This chapter was inspired by the song 'I Hate You But I Love You' by Russian Red. It is, unsurprisingly, a wonderful song to slow dance to in the kitchen. And, as everyone knows, the kitchen is the heart of the household.

I Hate You But I Love You

Prussia snuck up behind him, tapping one shoulder and ducking to the other side. Canada frowned, twisting right when he should have gone left. It was not the best time for his antics, but when was the best time, really?

The casserole in his hands was too large and awkward. It was more than a little warm.

"Gilbert," he reprimanded, shifting the casserole. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" He asked innocently, popping up on his left and trailing his fingers over his forearm. He fluttered his eyelashes.

"That."

Prussia smirked and pressed against his back. He nibbled on his earlobe.

"You'll have to be a little more specific."

Canada snorted and tried to walk around him but Prussia refused to let him go. He kept stepping around him, in front of him, tugging on the dishtowel Canada had thrown over his shoulder. He ran his fingertips over his folded sleeves; candid and uncomplicated in his interest.

He snapped his suspenders and skimmed his hips and pinched his backside. He grinned.

Canada slipped the casserole across the counter and turned in his embrace. He wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, exasperated.

He both hated and loved Prussia in the same breath. He knew just which buttons to press, which strings to pull. He was aggravating, infuriating, absolutely maddening... And he was brilliantly, vibrantly beautiful. It hurt his eyes just to look at him.

So he closed them and leaned into the kiss.

"You're annoying," Canada murmured against his lips between kisses with practiced ease. It was the only way to get a word in edgewise. Prussia plucked at his suspenders again.

"I believe that it's pronounced 'adorable'."

"I'm pretty sure it's not."

Prussia let his hands wander further down the front of his trousers, entranced, and traced the buttons and fasteners. He nuzzled his collarbone. He laughed.

"What'd'you know, anyway?" Prussia muttered against his skin, painting new marks and nipping at old bruises. He pulled Canada into the centre of the kitchen and set one hand on his hips. He clasped the other hand in hand with his own.

Canada opened his eyes.

Prussia was beautiful, from his pale tresses to his broad shoulders to his calloused fingertips. His eyes were expressive, a storm of unspoken sentiments and unrestrained impulses; chaotic and frightening and utterly breathtaking. He somehow managed to be ethereal and so very human at the same time. Perfect and imperfect.

There was a… Softness to him, underneath the hard lines and plains. Hidden, maybe, but definitely, undeniably there.

It was tucked in the corner of his smile like a kiss.

Canada let Prussia set the pace. There was no music but it did not seem to matter much; they swayed as if they were dancing to the same song. And after a hundred years of loving and hating and loving each other, they might as well have been.

"I hate you," Canada said, not really meaning it.

"I love you too," Prussia whispered. Hate and love walked such a fine line, frustration and passion. They had first met on the battlefield, and they had hated each other. They had hated everything about each other. Now they adored those very same things; those little eccentricities and weaknesses... Those annoying tendencies and inclinations and habits... Everything.

He hated him. He loved him. He loved him, he loved him, he loved him.

Prussia continued to lead him around the kitchen, ignoring the casserole and the dishes in the sink. He kissed the end of his nose and knocked their foreheads together. Canada laughed.

And after a hundred years, they barely even stepped on each other's toes anymore.

Author's Notes:

I suppose that Canada is wearing an outfit that would not be amiss in the forties or fifties, based on the description, with the sleeves rolled up and his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. He probably just walked in. Also, the fact that he has not throttled Prussia yet speaks volumes. He must really, really love him. Prussia is utterly, dreadfully annoying. And distracting…

My brother and I use the 'It's pronounced…' excuse all the time. It's a wonder we have any friends at all.

The reference to the kiss tucked in the corner of his mouth is, of course, a reference to Peter Pan.