England looked at France impatiently. He hadn't had all day, and it just so happened that France had pulled him out an important cabinet meeting -- by both calling him and coming on site -- to tell him something that was utterly important.
The only thing France had done was relentlessly fidget and look at their surroundings.
"Talk," England said.
France looked up at England, nervous. His palms were unattractively sweaty and his insides, he was sure, were being twisted in an uncomfortable manner. He gulped.
"I want burnt scones," he said, his voice soft. He might've been the country with fine cuisine, but he was also the country of love. And for love, he would do anything, even sacrifice his taste buds.
"... What?" England asked, staring at France as if he'd grown another head.
"I want burnt scones."
"They're not burnt at all. They're perfectly fine scones!" After this exclamation, England woke up, panting and flushed. With anger.
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The only thing France had done was relentlessly fidget and look at their surroundings.
"Talk," England said.
France looked up at England, nervous. His palms were unattractively sweaty and his insides, he was sure, were being twisted in an uncomfortable manner. He gulped.
"I want burnt scones," he said, his voice soft. He might've been the country with fine cuisine, but he was also the country of love. And for love, he would do anything, even sacrifice his taste buds.
"... What?" England asked, staring at France as if he'd grown another head.
"I want burnt scones."
"They're not burnt at all. They're perfectly fine scones!" After this exclamation, England woke up, panting and flushed. With anger.
His brow creased.
"Goddamn France," he said.
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