Chapter 2: Stupid American Phone

"You know it's rude to stare." The Frenchman said to a now blushing Brit.

"I wasn't staring!" The other man yell-whispered, trying not to draw attention to himself as his face became a darker shade of red.

"Then what would you call looking fixedly at someone with one's eyes wide open?" He said raising an eyebrow before continuing, "Unless my English is flawed, I do believe that's the definition."
I don't care if Francis had me on footage, I'll never admit to it. All that would do is inflate his already large head. Arthur thought to himself. I don't need to explain anything to him either. I guess I might have glanced at him for a brief moment, but the world meeting was so dull and he's just so good-looking, with his deep blue eyes and neck-length hair- STOP! I'm doing it again. I don't want to give Francis the satisfaction of being in my thoughts.

"And I suppose you wouldn't call you cheeks reddening, blushing, either Angleterre," Francis smirked, "If you want me, just say so. Don't make it obvious and then deny it."

How dare he? Me, like him? Just because he has the most attractive smile on the face of the Earth and words that could charm the pants off an Eskimo during a snowstorm, he thinks that makes he's appealing to me? He has to stop being so damn arrogant! Maybe I did like how he wore his stupid frog clothes, and- no. No, I'm not wasting any more time thinking about that frog bastard.

Arthur took out his iPhone to text Francis.

Why do I even have his number? Probably business reasons, but I don't recall adding him as a contact…

Regardless, Arthur began to text.

Arthur: I wouldn't want you even if you had a truckload of scones.

Francis: Of course not! Even I would be tempted to begin disliking myself with that much disgusting food around. What about without the scones?

Arthur: You bloody git! Scones are delicious.

Francis: You'd think an Englishman would understand his own language. Tu préfères que je te parler en français plutôt? (You'd prefer it if I spoke with you in French instead?) Because if not, you're really going to need a dictionary.

Arthur: You wanker! I know what I said and I meant it!

Francis: So then I'll take your avoidance of my question as a yes.

Arthur: Yes to what?

Francis: To liking me without scones.

Arthur: Of course not you bloody frog! I love you!

Francis: You do?

Arthur: loathe*
loathe*
I love you.
loathe*
Damn this stupid American phone!

Francis: So you love me?

Arthur: loathe*
I love you.
WTF?
I'm writing loathe, but it's sending love.

Francis: Maybe the phone is trying to admit your feelings for you…

Arthur: Clearly not, because then it would send the original message!

Francis: How do I know that wasn't the original?

Arthur: Because I don't loathe you!
Seriously?
No, I'm done.
This phone is shit.

Francis: Maybe you like me so much you're subconsciously sending me these texts.

Arthur: No, I know how I feel. This is auto correct's doing.

Francis: Are you seriously blaming auto correct? I have the same phone as you, and never had this problem with anyone.

Arthur: The fucking phone is messing up my texts! The only thing I feel towards you and your frog face is respect!

Francis: Um… thank you?

Arthur: Rancor*
See what I mean? That doesn't even make any sense!

Francis: Maybe you did that on purpose to prove your flawed point.

That's the last straw. I hate this.

Arthur chucked his phone towards the wall nearest to the yapping Alfred's head, stopping him from continuing his explanation of how a giant hero will solve Global Warming (although it had failed the first 16 times he presented, the American must have thought the seventeenth time would turn out differently).

"Blasted phone!" Arthur hollered before turning to Francis and adding "And there's not a snowball's chance in hell that I will EVER love you. It's the stupid American phone!" Still pointing at the direction of the recently shattered phone Arthur lifted his head away from Francis long enough to notice everyone staring. Slowly regaining his composure, Arthur fixed his shirt by tugging at the bottom to even it out then brushed out any possible lint. He raised his head towards the rest of the diplomats in the G8. As coolly as Arthur could manage he stated, "Blame autocorrect." Then he slid back into his seat as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.