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"What kind of candy would you like?" the girl at the counter asked them, smiling encouragingly. Without looking, she'd reached down to grab a couple of cups, taken one out of the other, and dumped ice in them, all while smiling. Francis smiled back at her warmly.

"Which one would you suggest, ma chère?" he asked, his French accent clear in every word.

The girl smiled genuinely. "Je pense que les Fuzzy Peach sont très bon," she said with a slight Canadian accent. Francis grinned with pride.

"Vous parlez français?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Oui, un peu," she replied, flicking her computer screen and coming up with the total to their order as if she'd done it a thousand times. It was probable that she'd done it ten thousand and two times this afternoon alone. The two shared a looked that spoke volumes, her of her pride in her culture and him in his pride of the fact that his culture had been carried over seas. The look was interrupted by Arthur tossing a bag of candy onto the counter.

"The Smarties, please," he said flatly, causing Francis to frown and the poor girl's smile to waver slightly and return to the "I'm only grinning because it's my job" version that she had been wearing earlier.

"Du beurre sur votre maïs soufflé?" she asked Francis specifically. Her eyes flicked to Arthur, who was giving her a blank stare which simply stated "I don't understand." She breathed through her nose, her teeth grinding and she held her smile, the muscles in her jaw twitching. "Would you like butter on your popcorn?" she translated, and Arthur nodded absently.

"Please," he muttered, feeling rotten. It was hard to find good service anywhere, and he'd just spoken down to this girl who was being quite nice to Francis and him. He wasn't in the best of moods, after being hounded by Alfred to see this movie and then dragged with him up to Matthew's house where it seemed as though the last days of summer had passed weeks ago, and hearing so much French in one day made him edgy, but there was no excuse for his behaviour. He glanced upwards, expecting a subtle glare, but instead he was rewarded with a large smile, minus the teeth grinding.

"Of course," she said, gesturing at the person behind her, who nodded. "Cash, credit or debit?"

After counting out the Canadian money, grabbing the popcorn and the drinks and the candy and proceeding to the condiments counter for napkins and straws, France looked at England interestedly. "Zat was 'ardly any way to treat a lady," he informed him.

"There's no such word as ardly," Arthur replied, glaring

Francis glared back and opened his mouth. "Ha... ha-a-a, hhhha-"

"Don't hurt yourself, frog," Arthur warned, the look on Francis' face while he tried to pronounce a letter he never used brightening his mood. He pocketed the candy and extracted his ticket from his jacket and glanced at it, then looked for any signs indicating the direction in which they were supposed to go. "Alright, theatre eight should be just through here..." he murmured, trailing off as he looked back up at Francis. Francis did not return the gaze.

The Frenchman was looking at one of the other little food niches throughout the theatre, this one appearing to have something to do with yogurt. His eyes were lit up like child's at Christmas as they scanned over the menu, and before England had a chance to say otherwise, he'd had his arm grabbed by the enthusiastic man and was being dragged over. He grimaced and muttered something rude, but Francis was already ordering, and patting his pockets uncertainly. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur who sighed and stepped up to the counter.

"I'll have whatever he's having, and it's with cash, please and thank you," he said in an exhausted voice. The girl smiled sympathetically at him, and took the cash that she was then handed. Her friend passed over the yogurts, muttering quickly that they were chocolate raspberry, and Francis grabbed them and thanked them both, then began to walk away. England rolled his eyes at the girls and pantomimed shooting himself in the head. They grinned at him and waved, in a very clear "I'd rather be you than be in here" way. He grabbed two spoons and followed France, the popcorn under his arm and the pop in his hand, as he dug around in his pockets for his ticket. In front of him, Francis was balancing both their yogurts in one delicate-fingered hand, his pop under his arm precariously, as he, too, searched for the slip of paper. The kid at the podium ripped the blonde man's ticket and shoved it between two fingers when France decided that he was about to be covered in his drink. The boy nodded and told him where to go, unsmiling, obviously bored and sick of saying the same things.

When England got there and passed him the ticket, the boy glanced at the spoons in his hand and looked hurriedly between France and him, understanding dawning in his eyes. He opened his mouth to ask the question, then caught himself and promptly directed him where to go, not quite meeting his eyes. Arthur blushed furiously and rushed after France, keeping his eyes on the floor. He got into the theatre after the other man and jogged up the stairs to meet him, where he'd sat and already settled in.

"Thank you oh so much for leaving me, stupid bloody frog," he muttered, setting his drink in the cup holder and the popcorn in his lap. He stuck the spoons in his mouth and dug with both hands in his pockets. Finding his cell and turning it off, he turned in his seat to glare at the older country.

"Did you get lonely, mon petit lapin?" France wanted to know, grinning. England punched him in the nose. Laughing at him, he punched him none too gently in the shoulder, and then leaned over and took a spoon from his mouth.

"Turn off your cell," Arthur ordered as the theatre darkened and the sound increased. Francis handed him the yogurts and stuck the spoon in his mouth, digging through his pockets. His eyes widened slightly. "What is it?"

"I cannot reach my phone," Francis informed him.

"That's because your pants are too bloody tight," Arthur growled. The other man slumped down in his seat and fished in the front pocket of his straight legged trousers, nearly kicking the seat in front of him. Glancing over, Arthur just caught a glimpse of the wallpaper on the phone, and saw his one face looking back out at him.

"What's that?" he hissed, leaning over and reaching for the phone. Francis held it away from him with a smirk. Arthur leaned over him to reach for it. "Why am I on your phone, frog? What's that? Oh, bloody hell, let me see!"

Francis reluctantly let him see his phone, the glow lighting up his features. Luckily the theatre was mostly empty except for them and a few other couples who still hadn't seen the third Transformers. Still, slight worry crossed the Frenchman's features, and Arthur realized that the only reason he was giving up his phone was because he was afraid someone would shush them. This didn't bother him in the slightest, however, and it only meant that he'd get his way. Snatching the cell out of the other man's hand, he pressed the centre button and watched as the screen lit up, the picture that he'd barely seen suddenly startlingly clear.

Arthur's face was upturned in a pure, genuinely happy smile, as though all was right with the world in that single moment that the picture had been taken. It was a very nice picture of him, and he grimaced as he realized just whose hands it was in. He shut off the phone and handed it back, not bothering to tell him to delete it. Maybe later, when he could get his hands on the phone for a longer period of time, and then he could delete every single picture of himself. That seemed like a better idea.

Glancing at France as he handed the phone back, he scowled, and plucked the spoon from his mouth. "Hold it with your hands or put it down," he hissed as Francis slumped down again to put his phone back. The Frenchman wore an astonished look when the bit of blue plastic left his mouth. He looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"But you did," he whispered, and then if he could have looked more surprised Arthur was sure his features would crumple up and fall off his face from the effort. "You did," he murmured, and smirked.

"What?" Arthur demanded.

"Indirect kiss," France replied, grinning. He got punched again, and his yogurt was handed to him promptly after with a huff.

As the movie started, neither spoke to each other for a while. They both finished their yogurt quickly, as they hadn't had a chance to grab lunch, and then they devoured the salty popcorn and the fizzy pop, making their throats burn, as neither had had the sense to order an iced tea, both momentarily forgetting that in Canada the drink wasn't literally iced tea.

Halfway through the movie, Francis broke the silence by leaning over and asking, "Do you 'ave zee Smarties?" Muttering something rude, Arthur dug the candy out of his pocket and passed it to him. He ripped opened the bag and popped a piece of the candy into his mouth, then held it out to Arthur, who reached in and took a handful. The rest of the movie continued in companionable silence up to the credits, when both rose from their chairs and stretched.

Francis pocketed the leftover candy and the two both picked up their garbage and started down the stairs. "Zat was not so horrible," he said, switching to French on the last word. England walked ahead of him quickly, not bothering to wait. Francis got caught up in the crowd and dodged between a few people, then finally caught up at a full out run at the exit to the parking lot. When he caught up to England, he said, breathing hard, "You left me," in an injured tone.

Glancing over his shoulder and still not stopping as France paused to put his hands on his knees and gasp, he asked in a spiteful voice, "did you miss me, frog?" Scowling, Francis jogged to catch up with him just as he reached the car that Matthew had let them borrow. The man had an extra flat an hour south of his home that they were using for the visit. England jumped in and contemplated locking the Frenchman out. Sadly, the long-haired blonde reached the car just as his finger had been about to press down on the lock button.

Arthur stuck in a CD to stop any conversation, and sang loudly to the Beatles all the way back to the apartment. Francis hummed along good-naturedly, not admitting to the Englishman once that he very much liked Beatles music. He knew that if he sang as loudly as Arthur, he'd get scowled at. The singing stopped only once to cuss when someone cut them off.

When they reached the apartment and parked, France jumped out and ran up to the door, unlocking it and closing it behind him, knowing full well that England didn't have the keys. Arthur soon caught up and began banging on the door angrily, threatening Francis and swearing something fowl. Francis laughed loudly, walked back to the door carefully and opened it a crack. Arthur barrelled into the door, causing Francis to fall backwards. Arthur reached down a hand to help him up and Francis took it, giggling.

With a few harder than necessary thumps on the shoulder, the two countries got into the elevator and started up to the penthouse suite. Canada was a rich man. After stopping at the "top" floor, unlocking the panel under the rest of the buttons and punching in the key code, the elevator started up again, and in about three seconds the two men arrived at their floor. Closing the panel, (which locked automatically,) and stepping out, Francis unlocked the door. Arthur didn't give him a chance to close the door on him, standing very close behind him as he unlocked the door and stepping on his heels all the way in, which made Francis chuckle.

France dropped the keys in the basket on the side table in the foyer and walked on into the suite without looking back. Mumbling something rude, England turned and locked the door, and quickly followed France into the kitchen.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," the Frenchman admitted, tossing the Smarties down on the countertop. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, while Arthur shook out some candy onto the countertop and ate one. Francis leaned against the cupboards beside the stove lazily.

"I think I will as well," the Englishman informed the other country. He turned to look at France and paused. "What's that look for?"

France looked at the candy with an odd expression on his face. He almost seemed... distressed? He pushed off the counter and picked up a purple piece and examined it. He then picked up a blue piece and did the same. "What's wrong?" England asked him.

"Do these look odd to you?" France asked.

"Now that you mention it," England said, looking at the two pieces of candy France held, "they kind of do."

France shook out more candy, and found that it was the same with all the blues and purples. The purple was dark, as if the old purple had been mixed with brown. The blue looked greyish, as though the old color had been diluted. France looked close to tears.

"They used to be pretty," he muttered, leaning against the far counter again.

"It's not like they taste any different," England argued.

"But they're not the same!" France told him, pouting.

"Really? The color of the candy is upsetting you?" England asked him.

"Yes," the Frenchman replied, "very much."

Huffing, England grabbed a piece of the blue candy and walked over to France. "Here. Eat it," he ordered. France grudgingly took the piece of candy and stuffed it in his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose. England sighed, stepped towards the counter, and kissed him.

France tensed, his eyes slamming open suddenly. England leaned into him, setting his hands on the counter on either side and trapping the Frenchman there. France squirmed slightly until a knee came up between his legs, a hip pressed into him, and he found himself plastered to the drawers and cupboards behind him, the back of his head resting on the microwave. He moaned slightly as England's lips moved against his and he tried not to kiss back, but in moments his eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttered, and he found himself responding. He felt long fingers encircle his wrists and pull them upwards, and England used one hand to hold them above France's head. His other hand slid under his shirt and rubbed circles over the skin of his back. He nipped at his bottom lip, and his tongue flicked out, asking permission. France slid down a few inches, his knees weak, and England leaned into him harder, eliciting a moan. Seeing his chance, he slipped his tongue into France's mouth, exploring it freely. France didn't even put up a fight for dominance.

Then the kiss changed. It seemed almost as though England was looking for something... there! The piece of candy coated chocolate, tucked between Francis' cheek and bottom teeth, was stolen from him with a skilled flick of the Englishman's tongue. France watched with heavy lidded eyes as England pulled away, and the candy with obliterated with a decisive crunch!

"Tastes the same to me," England informed him after a moment. France managed to huff irately despite his gasping for air. The bushy-browed man chuckled low in his throat. "How easily you come undone, Francis. I expected more from the country of love."

"Merde, Arthur," Francis growled, wriggling slightly. The Englishman smirked and dug his thigh into the older country's groin, making him gasp and whimper. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back.

"You know, someone has to eat the candy. It'd be such a waste to throw it away," Arthur purred, nipping Francis' jaw line delicately. He bit and licked his way down the man's throat and then back up until he reached the sensitive spot just below his ear. "I think what I'll do," he whispered huskily, while biting down on the long-haired blonde's earlobe, "is lay you down, poor them over you, and eat them. One. By. One."

Francis moaned loudly, struggling against the grip on his wrists above his head. "What do you think?"

"I," France gasped, arching his body into England's as the man dragged his fingers up and down his spine, "think it's your turn to – unf." He was cut off by a particularly hard bite to his throat. "Bottom," he managed weakly.

England laughed into his shoulder by way of response. "Not tonight, Francis."

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth time that night, France vowed to never allow England to pick the candy again.