AN: There are so many fanfiction prompts on Tumblr, and I've decided to use them as an exercise to keep me writing. I know these Tumblr prompts have no doubt been used countless times for countless fandoms. But that's kind of the point, yeah? I'm not actually posting anything on Tumblr or anything, I'm just using the prompts as writing exercises. Because why not?

Pairings in the chapter titles under country names, even though most of these prompts are probably going to be human AU's.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: England/France

Chapter summary: Someone needs to write a 'the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear' AU

Well, The Apartment Building Is Burning Down

It was two in the morning, and Arthur couldn't sleep.

He'd been lying in bed for four hours, staring up at the ceiling swathed in darkness, willing his vision to start blurring.

But no, his eyesight was clear. Or as clear as his eyesight could be in the dark, pupils completely dilated. In fact, he couldn't keep his eyelids closed. He tried, and they just popped right back open, gaze attaching to the ceiling.

He could hear his younger brother Alfred snoring in the twin bed on the opposite side of the room—blimey, everything about that kid was loud, even when he was asleep, and there was no way to get away from Alfred's snoring because they lived in a one-bedroom apartment, and Arthur got a crank in his neck every time he'd tried sleeping on the couch.

But blaming his inability to sleep on Alfred's snoring was unfair, because Arthur had had trouble sleeping for as long as he could remember. He might have still been able to blame everything on Alfred, since they'd shared a room as kids, but when Arthur had moved to Great Britain to earn his degree there, he'd still had trouble sleeping, and his roommate hadn't ever snored.

Why Arthur even tried to get to bed at ten, he had no idea. Maybe to set a good impression for Alfred, who needed his sleep if he was going to get through college. Or maybe because he knew Alfred would be waking him up at six in the morning, no matter what time he'd finally fallen asleep, to go jogging with him.

"How else are we going to retain our awesome figures with all the junk food and poison we eat?" had been Alfred's rebuttal to Arthur's complaints. "Especially since you don't get enough sleep, and people who are sleep-deprived are more likely to get fat!"

Arthur hadn't stopped complaining, but he never refused to go on their morning jog. It was tradition, now, and Arthur maybe actually kind of liked it, even if he'd never admit it to Alfred. Though he had a hunch Alfred already knew—the kid wasn't as thick-headed as he led everyone to believe.

"Just take some sleep pills or somethin'," Alfred had advised him several times, but Arthur always argued that he didn't want to become reliant on drugs to help him sleep—not after his period of alcoholism a couple years ago when he'd relied on the liquor to do just that.

Help him sleep, help him put his restless thoughts out of his mind.

"Well maybe if you didn't always worry so much—" Alfred would say, and Arthur would vehemently deny.

He didn't worry. He just couldn't stop thinking, sometimes. And when one thinks too much, sometimes one ends up thinking worry-inducing thoughts, because one's run out of unworrisome ones.

He thought about how they were going to pay for Alfred's college education without falling into debt. He thought about his job and all the incompetent people he had to deal with. He thought about his pathetic excuse of a social life and his most recent dating catastrophe. He thought about how lucky he was to have gotten a job in the theater department at the university his brother attends. He thought about what they were going to have for breakfast the next morning and how much he hated those bloody donuts that Alfred always bought.

He thought about a lot of things.

It was the last series of thoughts that made him get up that night, though, careful not to wake Alfred (not that anything less than a rock concert could wake the kid, he slept so deeply—hell, he could probably sleep through a fire alarm), and trundle into the kitchen.

It was two-thirty in the morning, and Arthur couldn't sleep, and he didn't want to end up eating cheap, too-sugary donuts that Alfred had bought them on the way to the university, so he figured he might as well make breakfast.

It's not like the aroma would wake Alfred, and there wasn't anything else for Arthur to do.

He got out a bowl and scoured the cabinets for ingredients to make scones. He made good scones, if he did say so himself (British-style scones, not American scones—Americans messed it up). Sometimes they got a little burnt, but only a little, and they were still good. Especially with tea.

Tea which Alfred would only drink if the it was caffeinated, and the bitter taste was completely drowned out in so much cream and sugar it could hardly be called tea anymore. Arthur would argue that the tea was not bitter, Alfred just had defective taste buds, and drink his tea plain. And of course, Alfred would say that Arthur was the one with defective taste buds, because he liked everything so bland, and Arthur would respond that his tastebuds were refined, and Alfred only needed to smother his food in sugar or hot sauce because his tastebuds were so weak that otherwise he couldn't taste anything.

They would bicker goodnaturedly, like they'd done since they were children, and even when their comments became more scathing and their voices raised, the anger never lasted long. They were brothers, and they were always there for each other.

Alfred would keep Arthur from getting too depressed; Arthur would keep Alfred from doing anything stupid; Alfred would comfort Arthur after yet another date dumped him, try to convince him that there was nothing wrong with him except his choice of dates because they were all lame if they didn't see how awesome he was; Arthur would try to give lame pep talks when the stress of all the schoolwork got Alfred down, and Alfred would end up laughing and making fun of his attempts, and end up feeling much better.

Still, it would have been nice to have other friends. Alfred would always say that Arthur was determined to live in isolationism, but Arthur had just never really… clicked, with anyone. Alfred was outgoing and made friends easily, but Arthur wasn't like that. So when Alfred would go hang out with Matthew (who Alfred was convinced was his clone, because they looked so much alike) and Kiku and whoever else he decided to torture with his overenthusiastic presence on that given day, Arthur would hang out with a good fantasy book. Arthur had acquaintances in the theater department where he worked, of course, but they couldn't exactly be termed his friends, because they never hung out after work.

And whenever he tried to date anyone, it always ended up in disaster. They always broke up with him. Sometimes they yelled, sometimes they didn't. It was almost worse when they didn't. Common reasons for breaking up with him were that he was too inattentive, too restrained in his affections, too irritable; he didn't make them feel loved, or wanted, or needed; he was too stiff, too formal, too pompous; he was insensitive and clueless when it came to emotions. Sometimes they didn't give any reason aside from that he was boring.

The dating game had been exhausting, and Arthur had all but given up a couple months ago, when his last date hadn't even told him that they were breaking up—had just started going out with someone else, and gone to treating Arthur like he didn't even exist.

But whatever. Arthur didn't need anyone. It wasn't like he was lonely (except sometimes). He liked being by himself (most of the time), and he had Alfred (annoying little brother that he was).

He was good at convincing himself he was content. And he was doing so as he padded around the kitchen in fluffy socks, pajamas decorated with the British flag, and his favorite leather jacket that he wore everywhere, mixing the ingredients for the scones.

His only problem, as far as he was concerned in that moment, was that he had trouble sleeping. It would be nice to be able to sleep well at night so he wasn't nodding off throughout the day, dark bags under his eyes, a thermos of caffeinated tea in his hands.

He preheated the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit (stupid American stoves not using Celsius), and lined a baking sheet with parchment paper. He sifted the flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt into a bowl, rubbed in the butter until the mixture resembled fine breadcrumbs, stirred in the sugar and enough milk to mix to a soft dough.

He was humming to himself as he did so, some tune that was stuck in his head that he couldn't remember the title or the lyrics to. All he knew was the tune, and he was possibly mangling that anyway. Not that it mattered. It was two forty-five in the morning, and he couldn't sleep, so he was baking, because he liked baking. There was something almost meditative about it.

He turned the dough onto a floured cutting board, kneading lightly and rolling out to a three-fourth-inch thickness. He cut the dough into two-inch rounds and placed them on the prepared baking sheet, brushing them with milk to glaze.

Alfred liked American scones better, but of course he did. American scones had more fat and sugar, and fancy add-ins. He would still eat the British scones that Arthur cooked, though, and obediently spread butter and jam on top like Arthur instructed, ending up with jam all over his fingers and face, and Arthur would have to chase him around their small apartment with a napkin while Alfred laughed and threatened to rub his sticky fingers on Arthur's pillow.

It was always worth it, though, Arthur felt, smiling slightly as he put the pan in the oven, shutting the door and setting the timer to ten minutes. He brushed his hands together, simply because it felt satisfying to do, and put his hands on his hips as he watched timer count down.

He watched green numbers changing for three minutes, and then got bored and wandered out of the kitchen into their living room. The kitchen light was on, but not the living room light, and he threw himself face-first down on the couch in the dimness, groaning because he could, and there was nobody there to hear him (Alfred was asleep and wouldn't hear him, and therefore didn't count.)

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, but that was too similar to what he'd been doing before he'd decided to start baking (and the living room ceiling was not any more interesting than the bedroom ceiling), so he got up and started pacing around the room, hands in his jacket pockets.

He fell back into his thoughts again, brow creasing and mouth pulled into frown as he walked around and around the couch, so preoccupied that he didn't hear the kitchen timer go off.

He didn't realize the scones were done until he smelled something burning.

With an exclaimed curse, he rushed into the kitchen, grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the smoking scones out, setting the tray on the stove.

He coughed and waved the smoke away from his face, staring sadly down at the burnt crisps. He was honestly considering holding a funeral for them and giving them a proper burial, when the smoke alarm started going off.

He cursed again, walking over and throwing the windows open, hoping their neighbors in the apartment complex wouldn't get too angry at him for waking them up at—he glanced at the clock—three in the morning.

Wasn't there some way to turn the bloody fire alarm off? It kept wailing and wailing, filling his ears.

He heard screams outside his door, and then somebody was pounding at the wood, yelling for him to get out of his room and get outside, there was a fire.

Sighing in resignation, Arthur walked over to the door and opened it, ready to apologize and explain the misunderstanding, gulping as he looked up into Berwald's terrifying visage.

The tall man glared down at him, and Arthur felt an awfully lot like cowering in his fuzzy socks, his breath caught, terrified, in his chest, like it didn't want to exit Arthur's lungs and expose itself to the severe man in front of him.

"Get out of your apartment and get outside," the man said stonily. "There's a fire. And wake your brother."

And then Berwald walked away, and Arthur could breathe again, and he was going to call out and explain, when he realized that the hallway was filled with smoke that smelled quite different from the smoke in his kitchen, and frazzled people were running down the hallway, and suddenly he noticed the roaring sound of flames.

And then the panic set in, and Arthur was rushing back into the bedroom, shaking Alfred roughly and yelling at him to get up, because there was a fire, and they had to get out now.

And of course, the first thing Alfred said as he woke up was, "A fire? Wha'didja do, 'Rthur? Catch the scones on fire?"

And Arthur yelled at him that no, he hadn't caught the scones on fire—he'd only burned them a little bit—but that wasn't important because there was a fire in another part of the building, and they had to get outside or they were going to burn alive and die. Can't you smell the smoke you wanker?!

That woke Alfred up. The younger man was out of bed in a flash, grabbing his bomber jacket and Arthur's arm and tugging him out of their apartment into the smoke-filled hallway, bending low as they walked and pulling their nightshirts up over their noses, hurrying to the stairwell.

They got outside, joining the scared and nervous crowd of their fellow apartment complex occupants, Alfred was definitely the happiest one out there.

"I'm so proud of you for not being the cause of our building burning down!" Alfred grinned, thumping Arthur on the back. "I was sure that if this ever happened, it would be because of your horrendous baking skills!"

Arthur was protesting that he wasn't that bad at baking it, bugger off, when he caught sight of their next door neighbor, standing in nothing but a pair of underwear that was in the colors of the French flag, and also far too small and tight to be legal.

And the man was just standing there in nothing but that ridiculous, skimpy piece of underwear, arms crossed over his chest as he shivered, shoulder-length blond hair blowing back from his faze in the cool breeze as he watched the vibrant flames leaping from their apartment building and the firetrucks wail around the corner, firefighters pouring out and connecting their huge hose to the nearby fire hydrant, while others came to the group of occupants to ask if everyone was accounted for or if anybody was still inside.

Alfred caught site of where Arthur was he looking, and he started laughing, saying, "Man, I can't believe Francis sleeps in that! It's so Francis, though, I supposed I should've known!"

Francis. Right, that was the man's name. Arthur had seen him around, but had never actually talked to him. All he knew about the man was that he spoke French as well as English, and that he worked as a chef at a fancy French restaurant in the city that those at the university who were affluent enough loved to take dates to and rave about. He only knew that Francis worked there because he'd heard from Alfred that Alfred's friend Ludwig had a brother who was friends with a chef there who happened to also be their next door neighbor, and Alfred had pointed Francis out and Arthur had nodded and said that was that interesting, even though it wasn't, and he'd quickly looked away from the alleged chef because the sight of him was doing funny things to Arthur's stomach.

Arthur had made sure to avoid their next door neighbor after that. He'd have just ended up acting awkward, and they didn't need an awkward thing going on with the guy who lived right next to them, because everyone knows that next door neighbors can make one's life very, very miserable.

And besides, what was Arthur supposed to say to him? Hello, I think that you're attractive, would you like to go on a date with me, assuming that you like me at least as much as you like women? Besides, he knew Francis was straight and had no difficulty getting dates, if the influx of girlfriends to his apartment was any indication. Arthur was grateful the walls of their apartment building were relatively soundproofed.

But now, staring at the man shivering in his skimpy little ridiculous underwear (and not admiring that toned body, thank you very much), Arthur couldn't just stand there. He was, if sometimes rather rude, a perfect gentleman, and he felt his gentlemanliness seize hold of him as he walked over, slipping off his leather jacket as he did so.

He practically shoved the jacket into a surprised Francis's hands, mumbling that Francis should at least show some amount of public decency, because he couldn't say that Francis looked cold, because that was a ridiculous romance novel line, and this was not a ridiculous romance novel.

And Francis grinned as he took the jacket, saying, "Merci, mon ami," as he slipped the jacket on.

Of course, Francis was taller than Arthur, and the jacket was so short on him that it barely reached his belly button, and definitely didn't cover up those ridiculous panties. But it was still better than the man standing there nearly naked.

Arthur just mumbled something indistinguishable and walked back over to where Alfred was standing there, grinning at who-knew-what.

Arthur was somewhat chagrined when Francis followed him.

"Alfred," Francis greeted cheerfully. "How are you, mon ami?"

"Well, our apartment building is burning down," Alfred pointed out, gesturing to the flames roaring from the building that the firefighters were attacking with their high-powered water hose. "But other than that, I'm doing great! How about you, dude?"

"Same," Francis said, smiling, and Arthur glared at him, because the smile was grating on his nerves. Francis's entire presence was grating on his nerves. Just because he'd given the man his jacket didn't mean that he wanted him around, for goodness' sakes!

"You know," Francis was looking at them, still smiling, and looking entirely too comfortable in his ridiculous panties and Arthur's leather jacket, "I live next door to you two, but we've never really talked, and I realize now that I don't know anything about you side from that fact that you," he nodded at Alfred, "go to the university with one of my best friends' little brother."

Alfred snickered, "Don't let Ludwig hear you calling him little!" and Francis chuckled.

"But really," Francis said, looking at them seriously once more. "I don't know anything about you. Why don't you tell me about yourselves? It's not like we have anything better to do right now, anyway," he added, gesturing to the burning building behind them.

"Origin story time!" Alfred crowed, before launching into an extravagant tale about how they were international spies who'd been training since they were babies, and how they'd been on missions all around the world and had saved the country from Soviet missiles during the Cold War (because apparently they'd been injected with some kind of super-serum that kept them from aging), and how they were currently under cover at the university, spying on Ivan Braginski because the American government thinks he's a Russian spy, and Arthur was posing as a Brit and that's why he had the fake accent, because he was actually gay but he wanted people to think he was a Brit so they wouldn't be able to figure out whether he was gay or European, and Alfred had flown them to America himself from where they'd been previously stationed in North Korea making sure there were no atomic bombs there.

And Arthur kept butting in to say that, no, they're not international spies, and just because you're academic rivals with Ivan and you're American while he's Russian does not mean he's a Russian spy, and the Cold War is over, and no my British accent is not fake, I studied there for four years it's completely real, and also, I'm not gay, I'm bi, and you've never flown an airplane in your life what are you talking about, nobody would believe this crackpot story of yours how much of an idiot are you shut up right now.

And Alfred had responded that yes they were definitely international spies and of course they should tell the truth, to which Arthur had said that if we were actually international spies we wouldn't tell him that, and Alfred had quoted Jack Sparrow and said, "Unless we knew he wouldn't believe the truth even if we told it to him!"

And then Alfred went on to explain that they had superpowers—that unfortunately did not help with putting out fires—from falling into a radioactive swimming pool, and his superpower was the power to always do the right thing, while Arthur's power was the power to cook food that could be used to poison people, and Arthur furiously ranted that my cooking isn't that bad, you know that, and also those are ridiculous superpowers.

And all throughout their absurd argument, Francis was laughing, and it wasn't until Arthur had finally just grabbed Alfred in a headlock to try to get him to shut up that he was struck by the fact that Francis was laughing, and it was quite possibly the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

And then he mentally pounded himself for sounding like an idiot.

When it was Francis's turn, he told them he was a pansexual angel sent from the heavens to spread the sacred messages of love and French cuisine among the mortals of the Earth, and Alfred apparently thought that was the most hilarious thing ever, while Arthur glared at the both of them and tried not to feel hopeful at the mention of Francis's sexuality.

Eventually some of the firefighters came over to tell the crowd of occupants that they couldn't go back to their apartments, some of them at least not for the rest of the night and others longer, and that everyone should disperse.

The floor that Arthur, Alfred, and Francis had been living on had been one of the most damaged ones.

For a few moments after the announcement, the three of them were silent.

We don't have anywhere else to go, Arthur had said, quietly, finally breaking the silence.

"My clone Matthew might let us stay with him," Alfred said, always the optimist. "He's a really great guy like that!"

But then Francis was grinning at them and saying, "You two could stay with me!"

Alfred grinned and exclaimed, "That would be awesome, man!" but Arthur just narrowed his eyes and asked where Francis would be staying, because his apartment had been burned too, after all.

"I have a friend that will take us in," Francis grinned. Then the grin faltered, and he tilted his head forehead to scratch at the back of his neck, chuckling lowly as he admitted, "But, uh, I left my cellphone my apartment."

"That's okay, I have my cellphone with me!" Alfred exclaimed, pulling the cellphone from a pocket of his bomber jacket and handing it over, grinning and clapping Francis on the shoulder. "Seriously, man, thank you so much for doing this for us!"

"Pas de problème," Francis said, waving a hand airily as he dialed a number and held the phone up to his ear. A few rings, and then the call was picked up, and he grinned as he said, "Hey, Antonio! Can I ask you an itty bitty huge favor from you, mon ami?"

Arthur groaned and hid his face in his hands, resigning himself to his fate.

END.

AN: Comments are appreciated! And prompt suggestions/character requests, while not necessary (as I have a list of prompts and pairings I want to write), are welcome :)