A/N: Dedicated to Xxzomgcheri00sxX on dA. Language, slash, and some generalizations of the French (courtesy of Pepé Le Pew).

It goes without saying that I don't own anything.

C'est L'amour

The sun shining in his face pulls America from the realm of sleep. He stretches his arms out, feeling for the warm body that usually occupies the left side of the bed. It isn't there. He gets up on one elbow and looks over. That side of the bed is neatly made - even the pillows are perfectly aligned against the headboard.

America smiles. His lover is such a neat freak.

He throws the covers off himself, not bothering to fix his side of the bed, and gets up. After stretching his back muscles out and putting on his glasses, he walks into the washroom for his usual morning routine. When he's done, he makes his way downstairs. Halfway down, a wretched smell assaults his nose.

"What the. . ." He mumbles as he follows the odor into the kitchen. The sight of England standing at the stove greets him. England is wearing the powder-blue apron America had gotten him last Christmas. 'Well, that explains the awful smell.' The American chuckles to himself, gliding up behind the shorter nation, who has yet to notice his presence.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?" He breathes into England's ear, wrapping his arms around the Englishman's waist. The older nation jumps and nearly sends batter everywhere.

"Don't sneak up on me, you blasted fool!" England snaps. ". . . and I'm making pancakes, if you must know."

America peers over England's shoulder at the alleged "pancake". The thing in the pan looks more like a burnt frisbee than anything else. He grins even as his stomach shrivels up and dies. "Looks great." He lies easily, resting his chin on a bony shoulder.

The Englishman blushes and shoos the younger nation away. "There's coffee in the pot." He says, gesturing with his spatula.

"Really? Alright!" America exclaims. He leaps over to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup. He takes a sip. Ah, just how he likes it: strong.

The European nation rolls his eyes. "Why do you like that rubbish?"

"Why not?"

"It's bitter, it smells awful, and it's bad for you." He counts off the reasons. "I thought I raised you to be more sophisticated."

America frowns. "Hey now, coffee is plenty sophisticated."

"No it isn't. It's a bum's drink." England argues. "Tea, on the other hand, is-"

"Disgusting?" America says, smirks lightly. He takes another sip of his coffee. "Mmm, yum."

". . . you're hopeless."

"But you wouldn't love me if I was any different." The taller blonde winks, his smirk widening when the other does not deny the accusation.

"Whatever," The Island says dismissively, leaning over the stove to turn the dial, switching it off. "Breakfast is ready, so go sit your pompous arse down." With that said, he slides the pancake from the pan onto a plate already piled with them and sets it down on the table. Along with eggs, toast, and a cup of hot tea.

America obeys, sitting in his usual chair. He eyes the pancakes for a moment, trying to decide which of them looks most edible. Eventually he gives up and grabs the top three from the stack. He decides he'll just drown them in syrup and hope for the best.

Meanwhile, England spreads a layer of raspberry jam over his own two flapjacks. "I know I'm not the best cook around, so you don't have to eat if you don't want to." He says, sighing at the amount of syrup the American uses.

"No way, man. You took the time to make breakfast for me and I'll be damned if I don't appreciate it!" America mentally steels himself as he slices off a small portion of the monstrosity and puts it in his mouth. He swallows without chewing and his stomach does a very unpleasant flip. He then quickly snatches up his coffee and takes a huge gulp. "T-tastes awesome." He manages to smile, despite the churning in his gut.

"Do you really think so, or are you just saying that to spare my feelings?" England asks suspiciously, his sharp green eyes narrowed.

"'Course I do." The American says, cutting off another piece and bringing it to his mouth. "Would I keep eating if I thought it tasted bad?"

England looks unconvinced. "No, I guess not. . ." He replies reluctantly.

"Okay then. Now shut up and lemme enjoy my breakfast."

A comfortable silence carries to the end of the meal. When both are finished eating, England begins the process of cleaning up. America, ever the hero, leaps up and offers his assistance.

"Don't you remember what happened last time you tried helping?" England asks, one bushy brow raised.

"I was drunk!"

"What about that time at the world conference, with the piggy bank?"

"That goddamn Commie tripped me! You all saw it!"

"Sure, except Russia has been sick with the recession flu and hasn't attended a meeting all year."

"Well whatever it was, it wasn't my fault." America crosses his arms over his chest. "Besides, I didn't hear Italy complaining. S'not like he would've ever gotten the stupid thing open otherwise."

"Okay, I'll give you that one." England smiles faintly. A moment later, he turns around and shoos America out of the kitchen. "Now go do something productive while I tidy up."

"Yes sir." The American salutes, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He walks into the sitting room, sits down on the couch and picks up the remote. Cartoons are productive, right?

Fifteen minutes later finds England finishing up in the kitchen. Everything is sufficiently spotless, very much unlike how that slob usually keeps it. He simply can't fathom how the idiot can live in such a mess all the time. He shuffles into the sitting room and sighs at the sight of the blonde on the sofa with his eyes glued to the television.

"I thought I told you to do something productive?" He speaks above the noise of the tv.

"This is productive!" America offers him a winning smile. "I'm collecting valuable information here."

"By watching Pepé Le Pew?"

"Hell yeah. I'm learning how to impress a lover." The bespectacled nation pats the spot next to him on the couch. "Come here so I can show you what I've learned."

"You're hopeless." England sighs. "Only an idiot would consider an animated French skunk as a legitimate love mentor." Though he does sit down, nonetheless.

America puts an arm around the older nation and nuzzles his face into sandy blonde hair. The comforting smell of tea leaves and mint invades his nose, and he breathes it in deeply.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Smelling your hair."


"Becoz eet smellz gewd." America says in a corny French accent. England gapes at him, one eye nearly twitching.

America, unable to get the hint, takes this as a good sign. He looks towards the television again for further instruction.

"C'est l'amour, mon cheri!" Pepé declares to his ladylove.

"Say lamoor, mahn sherry!" America repeats to the mortified nation in his arms.

"Wh-what?" The island nation says blankly. He then begins laughing. "And here I th-thought that bloody language was b-bad enough already!"

The younger male's blue eyes narrow. "Don't insult the language of love!"

"Dear god, you sound just like that damn frog."

"That's supposed to be attractive though."

"To whom?" England scoffs.

"I did everything Pepé said, so why isn't it working?" America mutters, ignoring him completely.

The elder blonde frowns at the distraught look on his lover's face. He then lets out another put-upon sigh and leans forward to press their lips together. America's downtrodden expression instantly disappears as he wraps his arms around his lover and takes the liberty of deepening the kiss.

After they pull apart, he smirks. "I knew you couldn't resist me."

"Whatever you say, America."


C'est l'amour, mon cheri! - This is love, my darling!