France sat up, and smiled, stretched. Rolling over, he bounced out of bed and opened the curtains to welcome a glorious new day. Searching for his pants among the strewn clothing, he began to get frustrated and finally just swore and walked out of the room, wearing nothing. Wandering into the bathroom, he began brushing his hair lovingly and after a few minutes brushed his teeth and walked down the stairs to go make breakfast.
He was about to walk into the kitchen, when suddenly he smelled something. And not just anything. It was the smell of burnt scones… in his kitchen. He broke into a run.
Just as predicted, there was England, standing, with his clothing on backwards, disheveled and grumpy, with a plate of burnt scones on the counter and a pan of frying… something on the stove.
"Non!" He yelled, tears welling up in his eyes. Oh l'horreur! Just what was England doing? He knew not to come into the kitchen. That was a rule. A final judgment that France would not back down on. He would rather make tea all day than have England decimate his beloved kitchen. And yet there he was, disobedient and stubborn like always. And ruining his pan.
"Part! Immidiatement, Angleterre!" He grabbed the frying pan and threw it into the sink, breathing heavily and too angry to care that he was no longer speaking in English. Grabbing England's hand roughly (and turning off the stove), he dragged him out of the kitchen and into the hall.
"Im sorry-"
« Que faisiez-vous? Stupide! Je t'ai dit tout le temps jamais vas dans ma cuisine ! »
« No really, I forgot, please, Francis. Let go of my arm, you're hurting me!"
France considered England carefully, scrutinizing him, looking for any sign of lying. But all he could see were wide green eyes and terrified tears and shaking breath-
He sighed and let go.
"No, I'm sorry," he said quietly, switching back to English, "I shouldn't have overreacted like that."
England smiled hesitantly, shyly, rubbing his arm. "It's all right." He frowned. "Francis, you're still naked. You should go put some clothes on."
France looked down confusedly, then realized that England was right; he was, in fact, naked. His face lit up with a brilliant smile as an idea formed in his head. Grabbing England by his hand (though gentler, this time), he began to drag him up the stairs, ignoring his cries of protest.
"Onhonhon, my sweet rosbif. I will make it up to you, I swear."
And then he proceeded to teach England how to… sauté. And, um… peel… things. And slow cook them till they were hot and ready and waiting and needy, and to eat them up, ravishing them, savoring the taste. The French way.