Anything you can do... I can do better

Francis was a proud man, a very very proud man, everyone and their dead grandmother knew this. He hated to be shown up, outdone, and well... lose. Every fiber of his being was filled with rage. Once again, once again that damn bastard England has shown him up. It was infuriating!

Pacing the room, hands folded behind his back, he began to plot of ways to get back at the caterpillar browed monster named Arthur. Hours passed, as if in a montage, and all the Frenchman had done was pace, laze in a chair, draw vile pictures of England, groan, and pace some more. He had thought of the several things he was better at, the things England beat him at, how much he hated him, and also how much he wanted to sleep with the ass. Out of hate.

Finally it came to him. A contest. That would prove how much better he was then England! Oh ho! He was such a genius!

Sitting back at his desk, he began to type up the rules for his devious little contest, using different colored fonts as was his style.

"The rules of this game are simple. So simple that even an idiot like you can understand them, Arthur. This a contest, a game of besting one another, to prove which one of us is the greater nation. You in, or are you scared?

If you decide to take my challenge, here are the rules you must follow.
1. Anything is game. If you can think it, we will see who's better at it.
2. No assistance from anyone. It's me against you, so don't go crying to America for help.
3. We will keep our own scores. No cheating.
4. Each 'event' is worth one point.
5. Loser becomes the winner's bitch. And that can be used in anyway.

Once finished with the rules, he typed at the bottom in bold red;



Perfect.

With a cocky grin to himself, he sent the file to his dear friend and printed a copy for himself. Not because he needed it. Non. He just wanted to muse at his brilliance.

Arthur had woken up with a migraine that morning. He only woke up with a migraine this terrible on days when the frog was up to something.

Lo and behold, when Arthur checked his email before morning tea -- only to find that the frog was up to something a lot more annoying that usual. As he brought the teacup to his lips, he sighed into the Earl Gray and massaged his temple with his free hand.

Emerald eyes flashed as he re-read the words and he set the tea down on a saucer. His fingertips poised, hovering just millimeters above the keyboard of his laptop, he huffed and then spoke aloud the words as he typed them.

"Fine... Francis." he breathed, tapping out his acceptance of this hair-brained scheme that could give even Alfred a run for his money. "You have... yourself... a deal." he hit the enter key, making a new line of text. "Do your... worst. I'll be... ready for it."

With a triumphant smirk, Arthur hit the 'send' button and waited for Francis's response. King of Europe sounded nice. He tried testing its sounds. "Arthur Kirkland, King of Europe." he murmured. "Or perhaps... Arthur, King of the Britons!" He chuckled to himself as he tried out the sound of more and more lofty titles. "King Arthur." he finally decided. "Yes, I rather like the sound of that."

Somewhere in his gut, Arthur still had a feeling this one one of those days. The kind that made him wish he could just drown himself in gin and tonic and sleep a whole day afterward and forget any of it ever occurred. Today was probably one of those days, he noted in the back of his mind.

Oh, how little he actually KNEW.

Oh what a horrible grin Francis had as he read the response. This was going to be fun.

He had only returned from the kitchen, café au lait in one hand, crêpe Suzette in the other. Normally, he wouldn't make a crêpe Suzette for breakfast, in fact, he only made it on 'special' days for dessert, but, today was a 'special' day. He knew it.

Taking a sip of his warm coffee, he glanced over the e-mail, a satisfied grin still on his face. "Marvelous..." He cooed to himself, setting down the small, heart-shaped cup. What would be the first challenge...? He was to make the first move, so he could obviously choose something that he knew he could win at.

And he did.

Fingers glided over the keyboard with grace as he typed, an eyebrow raised as he stared at the screen.

"Glad you accept, mon ami. And with those words, the game starts now. No backing down. If you do, I automatically win.

As it was me who proposed this contest, I get first pick on the challenge. You ready? You better be.

The first contest: Cooking.

We will both make one dish and whoever makes the better dish wins the challenge.
No lying and no cheating. "

Sent.

Oh, he had this one in the bag.

Arthur nearly spat out his tea when he read the new reply for the first time. After carefully putting the teacup, saucer and sugar bowl on a tray on the coffee table at the other end of the room entirely, the Brit ran a hand through his sandy blond hair and sighed, closing his eyes as if to will away any ill omens. Sitting down at the desk once more, he counted silently to ten in his head and then opened his eyes again.

The first contest: Cooking.

Arthur knew he wasn't a gourmet. He understood he had a lot of problems in the culinary field. He didn't need someone other than Alfred rubbing that in his face, and yet.... Arthur felt that using cooking as the first challenge seemed to be some kind of a low blow on Francis's part. A low blow, indeed.

Even so, Arthur remained fairly calm about this for once. "It's just one dish." he reminded himself, chuckling wryly. "Maybe I'll even get lucky and the food'll be so terrible compared to his oh-so-refined palate that he'll keel over and die."

Bitterness and joking aside, England set about gathering the ingredients for scones. They were the one thing he could manage on auto-pilot. Surely they would turn out edible. He frowned, deep in thought, as he tied an apron around himself. It was white with a few ruffles here and there (because he needed practice sewing that kind of thing, Arthur had insisted) and his initials were embroidered onto the pocket in the front in gold, along with a unicorn and a lion.

He looked very silly as his thick eyebrows knitted together and a faint blush adorned his cheeks. He'd even clipped some of his unruly blond hair out of his face with bobby pins and rolled up his sleeves.

As he mixed the dough in a big bowl he hummed 'Rule Britannia' to himself, slightly off-key and gruff. Every so often he would wipe his brow where sweat would bead due to the warm kitchen stove, and each time he did this, streaks of white dust would appear on his face and in his hair where he was unknowingly wiping excess flour.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity (but was actually just 30 minutes), Arthur decided that scone-flavored English muffins were what he had created (if it could even be called a creation for that matter) as he shoved the tray of pseudo-pastries into the oven and sat down. He'd moved the laptop into the kitchen so that he could keep an eye on Francis's progress anyway, so he checked his email once he'd washed his hands.

"I'm done... with my entry." Arthur muttered as he typed, half-scowling at the computer screen. Somehow he was feeling a tad irritated that the frog hadn't emailed to tease him yet. "It's in the oven. Come over here... for a taste test... I guess."

He hit 'send' once more and then waited. If that wine-o knew what was good for him, he would show up unannounced and make fun of Arthur's cooking. Wait. How was that a good thing? Not that Francis had any right to speak ill of Arthur's cooking when the bastard's menus consisted of weird entrees like frogs' legs and snails of all things.

But Arthur did recall a time when Francis had made a dish for one of Alfred's arbitrary parties and how very much he had wanted to ask the frog for the recipe. In the end, Arthur had allowed his pride to get the better of him and he spent the rest of that party seething to himself about how he would never stoop so low as to ask Francis for cooking tips.

"Hmph!" Arthur scoffed. "Cooking tips my left foot..."

Arthur decided he needed therapy after this, and wrote himself a post-it note reminder in order to do so.

Time flew as Francis nearly 'danced' through the kitchen, oh he had this challenge won. There were so many things he could make! England was surely beat! He could make...he could... make... what?

He stopped, slamming his hands on the counter, "Mon dieu!" He hadn't even begun to even think of what he would make! Would me make something simple, or complicated? Savory or sweet...? So many choices. Non. Too many. "Tch!" At this rate, Arthur was going to win by default. He couldn't let that happen.

He could ask England what he had made... But... Non. That was wrong. He just had to decide. He had to make something that would make that annoying Brit admit automatic defeat, something that he wouldn't be able to wrap his head around, but wouldn't want to stop eating.

"That's it!" With a sigh, he tied his favored pink apron around his waist, pulling his hair into a ponytail before starting, taking out everything needed from his pantry and fridge. He had desperately wanted to go out to the market and buy fresher items, but this had to do. Knowing Arthur, that ass had already finished and was becoming impatient. He hadn't time to make things perfect, but really, once he thought about it, the Brit wasn't worth it, and no matter what, his dish would be better.

Pulling a clean knife from his dishwasher, Francis set to work. With delicacy, he cracked two eggs into a bowl and whisked them, following up by chopping a chicken breast in half. Everything went smoothly. He coated the chicken in a delightful mix of dijon and cayenne, dipping it in the eggs and breading it. Oh this was going to be perfect. He could just see his rival's face when he would take the first bite, how he would tear up from how delicious and beautiful France's dish tasted.

A half hour passed, and he quickly took the chicken from the oven, packed it and rushed out the door, not even bothering to reply to Arthur's message. He couldn't wait to win.

With a single knock on the door, he walked in, announcing himself with a loud slam of the door. "England! Mon ami!" He called, making his way to the other man's dining room. He had ... come over uninvited so many times, he knew where everything was. Everything.

Setting a beautifully decorated covered tray on the table, he called out again. Oooh he couldn't wait.

Arthur woke with a start. Just when had he dozed off? Rubbing his face (and smearing more flour there to boot) he cleared his throat and sniffed. And sniffed again. Was something burning??

"OH BUGGER!" he bellowed, leaping up and knocking over the chair in his haste to rescue the burning scone-muffin-hybrid-whatever-they-were from their impending doom in the oven. Luckily he was still level-headed enough to remember to slide a pair of potholders over his hands before wrenching the oven door open and yanking out the tray, which was almost too hot for him to touch even with his hands covered.

The poor blond Brit scrambled around, trying to figure out what to do next and yelped loudly when his wrist grazed the edge of the tray by chance and subsequently burning him. A mark appeared there in a long, thin line of raw skin. The shock was also enough startle him into dropping the tray, but because his burn needed tending to first he skidded to a halt and turned on his heel, marching himself to the kitchen sink where he turned on the water faucet and shoved his wrist under the cool water.

His shoulders trembled. All that trouble for this. Francis would laugh at him. And worse! He wouldn't get to call himself King Arthur now that he'd clearly lost the cooking challenge. Arthur decided to focus all of his remaining composure into scowling at the burn mark on his forearm with tears in his eyes. They were tears of pain, he reminded himself. There was just no way he would ever be unhappy about being unable to cook for someone like that frog. Never. Ever!

This entire scene probably played out before the Frenchman, even though Arthur hadn't heard him come into the room for once. And Arthur probably would have lied and said he didn't care (if he knew, that is).

This was too much.

Francis covered his mouth and held his stomach, leaning forward as he started laughing. He didn't even have to try! He could've just put some bread in a toaster, buttered it and added some cinnamon-sugar and he would've won!

Finally, after several minutes of uncontrollable laughter, he noticed England's tears. It made Francis grimace, all amusement diminishing as if it were never there. He had to have hurt himself pretty bad to tear up like that...

"Ah... Mon ami... Arthur..." He muttered, walking over to the caterpillar browed man, "Not that I care or anything... But... are you alright?" He tried to make the question sound cocky, he tried to hide his concern, and was almost successful, but there was still a little hint of worry.

"Tch..." With a sympathetic look, the Frenchman shook his head and walked over to the fridge, waving a hand as he opened it, "It's just a burn, you shouldn't cry over it. What you should cry over is your hideous mound of black over there." He pointed to the... whatever the hell England made, walking back to the sink with an egg in his hand. "Now, show me the burn."

"Sh-shut up!" Arthur snapped. He wouldn't admit it. Never in a million years would Arthur P. Kirkland admit that the stupid burn was the least of his worries. "And when in blazes did you turn up looking so bloody smug!?" He sniffled, and attempted to make it sound like he was clearing his throat. "I'll clean the mess up when this bloomin' burn stops stinging..." he lied. "Besides, you never said if this challenge of yours was a best two out of three sort of thing. In which case I have two more chances to beat you into the dust with a crushing defeat."

Despite saying all of this, Arthur removed his arm from under the tap and held it out for Francis to see. His face was bright pink but he didn't particularly notice or care. He averted his eyes from Francis's face, mostly because he wasn't sure how he'd react to the frog's concerned expression. Arthur figured he'd either punch him in the nose or... something much worse that involved... (he gulped at this thought) ...their lips.

Shaking his head furiously to clear such abominable thoughts from his mind only made the frown on his face look more and more like his eyebrows really were a life woolly-bear caterpillar. Hmph! As if I'd want to kiss that idiot! He's probably slept with hundreds of other men AND women before. It's not like I'm anything special and all... and WHY am I even THINKING this right now!?

Therapy. He would definitely be needing it as soon as possible.

"Ah... I came a while ago..." He mumbled, cracking the egg on the counter, "And oui... This will go on as long as you please. Though... I do plan on winning, mon ami. You can bet your prett--" He cut himself off. Of course he wasn't just about to say 'pretty little face.' Non. Never in a million years would he ever find the Golden Caterpillar attractive in any way! Never!

He just shook his head, letting the yoke slip from the shell and onto Arthur's burn, pressing his hand lightly on it so it wouldn't slip off. Arthur had such thin wrists, that without even moving, the egg would fall off and be utterly useless. And, as he said, not like he cared or anything, he didn't want that to happen.

"It... will help it heal..." He looked up into the Brit's blushing face as he spoke, "And it'll take away the stinging." France knew that his methods would be questioned, and even more so, mocked, but he knew the egg would work. It always worked for him when he burned himself.

As he waited for some snotty remark, he continued to stare into the face of his enemy, taking in every detail of his visage. He would never admit he found the blushing incredibly adorable, or that he was always drawn to those large, sparkling, emerald eyes. No. And he'd also never admit how much he wanted to pet Arthur's lip with his thumb as he would a lover, or even kiss them. Not even to himself.

Arthur wanted to yell at Francis for wasting a perfectly good egg on something like a trivial home-remedy for his burn. He really did. But instead he found that the color in his face had risen to his ears and he bit his lip in both frustration and embarrassment. His gaze darted to the tray on the floor with... the burnt whatevers. He didn't really care anymore.

Arthur managed to return to his senses at seeing the upturned tray and how messy it made his kitchen floor look, and he snatched his wrist away from Francis as if it were a delayed reaction to touching a hot coal. Turning on his heel, he started stammering something about how he should clean up before the tile got stained, and took a dustpan and broom out from the pantry.

He focused all he had into staring disdainfully at the messy floor as he swept the charred remnants of his entry into a pile. There was one of them left on the tray. Somehow it had landed on top without touching the floor. Arthur scowled at it. Even he wouldn't want to eat that, even if it did look a lot less burnt than the others.

"Ah! Mon cherie!" He yelped, trying to grab at England before he realized what he had just said. Did... I just call him....darling?

He stopped at that point, stepping back, arms dropping to his sides. Maybe he lucked out, maybe Arthur didn't hear that, or if he did, didn't understand. But no matter how much he tried to reassure himself, he knew that England heard him, and he knew that the fuzz-brow knew what "mon cherie" meant, the entire world did.

Trying to keep his mind off of that, he looked over to the tray with the... uh... he didn't even want to know. "Mon ami... The egg...Don't let it slip off. It has to dry..."