"Ye pardi ma plim dan le yardan de ma tan…" the words were pronounced hesitantly, an English accent hidden in them.
"J'ai perdu ma plume dans le jardin de ma tante." a steadier voice repeated, words adorned in a perfect french.
"Ye pardi ma plim dans le yardan de ma tant."
"Non, J'ai perdu ma plume dans le jardin de ma tante."
"Ye pardi ma plim dans le yarden de ma tant."
"Non! You are saying it wrong on purpose!" France said with a pout and arms tensed to his sides.
"I'm saying it the same as you, Frog!" England protested with a stomp to the ground.
"Non! Listen carefully, Rosbif. J'AAAI," he pronounced in a thick french accent.
"YEEE," he repeated, mimicking the exaggerated vowel.
"It's impossible to teach you, you sound as if your mouth was full of rocks," the French whined, sitting on the grass and looking away.
"It's not like I want to learn! It's all because of the bloody wedding! Edward II married with Isabella of France! The King of England and the She-wolf of France! What a way to start the XIV century!", the smaller of them frowned and practically threw himself in front of him.
"It's not like I agree with it, but we have been planning these for ten years now," the French affirmed. "It was only a matter of time," he frowned.
"Besides, that phrase is useless, I don't even have an aunt. And if I did, she wouldn't have a garden. And if she did, I wouldn't have a feather. So that's probably the most stupid phrase in the history of stupid phrases," he protested, rolling his eyes.
"And what phrase would the monsieur like to learn?," he asked, obvious sarcasm in his voice.
"What about…," England looked around for a few moments before answering. "Bloody Hell!", he said with half a smile.
"Enfer Sanglant," France moved a hand under his chin in an unimpressed gesture.
"Anfe sanglan."
"Non, Enfer sanglant."
"Anfer sanglan."
"Non, enfeer sanglaaant."
"Anfee sanglaan."
"Non. The first E is a neutral vowel, so you have to pronounce an A but with the mouth shut as if you were going to pronounce an E," he pronounced each word with a strong accent, vocalizing with patience. "Enfer sanglant."
"Aeeaae…," England tried a few times before snarling and and throwing his full body to the grass. "Either way, this is a load of cobblers. No one in his right mind would swear like, anfe sanglan!" he shouted the last words in a pompous tone.
"That's because a gentleman doesn't swear," France lifted his chin and threw some hair over his shoulder.
"How do I say "I hate you"?", he sat up and smirked.
"I won't teach you that, Lapin, you would spend all the day shouting to me," he answered, a smile present on his face.
"Of course! That's why I want to learn it!" he smiled triumphantly.
"Non, non… That's not possible, you already had enough with the enfer. What would happen if the archbishop hears you shouting swears in french? The one scolded would be me," he said, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
"But you are supposed to teach me, git!"
"Only if you promise not to tell anyone," he got an idea and tried to cover it with false amability.
England put down his book, spitted on his hand and extended it to France. The French looked at his hand and crinkled his nose, accepting weakly with a sigh.
The only spectator of this exchange being the meadow; grass moving swiftly with the warm breeze of october.
"Well?", green eyes asked with a spark of mischief in them.
"Je t'aime," blue eyes answered, hidding a spark of excitement.
"Ye tem"
"Non, je t'aime."
"Ye tem."
"Noon, je t'aaime."
"Yee teem."
The French ignored the heat that threatened to crawl up his face every time he heard those -bad- pronounced words.
The English didn't have a clue.