Franada Secret Santa Fic
Derp, my bad.
I COMPLETELY FORGOT, with Christmas and work and school starting again...to post this.
OTL
Whyfore do I suck?
Aaaaanyway
Giver: ms_barcode
Receiver: tokene
Hopefully this is up to scratch, m'dear! Sorry it took me so long to remember I hadn't posted it right after I finished.
_
It wasn’t that Francis disrespected Matthew’s cooking abilities. No, no, he knew the boy was a fine cook, a great chef, really, when he tried to be. But looking around the kitchen right now was making it very difficult for the older nation to remember that fact. Perhaps it had something to do with that fact that an unidentified orange powder had decided to take up residence all over the counter top. Not that it could be blamed, the person holding it had jumped about a foot and sent it flying not two seconds earlier.
“Bonjour, mon cher” he said, looking from the mess on the counter top to the quickly reddening face of his former colony. “How are you today?”
Canada appeared speechless for the moment. Although, really, being snuck up behind while one is bent over a steaming pot of previously-boxed macaroni noodles, could tend to have that effect. He took a second to adjust his glasses, before shooting the other a small smile. “Bonjour. Sorry you had to catch me in the middle of all that. I’m just glad I didn’t get any of the cheese powder on your clothes.” The tinge in his cheeks was fading, just a bit, as he rambled on, but France’s sudden preoccupation with the ‘cheese powder’ halted it in some sort of twisted middle ground where it couldn’t decide whether to come back full force, or fade away completely. “W-what?”
Lifting the now empty white packet delicately in two fingers, France raised an eyebrow at the other. “Cheese powder?” he made a show of sighing, shaking his head. “Mathieu, I thought we discussed your...methods of preparing this macaroni-and-cheese of yours?”
“We did,” Matthew conceded, taking the packet from Francis and heading to the garbage bin, dropping it in. “But, all I had left was Kraft Dinner, and I figured it would be best I not starve myself.”
Oh, there it was. That fabled passive-aggressive Canadian attitude. Just that underlying bite. So subtle you’d miss it if you blinked. Or were blonde. Or were Poland. Or, really, America, for that matter, oh, where oh where did they go wrong with that one?
“Oui, mais, do you not have butter, and perfectly decent chedder cheese you could melt down and make a cheese sauce with?” Francis pointed out, making a show of looking at the cheese powder on the counter with obvious dislike. Matthew was making his way back to his side of the kitchen, eyes downcast in admittance of what the answer to that was.
“Just didn’t want to wait that long.” He offered up as an excuse. “Now, could you move, sil tu plait? I should clean up that mess.” He gestured vaguely at the orange-dusted counter top. “If I had known you were coming over, I wouldn’t have started this.”
Ah, sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself, France admitted inwardly. Matthew was just too much of an easy target, when it came to the teasing pokes and prods that usually ended with the other nation sporting quite the shade of red on his cheeks, and maybe, if he played his cards right, a few added incentives for himself. Reaching forward, he put a hand on Canada’s hip, pulling the other just slightly towards himself.
“Perhaps I should help you, non?” Francis quirked an eyebrow, eyes refusing to leave Matthew’s, which had, possibly against the other’s will, looked up just once and stayed locked with the Frenchman’s. “I mean, we can not let you starve. And my sudden arrival caused any chance of flavour, disgusting as that cheese powder is, to go everywhere but the pasta. So, I should help you finish cooking, vraiment?”
“W-well...”
“It is decided then.” France said, sweeping around the other to open the refridgerator, pulling out the cheese, milk and butter, setting them down on the counter with an unnecessary amount of purpose. “Now, where...are your measuring cups and cheese grater, mon Coeur? Ah, et a saucepan to melt this in.”
He gotten so swept up in setting up to try and salvage some semblance of proper (in his opinion) food for Canada that he hadn’t noticed the other’s quiet laughter and head shaking. He had started retrieveing the measuring cups and cheese grater like France had asked, but still a little smile was playing around his lips in quiet amusement at the other’s enthusiasm. “Right here. Saucepan is in that cupboard in the corner there.” He pointed, setting things down by the stove and getting a bowl to grate the cheese into, before turning to smile at the older man. “So, where do we start?”
Francis smiled back, pulling a small, sharp knife from the cutlery drawer and slicing open the packaging on the block of cheese, cutting off a large chunk of it. He took that and handed it to Matthew. “Grate this, silt u plait, mon ange. I’ll start melting the butter and mixing everything but the cheese.”
Canada nodded, and set to work, while France, with a certain amount of flourish, slide a bowl with a generous amount of butter into the microwave, hitting a few buttons to set it working. “I know this is more work than you were prepared for, Mathieu,” he started, moving to stand in front of the stove, measuring out the milk and pouring it into the saucepan as he continued talking. “But, this is...fun, for both of us, oui?”
Matthew opened his mouth, firstly to defend that it wasn’t really that much work, and any laziness he had he had to have gotten from France, because there was just too much evidence for that - the very fact that the older nation had nothing short of a strike schedule being one such fact. Secondly, to agree that it was fun, in a way. At least they were spending time together. Instead, he conceded with a nod and a soft “Oui.”
By the time the butter had finished melting and being added to the heated milk, Canada had finished grating the block of cheese that had been handed to him. “There.” He handed the bowl to France, gesturing to the saucepan. “Are you...just going to do all this yourself?”
France gave him a short look, that telltale smirk slowly sliding onto his face. “Non, petit.” He stepped back from the stove, putting the bowl he’d just been handed down on the counter next to it. He reached out a hand, loosely taking Canada’s wrist and pulling him close, kissing his forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose, then, softly, his lips.
“This is something that should be done together,” He brushed a hand down the other’s side, turning him in his arms to face the stove. “Don’t you agree?”
Even from behind the other, wrapping his arms around the Canadian’s waist, he could see the blush colouring Matthew’s cheeks as he tried to catch up with what had just happened. Honestly, he should have been expecting that...
“Y-you’re right.” He smiled softly, taking up the bowl of grated cheese in one hand, and the wooden spoon France had been stirring the butter-milk mix with in the other. “We should,” his voice, if possible, lowered just another small measure, and he leaned back into Francis’ arms and chest. “Don’t let me go until we finish, oui?”
France chuckled, watching the blush spread from Matthew’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
HUZZAH.
I COMPLETELY FORGOT, with Christmas and work and school starting again...to post this.
OTL
Whyfore do I suck?
Aaaaanyway
Giver: ms_barcode
Receiver: tokene
Hopefully this is up to scratch, m'dear! Sorry it took me so long to remember I hadn't posted it right after I finished.
_
It wasn’t that Francis disrespected Matthew’s cooking abilities. No, no, he knew the boy was a fine cook, a great chef, really, when he tried to be. But looking around the kitchen right now was making it very difficult for the older nation to remember that fact. Perhaps it had something to do with that fact that an unidentified orange powder had decided to take up residence all over the counter top. Not that it could be blamed, the person holding it had jumped about a foot and sent it flying not two seconds earlier.
“Bonjour, mon cher” he said, looking from the mess on the counter top to the quickly reddening face of his former colony. “How are you today?”
Canada appeared speechless for the moment. Although, really, being snuck up behind while one is bent over a steaming pot of previously-boxed macaroni noodles, could tend to have that effect. He took a second to adjust his glasses, before shooting the other a small smile. “Bonjour. Sorry you had to catch me in the middle of all that. I’m just glad I didn’t get any of the cheese powder on your clothes.” The tinge in his cheeks was fading, just a bit, as he rambled on, but France’s sudden preoccupation with the ‘cheese powder’ halted it in some sort of twisted middle ground where it couldn’t decide whether to come back full force, or fade away completely. “W-what?”
Lifting the now empty white packet delicately in two fingers, France raised an eyebrow at the other. “Cheese powder?” he made a show of sighing, shaking his head. “Mathieu, I thought we discussed your...methods of preparing this macaroni-and-cheese of yours?”
“We did,” Matthew conceded, taking the packet from Francis and heading to the garbage bin, dropping it in. “But, all I had left was Kraft Dinner, and I figured it would be best I not starve myself.”
Oh, there it was. That fabled passive-aggressive Canadian attitude. Just that underlying bite. So subtle you’d miss it if you blinked. Or were blonde. Or were Poland. Or, really, America, for that matter, oh, where oh where did they go wrong with that one?
“Oui, mais, do you not have butter, and perfectly decent chedder cheese you could melt down and make a cheese sauce with?” Francis pointed out, making a show of looking at the cheese powder on the counter with obvious dislike. Matthew was making his way back to his side of the kitchen, eyes downcast in admittance of what the answer to that was.
“Just didn’t want to wait that long.” He offered up as an excuse. “Now, could you move, sil tu plait? I should clean up that mess.” He gestured vaguely at the orange-dusted counter top. “If I had known you were coming over, I wouldn’t have started this.”
Ah, sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself, France admitted inwardly. Matthew was just too much of an easy target, when it came to the teasing pokes and prods that usually ended with the other nation sporting quite the shade of red on his cheeks, and maybe, if he played his cards right, a few added incentives for himself. Reaching forward, he put a hand on Canada’s hip, pulling the other just slightly towards himself.
“Perhaps I should help you, non?” Francis quirked an eyebrow, eyes refusing to leave Matthew’s, which had, possibly against the other’s will, looked up just once and stayed locked with the Frenchman’s. “I mean, we can not let you starve. And my sudden arrival caused any chance of flavour, disgusting as that cheese powder is, to go everywhere but the pasta. So, I should help you finish cooking, vraiment?”
“W-well...”
“It is decided then.” France said, sweeping around the other to open the refridgerator, pulling out the cheese, milk and butter, setting them down on the counter with an unnecessary amount of purpose. “Now, where...are your measuring cups and cheese grater, mon Coeur? Ah, et a saucepan to melt this in.”
He gotten so swept up in setting up to try and salvage some semblance of proper (in his opinion) food for Canada that he hadn’t noticed the other’s quiet laughter and head shaking. He had started retrieveing the measuring cups and cheese grater like France had asked, but still a little smile was playing around his lips in quiet amusement at the other’s enthusiasm. “Right here. Saucepan is in that cupboard in the corner there.” He pointed, setting things down by the stove and getting a bowl to grate the cheese into, before turning to smile at the older man. “So, where do we start?”
Francis smiled back, pulling a small, sharp knife from the cutlery drawer and slicing open the packaging on the block of cheese, cutting off a large chunk of it. He took that and handed it to Matthew. “Grate this, silt u plait, mon ange. I’ll start melting the butter and mixing everything but the cheese.”
Canada nodded, and set to work, while France, with a certain amount of flourish, slide a bowl with a generous amount of butter into the microwave, hitting a few buttons to set it working. “I know this is more work than you were prepared for, Mathieu,” he started, moving to stand in front of the stove, measuring out the milk and pouring it into the saucepan as he continued talking. “But, this is...fun, for both of us, oui?”
Matthew opened his mouth, firstly to defend that it wasn’t really that much work, and any laziness he had he had to have gotten from France, because there was just too much evidence for that - the very fact that the older nation had nothing short of a strike schedule being one such fact. Secondly, to agree that it was fun, in a way. At least they were spending time together. Instead, he conceded with a nod and a soft “Oui.”
By the time the butter had finished melting and being added to the heated milk, Canada had finished grating the block of cheese that had been handed to him. “There.” He handed the bowl to France, gesturing to the saucepan. “Are you...just going to do all this yourself?”
France gave him a short look, that telltale smirk slowly sliding onto his face. “Non, petit.” He stepped back from the stove, putting the bowl he’d just been handed down on the counter next to it. He reached out a hand, loosely taking Canada’s wrist and pulling him close, kissing his forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose, then, softly, his lips.
“This is something that should be done together,” He brushed a hand down the other’s side, turning him in his arms to face the stove. “Don’t you agree?”
Even from behind the other, wrapping his arms around the Canadian’s waist, he could see the blush colouring Matthew’s cheeks as he tried to catch up with what had just happened. Honestly, he should have been expecting that...
“Y-you’re right.” He smiled softly, taking up the bowl of grated cheese in one hand, and the wooden spoon France had been stirring the butter-milk mix with in the other. “We should,” his voice, if possible, lowered just another small measure, and he leaned back into Francis’ arms and chest. “Don’t let me go until we finish, oui?”
France chuckled, watching the blush spread from Matthew’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
HUZZAH.