A/N: To my beloved rp-partner… I know I promised not to write anything else aside from the story, but this one just popped into my head. It's still a little bit related anyway, so don't you worry ;) This is my first UsUk, so do forgive me for some things you wouldn't like. Meant to be a one-shot, but I think six thousand words is too long for one story... So I cut it in half XD

Based on the song True Love by P!nk.

Muchas gracias~

X.o.X

"YOU COMPLETE ARSE!"

"What the hell?! I DIDN'T TELL YOU TO COOK, DID I?"

Plates crashed loudly against the floorboards and when Arthur heard heavy thumping from the floorboards above them, he knew someone had gotten up, but for the moment, he couldn't care less. The American before him had just avoided the plate of (sadly) burnt pancakes and it came crashing against the kitchen wall, together with the tea cup he was supposed to put his morning tea in.

Seething, with cheeks bright red, Arthur shouted, "I can never understand you, goddammit!" He hated him – oh how he bloody hated him. He never understood what the hell he had to do to please the damned American, what the hell was he to do?

"What was there to understand?!" demanded Alfred, blue eyes meeting emerald ones, "I just told you that it was burnt, and it tasted horrible! I only told you the truth!"

Before Arthur could reply to that, the owner of the footsteps that had descended the stairs, appeared at the kitchen door, and a young, Hispanic woman appeared, clad only in a white dress shirt that smelled strongly like men's perfume – ah, he almost forgot that he had two other couples living under the roof with him. The first was-

"Sacrebleau."

That was it. Francis had come down together with Alicia and they found the Brit, obviously completely angry and already close to tears, and the American, equally displeased, at a face-off. Naturally, their kitchen was the war-zone and quite thankfully, they haven't gotten to the cutlery yet. The Frenchman was about to open his mouth to speak when the woman beside him held up a hand to silence him, drew a deep breath, and turned to the two other men in the room. Ah. He almost forgot – this was her kitchen.

"All right, boys," she started, an aura akin to an irked mother spread through the room, "What happened here?"

Before Arthur could say anything in his defence, the younger nation pointed an accusing finger at him and shouted, "He tried to make breakfast!"

Alicia blinked twice, exchanged knowing glances with the Frenchman beside her, then turned to Alfred, "This isn't the first time he's done that," she side-glanced at Arthur, who was honestly thankful that it was her speaking instead of her lover, "Why do you have to be so mean?"

"He already knows he sucks at cooking, he doesn't have to do that!"

And before Alicia or Francis could do anything to stop him, Arthur had thrown his saucer at the American's head, and growled, "God, you are so full of yourself, aren't you?" he demanded, "Like you can do better?" It took every ounce of him not to walk a few feet to slap him across the face.

"W-wait," Francis attempted to interrupt.

"Of course, I can!" shouted Alfred, his brows furrowed and eyes narrowing after evading that last projectile that crashed unceremoniously against the kitchen wall behind him. He was lucky to have the dining table between them, or he was sure Arthur would have strangled him by now, "I can at least do better than-"

"Oh God, that is it!" And without another word, the Englishman stormed out of the room.

Francis looked at the Spaniard before him, who nodded shortly, before following straight after the Brit. Alicia turned to Alfred, who immediately looked crestfallen at what he had just occurred, "H-he… he isn't really angry…" he started, walking up to the young woman,"… Is he?"

Alicia narrowed her eyes dangerously and headed towards the coffee maker, "Oh, you think?" her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Sure, they haven't really been together for that long – especially if you would compare it to how long Francis and Alicia were together (and Arthur had to say, when that man said he's faithful, he actually meant it more than the Brit thought he would) – which was roughly during the latter part of year 1700, but still. Around more than a hundred years still wasn't that bad, right? He knew almost everything about Alfred, he honestly did raise him (which somewhat increases the time they've spent with each other, right?), but why was he like that? Why the hell did Alfred always push his buttons, or be so fucking mean? He spoiled that brat, he taught him to be better – how the hell did that even happen? Where the hell did he go wrong?!

Arthur sat miserably in their living room couch, head buried in his hands. Am I that much of an idiot to love this guy?

A weight beside him told him that somebody had followed him.

"Mon ami?"

Arthur repressed a groan: really? Francis?

"Don't breathe a word." He warned, looking up to meet the shocked blue eyes of the Frenchman, "I don't want to hear anything about whatever's happening, especially not from you." Francis was about to open his mouth when Arthur immediately overrode him, "You don't have to ask why, Frog!" he nearly shouted, "Just because you have some sort of perfect relationship, because you're so fucking in love for longer than any of us has ever been… You don't have to show it off!"

One look into his emerald eyes, it seemed, and Francis knew exactly what was happening, "I see what's going on here," Francis stood up and made his way towards the doorway, "You know what? You need time to cool off. Come take a walk with me. I have something to show you…"

And before he could ask what it was, the Frenchman had disappeared.

With the sounds of fresh coffee brewing in the background, Alicia had cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen. They young American was slouched over their dinner table, his forehead sticking closely to the wooden surface.

"You should just apologize," Mathieu had gone down after the ruckus, currently making the pancakes, clad in his maple-leaf printed hoodie and sweatpants. His albino lover stood beside him as he made the food and was poking him, teasing and taunting in the way he usually would, "Arthur was just trying to – Gil, stop it! I'm gonna drop the pancakes!" And he pushed the German away from him.

"Honestly." Alfred sighed and remained where he was, arms sprawled across the table, "I didn't mean it in so much of a bad way… I thought it was playful banter – I didn't think he'd get mad."

Alicia sighed and appeared from behind him with his coffee cup, steaming and filled, "Here," she placed it right next to his hands, "Coffee always helps," and in her hands she held a coffee cup bearing the French flag and sat in the far side of the counter.

"W-well…" He sat up and placed the warm cup between his hands, "What else can I do? Do I apologize now, or-?"

"No," All three occupants in the room replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The poor American sighed again. This time, Gilbert came over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Listen kid," he started, "I've known Arthur far longer than this, and even I – for one –know that the guy needs his time to calm down. You hurt him pretty bad just then, so I suggest you talk to one of your, erm…" he looked at the rest of them there, "Friends outside the family… about what to do in this case,"

"Si," replied Alicia, making Alfred's blue eyes dart towards her, "Preferably someone who knows Arthur well enough as well, though," and she took a gulp of coffee, "We all know that you'd want to let it out, and you're just to embarrassed with the situation as it is here at home to let it out here,"

A faint blush spread across Alfred's cheeks – wow, she's good at this "mother" thing. He nodded when, suddenly, an idea came to him, "I know!" he exclaimed, sitting up and nearly knocking the German out of the way, "I'm gonna go out a bit!" And without as much as a by-your-leave, he had dashed out of the kitchen.

As young nation ran out, he nearly stumbled into Francis, who was on his way into the kitchen, "Hey, where are you going?" the Frenchman asked as the American ran up the stairs after passing him.

"Going to Kiku's!" Alfred shouted, "I just need my hoodie!"

And with a sigh, Francis walked back into the kitchen, to find his Prussian best friend still prodding and poking at his son, who was attempting to cook the remainder of the pancakes, "Gil, seriously-" Mathieu grumbled, trying to edge away from his lover, who continued to tap on his hands teasingly, trying to distract him, "I need to… Gil, the food's gonna…"

"You better stop that, mon ami," the Frenchman warned, taking a yellow and red-striped mug from a shelf after seeing what Alicia had in her hands, "Don't make him use his secret weapon against you." And ever-so-calmly, he poured himself a steaming cup of coffee.

"Eh?" Gilbert continued to poke and tease his already all-too frustrated lover with a grin, "What are you-?"

"Mama!"

As Mathieu screamed it, a sharp dagger suddenly pressed itself upon the base of the German's neck. He gulped and his sweat dropped, and he distinctly heard the Spaniard's voice close to his ear in a soft hiss, "Stop it."

A cold chill ran down Gilbert's spine and he nodded, heading out the door, just as Arthur was on his way in, muttering to himself inaudibly about women and their uncanny ability to protect their young.

"What happened to him?" he asked the other three remaining in the room.

"I told him," Francis started, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned against the counter and Alicia lightly patted the Canadian's head, "I warned him not to annoy Mathieu."

Upon hearing that statement, Arthur's eyes found the dagger in Alicia's hand, "… I thought Francis got you to let go of all of your knives?" he demanded, paling slightly.

Alicia laughed a little and headed towards her disregarded coffee mug beside her lover, tossing her dagger into one of the shelves over their heads, "Francis allowed me to keep one," and she took a little sip from her coffee, Francis' ocean-blue eyes twinkling as they watched her every move.

"A-ah," Arthur's brow furrowed, "… And which one did you keep, exactly?"

The Spaniard looked up at Francis, who nodded at her, before side-glancing at Arthur, a mischievous grin playing upon her lips, "The sharpest one."

Arthur gulped and released a short, exasperated breath, making the lovers laugh at him. His emerald eyes looked up at Francis, and his gaze began to harden, "Hey frog," he started, "I thought you said we're going to go take a walk?"

Alicia, who was taking a sip of coffee, looked up at her lover with an eyebrow raised, "You are?"

"Oui," Francis replied, setting his coffee mug down and snaking an arm around her waist. He pulled her close to him, pinning her against the counter, "We won't take long, just to get Angleterre to take all this heat off~"

A smirk played upon Alicia's lips as she set her cup down beside Francis', looking into the Frenchman's eyes, "Oh?" she asked again, her hands upon the his chest and making its way slowly upon his shoulders, "And what about that lunch you promised me, hm?"

Ocean-blue eyes twinkled and just by looking, even Arthur realized that Francis had something planned, "Oh, mon amour," he began, nearing the Spaniard, his grin widening, "Lunch will be as we have agreed, and perhaps… we can have more?"

Alicia's grin reached from ear to ear, "I would like that."

And just like that, their lips crashed against each other, the young Spaniard locking her arms around the blond's neck, with Francis kissing her deeply, passionately, in every way he knew she liked. To Mathieu, it was nothing but an expression of love – he considered them his parents, and this was their way of showing their affection for each other (although they were as playful as a young couple, but as passionate as an old flame). It was how they normally are – a nation who loves and the region that exhibits passion – and they cannot change it even if they wanted to. But to Arthur, it almost seemed like a sign that they were doing something wrong – that there was something wrong with what he and the American were doing.

Look at them.

He continued to stare at Francis and Alicia, who had pulled away for short breather before resuming to kiss each other passionately once more, a few chuckles and giggles heard from their direction. He's an outrageous flirt, and a sex-loving, pleasure-seeking bastard…But he only ever does all of that with her for these past hundred years. And she was a cold, mindless pirate, a soldier who followed her brother's every command – but she followed her heart to be with him all these years.

Finally, he turned away, clenching his fists and hearing a door slam somewhere inside the house, but not bothering to think of who it may be.

"Where exactly are we going?!"

"You will see~"

The grin on the Frenchman's face was unmatchable, but Arthur couldn't help but wonder why he was so happy. They walked through the streets of France, the next venue for the upcoming world meeting, but it was far from the busy streets of Paris that Arthur was quite used to. He dug his hands in his pockets as the Frenchman beside him hummed to himself, before Francis grinned, "We're here~"

And the Brit found himself in front of Jewellery shop.

He blinked twice before his emerald eyes darted towards Francis, "… Are you doing what I think you're going to be doing?"

But Francis only winked at him and pushed the door of the shop, welcoming himself in. Arthur shook his head, chuckling, before following the taller man in.

The shop, Arthur mused, wasn't really all that big – two sides adorned with large, glass drawers filled with varying kinds of jewels, and a door at the end that would probably lead to a safe or storage room, or the owner's flat. A middle-aged man walked out of it upon hearing them enter and grinned as he saw Francis.

"Ah! Monsieur France~"

And the rest of the conversation went unnoticed because Arthur could barely make out the rest of the words that both men began to swiftly converse in. Without realizing it, he found himself poring over rings and something caught his eye: a simple, white-gold band, with several, small glittering diamonds spread across it. As he neared it, it glittered and glistened, almost like the night sky, and his nose was so close to the glass enclosed it when the owner snapped him out of his stance:

"You like the one with fifty-stars?" he asked cheekily, grinning at the Brit, "That must be one lucky girl you would spend so much on~"

A faint blush rose in Arthur's cheeks, "N-no, actually, I-"

Francis laughed and gave the owner a pat on the back, "Please don't tease him, mon ami," he said, "He just had an argument with his lover. My order, please, is it ready?"

"Of course, monsieur!" the owner walked behind the glass shelves and bent down to pull something out from a drawer beneath it. Then, he emerged after a few moments with a small, black, velvet box, "One beautiful engagement ring, for your beautiful fiancée,"

Arthur's eyes widened and he turned to Francis, who took the box with thanks ever so carefully in his hands, "So you are," the Brit started, earning the gaze of the two Frenchmen, "It's really happening, you really are planning to get married to Alicia now,"

Francis laughed heartily, opening the box slowly, "We actually seem to have been married for quite a long time ago, so there really won't be so much of a difference," he explained, looking at the ring in the box, "This would just be the formalities – besides," he picked up the ring and examined it closely, "She loves weddings. She deserves one of her own."

The Brit came up beside him and looked at the ring he chose: it was white-gold as well, and the band was smooth and simple. Even the stone, in itself, was small and simple, but the shape that held it was not, "Francis," Arthur began, his eyes squinting to make sure he wasn't being deceived, "Is that a-"

"Sun? Oui," Francis replied with a grin, "She thinks I may have forgotten it, but I have always known what I said to her the first time I lay my eyes on her…" and he handed the ring to Arthur for a closer look.

At first glance, Arthur thought that the sun that bore the round-cut diamond was all there was too it. But when he looked closer at the insides, he found words engraved in it: plus beau qu'un soleil.

"More beautiful than the sun."

A small smile played upon Arthur's lips as he understood – what were the first words that Alfred had ever said to him?

"You're proud, and a horrible cook, and annoyingly dense. But what am I to do if, ever since the beginning, all I've ever wanted was you?"

Well. He had to admit, the young lad wasn't too shabby with his words. He nodded and handed back the ring to Francis carefully, "She'll love it."

"Thank you," Francis took it back with a small bow, and returned it into the box. Then, snapping it closed, he handed it back to the owner and grinned, "I'll take the bill so I can write you a cheque."

"Oui, monsieur." And the owner disappeared with a smile behind the back door once again. Arthur found himself swimming in his thoughts when Francis decided to finally say something.

"Amerique was just doing whatever he would usually be doing, you know."

The Englishman scowled and turned away, looking anywhere but into the Frenchman's eyes, "Yeah, like being a bloody jerk!"

Francis laughed, "He does seem to push all your buttons like nobody else could,"

"Tch," Arthur rolled his eyes, "Al could give you a run for your money if it was in terms of being a bloody asshole."

But the moment he met Francis' ocean-blue eyes, the first thing he realized was the fact that they were so different from Alfred's sky-blue ones – how the hues were completely different, and how only the American's eyes can give him those light butterflies in his stomach that he figured should have been gone decades ago. The next thing he realized was the fact that no matter what he said, the Frenchman would always have something to be right about:

"Well, you wouldn't exactly have him any other way, now, would you?"

Arthur found himself incredibly hungry after Francis left the jeweller's (although he had expected it since he wasn't even able to drink his morning cup of tea, while his friend had managed to grab a cup of coffee and an energizing kiss from his lover), so the two decided to drop by the café right across the street from where they were to get something to fill them in for the moment. As they waited to be served their drinks and the sandwiches they had both ordered, Francis sat down and fidgeted. In the seat in front of him Arthur glared and scowled, "Francis," he started, his tone warning and stern, "The bloody table is shaking as much as you are. Get a fucking grip!"

"But mon ami!" the Frenchman complained, gorgeous brows furrowing, "What if she says 'no'?"

To that statement, Arthur actually snorted and laughed, "Do you actually think Alicia would say no to you?"

A pout played upon Francis' lips, "She… she could."

Then the not-so-unusual smack on the head was earned by the Frenchman, who didn't have enough time to evade Arthur's exasperated fist to his skull, "You can be such an idiot sometimes!" he nearly shouted, making people in neighbouring tables turn to them, "What in the world made you say that?!"

Francis remained silent.

The Englishman sighed and set an arm on the table, leaning into it casually, "Listen, Francis," he began, "That's just your nerves talking and-"

"She…" Francis cut him off, looking down at his hands, "She may have waited too long…" he started, "I may have made her wait too long for this – what if it's too late?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, "Oh bloody hell," he cursed, turning to the Frenchman sternly with his emerald eyes, "Listen: as bloody cliché as this may sound, and this is coming from something down your alley, might I add – if we're talking about true love-" like me and Alfred, he wanted to add, "- then it's never too late."

A smirk then began to make its way upon the Frenchman's lips, "Those who say that Englishmen have no romantic bone in their body are certainly mistaken," he said, placing his elbows on the table and laying his chin upon his interlaced fingers, "Tell me, Arthur: when have you been such a hopeless romantic?"

Hints of pink began to rise in the Brit's cheeks, "I'm not!"

Francis resisted the urge to laugh, "It isn't something to apply just to women, you know~" he began, blue eyes twinkling with delight, "I –for one – am a hopeless romantic as well, you know?" and he grinned mischievously, " I just managed to find someone who is entirely more of a hopeless romantic than I am~"

"That has completely nothing to do with this!" retorted Arthur, turning bright red now, "I'm a gentleman. I practice chivalry, not… Romance!"

"Ah, but you wish he would, for you, oui?"

And again, the Frenchman hit the target: well, he couldn't just blurt it out, now, could he? It was no problem for Francis – he was undeniably French, and romance came almost as natural to him as breathing. For Alicia – who was Spanish – it went hand in hand with her passion, as though romance was the most complementary thing to passion there was (well, seeing both of them together, it probably was). And whenever he thought about it, Arthur just found himself groaning in frustration because he practically invented chivalry – he placed gentle in gentleman, and yet… And yet he was the one having such a rough time dealing with a young, happy-go-lucky American for a lover, who seemed to have no romantic bone in his body.

"Merde," cursed Francis, blue eyes no longer facing him, but across the café from them.

And when Arthur followed his friend's gaze, something heavy fell into the pit of his stomach: across from them, near the window of the door, the American was having a chat with one of their Asian friends. However his sky-blue eyes were glaring in their direction, burning into Arthur's soul and making him realize that Alfred didn't like him sitting with Francis that way. Not one bit.

A/N: So... How was it? :)