Arthur and Francis together could be seen as a nightmare, but with the two nations at the grocery store, you could say it was practically an invisible war zone. One being an excellent cook, the other refusing to learn, placing both nations in front of the meat department doesn't help their daily feuds one bit… But that doesn't mean it can try, right? With Arthur, quiet as always, scrolling through the various meats consisting of lamb, steak, pork, burger, it all looked the same to him. Kill the animal, take what they want, and then dispose of it. All the same, all the same as he thought. There was no point in labeling the different between chicken breasts, two different packages, yet one seemingly being the better. They were the same thing, or around that, and therefore, had no need to spend so long as one minute pondering over the greater. Although, Francis was a totally different story.
He knew the works of each meat, vegetable, spice could do, capturing himself always taking more than three minutes to pick one of anything in that store, especially compared to another. Lettuce to cabbage or spinach, which would he use most often? Which could be incorporated into his future creations perfectly without ruining other possible flavors? Which provided the perfect color of green when garnishing or mixing with other various foods? So many questions he asks himself just about one simple decision, which was always the start of said wars.
Now, back to reality. Arthur watched Francis ponder over exactly which seasoning to use this week, as opposed to just buying the whole rack, giving out what he doesn't need. With the small grunts and mumbles from the Frenchman, said Brit was in his phases of how annoyed he was. Tapping his foot? Check. Crossed arms? Check. Glare? Well he glared quite a bit, but more during certain events. Check. Glancing around for possible weapons, such as throwing or smacking? Check. With these physical notifications in sight, Francis saw them quite clear, and with his closeness to Arthur, he knew either chose now or walk away. But what fun will that be if he couldn't annoy his own partner, at the least in a public place? A faint smirk spread across his lips, the British man taking sudden notice.
"What's that bloody smirk for?" He asked, furrowing his brows in deep confusion.
"On nothing, nothing, just thinking is all. Dieu, Angleterre, you are so uptight sometimes. Loosen up, s'il vous plait," He tsked, reaching over with his hand and with the corner of his eye, tapping a few times on top of the other's head, who wasn't all too pleased by the action.
"I would if you would hurry your arse up!" he huffed, reaching up to push the other's hand away. "I've been standing here waiting for the past few minutes now while you pick out one bottle!" He reached over quickly; taking the first one he saw and shoved it into the Frenchman's chest. "This one, and use it as you please." Francis snickered in response, capturing Arthur's hand in one of his own, lacing his fingers through.
"Now if I knew you were in such a rush to go 'ome, I would be 'ere in the first place~" He smirked in triumph. Said Brit glared defensively, despite a very faint light tint of red covering the apples of his cheeks.
"Pervert, just hurry up, I have work to do," he tugged slightly on his hand, trying to pull away. Refusing the freedom, he set the bottle of what happened to be nutmeg into the carrying basket, wrapping his free arm around Arthur's slender waist.
"Now if I did that, then we'd 'ave no time together," he said with a small pout. Arthur rolled his eyes at the other's words and actions, resting his own hand on the other's shoulder.
"Well I wouldn't mind that… if I wasn't the bloody female in this position." He tapped his shoulder with a few fingers for reference. Francis only rolled his eyes and took a step to the left in a turning motion, as if in a dance.
"Now Arthur, what did I say about being so uptight~? Quit complaing about your situation and just dance through it~!" he extended his arm, causing the other to spin out before back in, similar to a yo-yo.
"You're impossible," He grumbled, shaking his head.
"Yet you're still 'ere with me," he snickered, placing a few feather light kisses around his lips. "And I 'ave too much nutmeg at 'ome- merci for trying."