A/N: So, I gave in and wrote something about France and England and their American and Canadian children. I couldn't help it. It's just too awesome. That's about all I have to say. Enjoy. XD
Arthur Kirkland suddenly felt himself being pushed violently against a wall, and he chuckled quietly to himself while he tore off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. "A bit eager, are we?"
"I can't help it, Arthur," Francis Bonnefoy whispered against his partner's throat, grazing his fingers up and down the shorter man's body. "I want you."
Giggling, Arthur replied, "Like I couldn't tell." He wrapped his arms around the small of Francis's back, his fingers trailing along his perfect spine, every movement driven by attraction. "Shit, Francis." He pulled his lover's hand from where it was moving down his stomach deliberately. "You know, we don't have long."
Francis shook Arthur's conservative hands off, sliding down until they were lying on the carpeted floor of their formal dining room. He kissed Arthur's forehead gently, and suddenly, he was all hands, touching him, caressing him, and all the time whispering that damn language in his ear. Unable to look at the grandfather clock in the corner, Arthur could only hope that the babysitter wouldn't bring the kids home too soon. Besides- the last thing he wanted right now was an interruption.
An hour later, Francis and Arthur had made it to the den, both fully clothed, when the doorbell rang. Unwilling to wake sleeping Arthur while he was at his least annoying, Francis gently removed the spiky blonde's head from his lap and went to answer. One screaming, crying blonde immediately came tripping through the door, glasses dishevelled, obviously distraught. He threw his arms around Francis's knees and sniffled. "Daddy, the mean babysitter wouldn't feed me."
Francis tossed a glance out at the maroon mini-van, where a tired-looking Spaniard shrugged at him. Beside him, an obviously annoyed Italian banged his head on the dashboard. Smiling wryly at his friends, Francis scooped the tiny bottomless pit into his arms.
Before Francis could even catch his breath, an identical kid marched through the door, far less panicked and much more reserved. He also clung to his daddy, whispering softly, "Papa, Alfred garde à pleurer."
"Je sais. Ne vous inquiétez pas." he replied quietly, happy to be speaking in his own language again. "Go wake up Art- mommy," he continued to Alfred, sitting him down. "He'll get you something to eat." Watching the child waddle off into the den, Francis picked up Matthew and adjusted his glasses, combing his fingers through the Canadian's hair. Only then did he realize what he had said. "On second thought, Alfred, just let me fix you something to eat."
Francis shuffled into the kitchen and met eyes with Arthur, who smirked, having heard the whole thing. "Momma," Alfred shrieked, basking in being the centre of attention, "Uncle Antonio wouldn't run by McDonald's for me. I mean, I don't understand! Who doesn't love McDonald's, right?"
Arthur fake-smiled, raising his bushy eyebrows at the kid. "I understand, Alfred." He nodded enthusiastically. "I- I'll be sure to speak to Antonio about it." Looking again at his lover, who was flipping a stuffed omelette on the stove nonchalantly while looking on, Arthur finally burst out laughing.
The American was unamused. "Bastard," he finally spat, raising his eyebrows. Arthur, Francis, and Matthew all simultaneously gasped, not believing the words that came out of the child's mouth.
"Wh-what?" Arthur sputtered.
Alfred pursed his lips. "Potato bastard," he replied bluntly. Francis began laughing, bouncing the tiny sleeper in his arms up and down. "It's my new favourite words. Uncle Lovino taught it to me!"
Matthew burst out into hysterical tears, burying himself into his father's long, blonde hair. "I told him not to, Daddy! I told him!"
"Shh, shh. Ne pleure pas, mon petit cher," Francis cooed to him. Meanwhile, Arthur Kirkland face-palmed. And just hours ago, he had been having it off peacefully on the dining room floor…