England NEEDS to be in control at least ONCE! I know he's supposed to be the uke in every pairing but AsaKiku, but that doesn't mean he can't have his moments! That's what this story is gonna do. ^_^ People always play on England being a disgruntled uke when with France. Therefore, I think England would be DYING to one up France if he was in a relationship with him. How is he gonna do that? Read on and find out! Get ready for MAJOR FLUFF! Enjoy! ^_^

FRANCE'S POV

England knew nothing about romance. This was a simple fact. Not that France minded; he actually found it to be rather endearing. He enjoyed taking control and watching his lover blush and avoid eye contact, muttering in embarrassment, grumbling and calling him names as they lay together. Then, as the height of passion was reached, England would yield completely, holding onto France like a lifeline. Afterward, of course, he would huff and mutter about the obvious effect France's "bloody French wine" was having on his mental processes.

This was when France had the most fun. The younger, British nation was so unbearably adorable and amusing! Who in their right mind would pass up the chance to tease him just a little bit? Certainly not this Frenchman!

"Ah...mon cher...your naivety never fails to make me smile." France murmured, running his forefinger along his lover's jawline to soften the banter.

England growled halfheartedly and turned his head away. "You're not on about that again, are you frog? I'm not some old monk fresh from the monastery."

The older man chuckled lightly. "Of course not. I would hate to think of you losing that punk haircut of yours."

"Hmph!" The Brit buried his face in the pillow, mumbling inaudibly.

"Hm? What was that, mon petit lapin?" France reached over and tugged the pillow away.

England looked up, his emerald eyes shining stubbornly. "I'm not as ignorant as you think I am." The slight pout that came to his face as he said that made France feel incredibly giddy.

"Why don't you show me, then?" He sat up and opened his arms challengingly.

"Tomorrow evening." This was spoken firmly and left no room for argument.

France smiled and allowed himself to sink back under the covers. "I look forward to what you prepare for me, mon amour." He planted a light kiss on England's brow. "Je t'aime."

England said nothing. He simply blushed and snuggled closer. France could just barely feel his lover smirk against his chest.

…...

France breathed a sigh as he walked through the front door. "Angleterre? I'm home." He called out in his musical voice.

There was no reply.

"Angleterre?" The Frenchman's sapphire eyes glittered curiously. Then, he remembered the conversation from the previous night and a smile spread across his face. 'Ah...that's right...' He shrugged off his jacket and walked upstairs. The bedroom door was slightly ajar...but England wasn't inside. 'Hm...' France stroked his chin for a moment. 'Maybe he is not yet home.' Deciding to take advantage of the extra time, he slid out of his work clothes and moved into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

As the hot water cascaded over his skin, he pondered to himself. What could England be planning? He certainly hadn't forgotten: the opportunity to out-do France in any way was something that he would never pass up. But what would his attempt consist of?

Most likely, it would be an adorably shy attempt to dominate an incredibly awkward kiss. The thought brought an indulging smirk to France's face. His grin faltered when he entertained the possibility that England would try to cook a romantic dinner. Maybe, he was in the kitchen. Nervously, France pulled on his sky blue silk pajamas and walked back downstairs. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when he saw that the kitchen was empty and that there was no sign that it had been used.

'But where...?' It was past time for England to be home. If he wasn't in the bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom...

France walked through the living room. Nothing. He peeked into the dining room. Nothing. Finally, he walked toward the library.

Each of the nations' homes contained a library. It was a necessity on par with having national food items, clothing, and accents that other nationalities made fun of. The libraries contained the nations' history, poetry, and literature. It was a record of a country's life: the highs, the lows, the moments of enlightenment, the most intelligent and creative minds born and bred on their soil...

The library was the most private part of any nation's house and France was very hesitant to push open the door to England's. Eventually, however, he decided to just take a quick peek. If England wasn't there, he'd move on. Did he get held up in some meeting?

France let out a gasp of surprise as he peered through the heavy wooden doors and into the dimly-lit room. England's library was beautiful! Done in a Victorian style, the area was spacious but cozy. The windows were hung with cream-colored drapes and the shelves that made up the walls were carved very artfully, as were the wooden bookcases that stood in neat rows nearby. A great crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, reflecting rainbow colors off of its ice-like hangings. A circle of beige and gold trimmed sofas and armchairs sat in a circle in the center of the room on top of a light yellow and brown rug. The walls that weren't dominated by books were covered with dandelion-colored wallpaper with a pattern of brown and tan diamonds within a stripe of white stretching across the boundary between wall and ceiling. The occasional picture of the English countryside or of the city of London was artfully placed here and there on the wall.

'Angleterre has very good taste...' France mused. 'Why doesn't he decorate his whole house in such a manner? Those Beatles posters are so tacky.' Then, he froze, realizing that he had wandered into the heart of the room without even meaning to. 'He isn't here. I should leave.' Nodding to himself, disappointed that he still hadn't found England, he moved toward the door. As he passed a bookcase, however, he was stopped by a familiar hand reaching out from behind the shelf and grabbing his right wrist. He froze, ready to apologize for violating the library. The words never came to his mouth. England started to speak and everything else was forgotten.

His voice carried a new tone, one that France had never before heard. It was low, smooth, and filled with a deep-set passion. Yet, at the same time, it carried a sense of purity and elegance.

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."

At this, England, still hidden behind the bookcase, touched his lips ever-so-lightly to the back of France's hand. 'Oh...' France closed his eyes and smiled. His heart was fluttering around in his chest like a bird. Hearing such timeless and beautiful words being uttered through England's rosy lips was almost too much to bear.

Then, he felt the pressure on his hand leave and he was alone once more. "Angleterre?" He whispered questioningly, walking around the case. He saw England in a corner a few feet away, leaning against one of the wall shelves. As France approached, his love began to speak again.

"He walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that 's best of dark and bright

Meet in his aspect and his eyes."

He was changing the words. This was definitely a poem that had been written for a woman. Still, it lost none of its meaning with the change of a single pronoun. The Frenchman gazed at the man in front of him, who had such an air of confidence and unadulterated love, he was almost unrecognizable. A soft hand came up to frame France's face.

"I met a fellow in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
His hair was long, his foot was light,
And his eyes were wild."

England, still continuing to improvise the poetic quotations to fit the situation, walked past France and toward the couches. France followed, feeling as if he was in a stupor. The Brit had never looked so incredibly beautiful.

"He found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange he said,
I love thee true."

The green-eyed poet paused to beckon for France to sit on one of the largest, comfiest looking sofas. The Frenchman, of course, obliged, his eyes shining in complete and total awe. He whimpered quietly as England knelt down next to the couch and gently pushed him into a lying-down position.

"He took me to his elfin grot,
And there he gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut his wild sad eyes-
So kiss'd to sleep."

With these words, the younger nation moved up enough to lean over his French counterpart and press two slow, lasting kisses to his eyelids.

"Je t'aime..." France whispered, his face a picture of pure bliss. His heart nearly burst at England's response:

"As fair art thou, my bonnie lad,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run."

England was cupping France's face gently with on hand. He had moved to sit on the edge of the sofa, so that he was protectively shadowing his pleased lover. He cracked a tiny smile. "I'll admit: That last one was Scottish. Still, it seemed right."

With a purr of affection, France sat up and wrapped his arms around England's middle, nestling his face in his beloved poet's shoulder. "Mon petit lapin..." He sighed. "I stand corrected."

"Can I get that on tape, frog?" England chuckled, resting his head on top of France's and hugging back.

France laughed before sitting up and gazing into those emerald eyes. "You have never looked as beautiful as you are right now." He whispered truthfully, bringing a hand forward to caress the Brit's face.

England closed his eyes and sighed.

"Oh eyes, which rob the ocean's gleam,

Flutter, fade, and drift away.

Let mine be the last face you see

Thru the darkness of passing day."

"Who wrote that one, mon amour?" France asked, nestling his face in the crook of the Brit's neck. "It's beautiful..." A tingle went down his spine as the sweet words seemed to meld into his mind and soul. He brought a hand up to rest on his love's heart.

England's face heated up as he pulled France closer and kissed his relaxed brow. "Me..."

Only in the country that bore Shakespeare, eh? ^_^ The first quote was from Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet". The second was from "She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron. The third was from "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by John Keats. The fourth was from "A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns. That last one was something I came up with. England always struck me as the type to dominate with poetry. So romantic, no? Please review! Flames make England sad. Peace out!