Arthur Kirkland had absolutely no idea what he was going to do for Valentine's Day.
Ever since he'd turned the calendars to February and saw the 14th decorated with doodles of hearts, he knew with a feeling of dread that it was coming up. Each day, he'd glance at his lover and remind himself he needed to plan something special. Every night, however, after a good-night kiss, he'd tell himself he would come up with something the next day.
He never did.
The evening of February 13th, England was restless. Yes, sleepless nights were common for busy nations, yet now it was for a different, almost childish reason compared to his usual stressors. Maybe he could slip out in the morning and grab a bouquet of roses, or maybe a simple box of chocolates…? No, no, there was no time for that. Perhaps he'd get lucky and his boyfriend would forget the date… Ha, likely chance. England's lover was none other than France, the Country of Love himself. Like hell he wouldn't at least do something. England glanced over his shoulder at the French man, sleeping on his side with his back facing England's as per the latter's insistence. England sighed, gradually allowing sleep to overtake him. He'd have to come up with something the next day.
The following morning, England awoke to find his bed had been sprinkled with rose petals. Sitting up groggily, he scowled as he plucked one of them out of his mop of hair. Pinching it between two fingers, staring down at it as if he had never seen such a thing, his expression softened. It felt real; it wasn't just something out of a bag from the party store. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he gazed out the window to his left. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, one of France's cherished rose bushes did seem to be lacking more blossoms than usual.
His shoulders slackened slightly, and felt his heart give a little skip. When had France managed to clip these roses? Surely he'd been punctured by a few thorns in the process… How long did it take to reduce the flowers to delicate little petals? It was still morning, so he must have woken up so early in order to cover the bed with the petals without disturbing his partner… Oh, he was so damn thoughtful. …Even though these were all the things that swirled around England's head, all he did was mutter: "Bloody frog," and flick the petal onto the floor.
The moment England cleaned up and trudged downstairs, he was met with a delectable aroma. Standing in the kitchen, which was warm from the heat of the busy stove, was France, clad in an apron and beating eggs. He smiled seductively at England; or was that just his natural smile? "Bonjour, Angleterre."
"…It's England," England grumbled, shuffling into the room and pulling out a seat at the table. As usual, there was a neatly arranged tray of fruit on the table… However, England's eyes widened in disbelief when he noted that each piece of fruit had been cut down into the shape of a heart. So artsy, so clever, so thoughtful on France's part yet again….!
England popped a piece of melon into his mouth without a comment.
His hopes of having an average day were, as expect, unreachable. The breakfast France served his lover was large enough to count for brunch, and had been served with noteworthy care and expertise. Every bite sent a thrill through England's taste buds, making him yearn for more even when he was well past full… Still, the only words that left his lips after the first serving were, "My food is better." He was improving, though: after everything was cleaned up, he murmured a sincere "thank you" to France. His face lit up at his lover's gratitude, and he quickly leaned in for a kiss; England, however, huffily turned his head so the kiss landed on his cheek.
As it turned out, France had been planning the entire day out for a month in advance. A day out on the town, holding hands for warmth; stopping by only the best coffee shop in the city; wandering wherever, since the destination was of little importance as long as they were together; kissing in somewhere private, like an alleyway….. None of which the couple did, due to England's stubbornness. The Englishman planted himself in his armchair, crossed his legs, unfolded a newspaper, and read it silently. Yes, France had been thoughtful enough for the both of them… But England would not stand for that.
For a while, France pretended not to notice his lover's refusal to treat the day specially. He fed his Pierres, texted Spain and Prussia, straightened up the kitchen… Still, as the day dragged on, he grew impatient. "Britain…. Don't you want to do something today?" he suggested, sitting on the arm of England's chair. He scooted as far away from France as physically possible.
Yes, yes, I would love to do something with you today. It's all I want. I love you so much and I'll do anything to show it… "No. I'm busy." England emphasized turning the page of the novel he'd picked up. Although he pretended to be reading its contents, he was far too distracted to do so; his eyes kept habitually glancing up at France's face. He felt his heart give a painful lurch as he noticed the crestfallen expression France wore. He hadn't seen the older nation look so dejected since…. Well, in a long time. Now that he thought about it, England realized that as full of himself as France was, it must have wounded him at least a bit to receive nothing but a grunt in response every single time he told his boyfriend that he loved him.
England knew what needed to be done.
Finally accepting that England was not planning on doing anything for the holiday, France gave a slight shake to his head and stood to leave the room. Before he could do so, however, England dropped his book to the floor and scrambled to his feet, grabbing his lover by the wrist.
"Look, you stupid frog. I'm sure by now you've figured out that I don't want to do a damn thing for this bloody holiday. Because…" His cheeks flushed, and he stared off to the side. His grip on France's wrist tightened. "I don't know what could possibly be good enough for you. I just…" His eyes shot up from the floor and bore into France's light blue orbs. "I love you, alright?!"
At first, France just blinked, slightly dumbstruck. Then, a smile seeped onto his face, growing until it reached its maximum width. "Oh, Angleterre… Je t'aime aussi! Come here, you little rascal…" France wrapped his arms around his love's waist, pulling their bodies close together and pressing his mouth against England's. The latter did not fight him for once; in fact, he allowed himself to melt into France's touch, sliding his fingers into his long blonde hair. His mind seemed to fog and the room felt like it was spinning as the kissing heated up. I love him… Francis Bonnefoy, France, the bloody frog… I love him so much. England parted his lips ever-so-slightly, thus granting access to one of France's famous French kisses.
Their Valentine's Day didn't go as either of them planned: most of it was spent cuddling on the sofa (France had the 'genius' idea to inconspicuously turn the heat off, making it all the more necessary to increase their closeness), watching sappy films. One thing did go according to France's plan, though: the night ended in sweet, hot, steamy love-making. And although that was, of course, a nice touch, France didn't need it. After hearing England sincerely tell him he loved him… Well, he couldn't ask for anything more.