Waaaaah! I don't know what the hell happened with this first post!!! I'm sorry, i will write to the mods and beg them to delete it >.<
Second try right here:
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When France woke up this morning, the immediately knew something was wrong.
First of all, the warm body usually lying next to him was gone, which was a pity, because he enjoyed watching England drool and sometimes murmuring his name in his sleep. France would stay in bed for a few minutes, trying to talk his sleeping boyfriend into doing things he would clearly say no to, when fully awake. In fact, one could have whole conversations with the sleeping England. Unfortunately, he tended “not to remember them” once he awoke from his dream world full of unicorns and rainbows. Though, France thought, that wasn’t true either, because England never awoke from his dream of a world full of unicorns and other mystical creatures.
Turning his body around, so he could spend the rest of the morning on Englands bedside, where his boyfriends body heat still radiated in the sheets, France contently took a noseful of that smell which Arthur denied having but was having anyways and Francis loved to tease him by sniffling and nuzzling on him. Today, however, that was a very bad idea, because what he smelt wasn’t England at all, though definitely a very English smell…
Alarmed, he jumped out of bed, noticing, much to his dismay, that the smell already hung thick in the air, now accompanied by the sound of kitchen utensils that weren’t handled with enough love. Francis absently slipped into a pair of pants England wore for sleeping and which he found hanging over a chair, trying not to think about the fashion crime he was committing in doing so, and ran down the stairs to where the smell grew stronger.
Halfway down the stairs he stopped the running because by the looks of it, it was all too late. Arthur stood in front of the stove, wearing Francis’ yellow apron that was now ruined because he would never get out the smell or those holes where the poison cooking was eating through the fabric. He shed a silent tear for it. The table was already set with a bunch of toast, butter and jam. At least that didn’t look very dangerous. The stuff England was cooking in the pan however, definitely did.
“Hey, you’re awake”, Arthur said, when he heard Francis’ footsteps coming down the stairs. He shot him a smile over his shoulder, before turning back to the disaster in front of him. “I cooked!”
“I can see that”, Francis replied huskily. He was taken aback by how oddly cute England looked, standing in the kitchen with an apron and greeting him with a smile. England never looked cute. Ever. “And what did I do to deserve that?”
It was his own fault for not wanting to make it sound like an insult, that Arthur took this the wrong way. “Can’t a man cook breakfast for his boyfriend once, just because?”, he replied, a look of pure innocence and goodwill on his face. Francis felt his heart melt and bumping of joy at the same time. Then he remembered that smell nobody would want to be troubled with in the morning.
First, he decided, he needed to find out, what it was. Making his way over to Arthur and hugging him from behind, he risked to peek over his boyfriends shoulder to examine the disaster. What he saw made him want to puke right into the abused frying pan. It wouldn’t have made a big difference anyways. Probably would have given it a little spice, even. Yes, Francis was sure, that digested French cuisine still tasted better than English cooking.
Don't do it with English cooking!
I'm sorry, i will write to the mods and beg them to delete it >.<
Second try right here:
________________________________
When France woke up this morning, the immediately knew something was wrong.
First of all, the warm body usually lying next to him was gone, which was a pity, because he enjoyed watching England drool and sometimes murmuring his name in his sleep. France would stay in bed for a few minutes, trying to talk his sleeping boyfriend into doing things he would clearly say no to, when fully awake. In fact, one could have whole conversations with the sleeping England. Unfortunately, he tended “not to remember them” once he awoke from his dream world full of unicorns and rainbows. Though, France thought, that wasn’t true either, because England never awoke from his dream of a world full of unicorns and other mystical creatures.
Turning his body around, so he could spend the rest of the morning on Englands bedside, where his boyfriends body heat still radiated in the sheets, France contently took a noseful of that smell which Arthur denied having but was having anyways and Francis loved to tease him by sniffling and nuzzling on him. Today, however, that was a very bad idea, because what he smelt wasn’t England at all, though definitely a very English smell…
Alarmed, he jumped out of bed, noticing, much to his dismay, that the smell already hung thick in the air, now accompanied by the sound of kitchen utensils that weren’t handled with enough love.
Francis absently slipped into a pair of pants England wore for sleeping and which he found hanging over a chair, trying not to think about the fashion crime he was committing in doing so, and ran down the stairs to where the smell grew stronger.
Halfway down the stairs he stopped the running because by the looks of it, it was all too late.
Arthur stood in front of the stove, wearing Francis’ yellow apron that was now ruined because he would never get out the smell or those holes where the poison cooking was eating through the fabric. He shed a silent tear for it.
The table was already set with a bunch of toast, butter and jam. At least that didn’t look very dangerous. The stuff England was cooking in the pan however, definitely did.
“Hey, you’re awake”, Arthur said, when he heard Francis’ footsteps coming down the stairs. He shot him a smile over his shoulder, before turning back to the disaster in front of him. “I cooked!”
“I can see that”, Francis replied huskily. He was taken aback by how oddly cute England looked, standing in the kitchen with an apron and greeting him with a smile. England never looked cute. Ever.
“And what did I do to deserve that?”
It was his own fault for not wanting to make it sound like an insult, that Arthur took this the wrong way.
“Can’t a man cook breakfast for his boyfriend once, just because?”, he replied, a look of pure innocence and goodwill on his face. Francis felt his heart melt and bumping of joy at the same time.
Then he remembered that smell nobody would want to be troubled with in the morning.
First, he decided, he needed to find out, what it was.
Making his way over to Arthur and hugging him from behind, he risked to peek over his boyfriends shoulder to examine the disaster.
What he saw made him want to puke right into the abused frying pan. It wouldn’t have made a big difference anyways. Probably would have given it a little spice, even. Yes, Francis was sure, that digested French cuisine still tasted better than English cooking.