nights clearly messed with his memory.

"You did," Matthew said, looking slightly put out by having to be reminded of the creepy fact.

"Oh, so I did…" Arthur mused. "No matter. We aren't going."

"But-" Francis tried to say.


"I-I'll go," Matthew spoke up bravely, refusing to look at the Frenchman's hopeful big smile at his response, feeling embarrassed and slightly out of character. "If you guys don't want to…then I will."

Alfred and Arthur shared twin looks of dismay.

"You can't be serious," Alfred tried to change his little brother's mind. "Come on, Mattie-"

"He went out of his way to invite me and you guys," Matthew said stubbornly, kindness radiating off his figure and positively rotting all the other selfish mens' mouths. "And in saying that you guys are creepy and overprotective jerks to him all the time, it takes courage and will to ask you guys." He shrugged. "I don't like him either, but I'm not as mean. So, Al, Arthur, if you don't want to go, then I will." He waited before adding another tiny tidbit. "So, who's going to protect me from getting molested?"

Francis leered. "I will, mon cher~!"

That kind of response made the decision for the Englishman and American.

"All right," Arthur decided sourly. "Fine. Have it your way. But."

"But?" Francis questioned.

Arthur and Alfred shared a calculated look before turning on the Frenchman.

"You do anything, anything, to Matthew," Arthur hissed maliciously.

"And we'll do unspeakable things to you that would make the CIA torturers look like a child's play," Alfred followed stonily, taking a sip of his coffee.

"And we aren't joking," the two concluded together.

Matthew looked slightly freaked out by the combined efforts of his babystitter and brother.

Francis swallowed nervously, noting the acid glares of Brit and American.

This was probably going to turn out to be trouble…

"All right," Francis agreed to the terms, nodding shakily. "I will not do anything that will be against Mathieu's wishes."

"Good," Arthur answered languidly. He was about to go and make more threats, but Matthew shot him a warning glare that stated that the making of threats has gone too far. "…"

Francis sighed, glad that most of the animosity was over.

The Francophile looked over as he heard a small clatter.

Mr. Kumajiro stared back, paws sticky from placing it on Francis' plate of waffles and maple syrup.

The Frenchman's gears began scrolling in his head.

If he made friends with his target's pet, his conquest will get easier, right?

So with that thought in mind, Francis gave a smile and said, "Bonjour, mon cher."

Mr. Kumajiro seemed to frowned, noting how the Francophone shot a perverted leer at his master. At that notion, the polar bear leaned and decided to introduce his extremely sharp teeth to the French stalker's nose.

Amid his screams of pain, Arthur's and Alfred's laughter, and Matthew's worried exclamations, Francis just knew that not only would it be trouble, it would be trouble with Canadian bacon.




Review, anyone? 8D