"O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING?"

"Wh-what…?"

"O! STAY AND HEAR; YOUR TRUE LOVE'S COMING!"

"What in the bloody…?"

Arthur wrenched his eyes opened as he woke, staring into the darkness of his room.

"THAT CAN STING BOTH HIGH AND LOV JOURNEY NO FURTHER,"

He was alone, Arthur could see that. But then what the hell was that-

"PRETTY SWEETING: JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS MEETING,"

Blasted racket? The Englishman stumbled groggily out of bed, grabbing onto the nightstand for support.

"EVERY WISE MAN'S SON DOTH KNOW."

Noting a strange light leaking from the heavy curtains beside his bed, Arthur impatiently threw back the shades and undid the window latch, pulling up the daft thing and leaning outside.

"WHAT IS LOVE? 'TIS NOT HEREAFTER; PRESENT MIRTH HATH PRESENT LAUGHTER;"

"God dammit Frog! It's three o' clock in the bloody-"

His worst enemy, Francis Bonnefoy, was standing outside his bedroom window, shouting Shakespearian poetry while holding a beautiful bouquet of crimson roses high. And, as Arthur could see as Francis was illuminated by the motion sensor lights in his yard, the Frenchman was completely nude.

"WHAT'S TO COME IS STILL UNSURE."

"BASTARD!"

Face flushing a shade akin to Francis' roses, Arthur snatched a dusty rapier from the wall and flung at the Frenchman in a mortified rage. He easily dodged the lethal weapon, skipping a pace or two to the side to avoid it.

"IN DELAY THERE LIES NO PLENTY;"

"Get the hell off my property!"

"THEN COME AND KISS ME, SWEET AND TWENTY;"

Arthur somehow managed to throw a grandfather clock out of the window, which Francis again dodged with apparent ease.

"YOU THIS A STUFF WILL NOT ENDURE."

While scrambling to grab something heavier to throw (such as a safe, or an oven of some sort) Arthur caught side of the calendar hanging upon his wall.

February 14th.

Of. Course.

He poked his head back out the window, glaring out at the grinning Frenchman.

"Je t'aime, ma cher Arthur!" Francis called, blowing the Brit a flirty kiss.

"GET BENT, YOU FLAMING UPHILL GARDENER!"

With that, Arthur slammed the window shut and closed the heavy curtains.

Rather than be discouraged by the quick rejection, Francis merely chuckled, smiling up at the closed window.

"Aw, Angeleterre~ You're so cuteeee~" he sang.

The Frenchman strolled to the back door, spinning a brass key around his finger…

-O-o-O-

Author's Note:

Francis is quoting Feste's Song, from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

And uphill gardener? An offensive British term for homosexual. I don't recommend using it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, Shakespeare, or any nations mentioned here!

PS- I got the idea from Artificial Starlight, from her Valentine's Day oneshot for her story Giving In. I recommend you check it out, RusCan-ers.