A/N: This was also written on the bus ride home from Tri-State, which is discussed in the other hetalia fic I just posted. This was a challenge given to me by the same friend. She said, "I challenge you to write a romantic fic with France and a mirror." My response? "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED." This may not be truly romantic, but I like it. I probably won't write France in the future too often, but reviews are still appreciated. I've been writing a lot of hurt/comfort/angst stuff lately, but thankfully this is a bit more humorous. I hope you like Mirror, Mirror. :)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own him. And frankly, I really don't want to. Even though he's a sexy bastard, he's still a bastard.


Mirror, Mirror

France almost passed the mirror completely without realizing what it was. He backpedaled to it immediately and stopped, staring at the sexy man gazing at him in return. "Bonjour, gorgeous," he said smokily. "And how are you tonight?" He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other on his chest, head lowered, eyes half-lidded. The man in the mirror did the same. "I'm fine as well, thank you," he replied, pretending to be abashed. "Say, do you have any plans tonight?" he asked flirtatiously. The hand at his hip flew to his mouth to cover a (manly! Very manly!) giggle. "What a coincidence! I don't have any plans either. Why don't you join me for dinner?" he asked, raising a brow suggestively. "Wonderful! I'll just go get it ready, then."

He rushed to his kitchen and began preparing a three course meal. When he found a few minutes where he didn't have to do anything, he rushed to bring the mirror into the kitchen. He propped it up in a chair, adjusting it so that it had a perfect view of him while he cooked. "Are you hungry, ma cherie?" he asked in a sultry tone, returning to his stove. He glanced back at the mirror. "My my, that apron looks just darling on you. Why, I do believe I have one exactly like it. In fact, I think I'm wearing it now!" He laughed a little, then blushed. "I assure you, you look most wonderful. Now, not another word before dinner." He winked and began humming love songs under his breath as he cooked.

After setting the table (for one, he might add. He wasn't stupid!), France moved the chair in towards it, adjusting the angle until it was perfect. "Go on, eat!" he said brightly, bringing his own fork to his mouth. "I suppose you should know who I am. Hello, my name is France. I love roses, perfume, and poodles, and think children make wonderful toys. I believe we should all show our natural beauty instead of hiding it underneath clothing, but nobody else agrees with me, and society has forced me to wear these hideous restrictive pieces of fabric." He shuddered, but then he was all bright smiles again. "Enough about me. Tell me about yourself." He waited a second, then laughed. "The shy, quiet type, are you? No matter, I can talk enough for both of us."And he proceeded to fill the dinnertime with inane chatter.

After he cleared the dishes, France returned the mirror to the wall where he had found it. He looked at it sadly. "How I hate to end our wonderful evening together. But don't look so sad, mon amour. Here, a parting reminder." And he leaned over and pressed a lingering kiss to the cold, hard surface. "Oh, how I love you, Self," he sighed then spun off to bed.

FIN