GOURMET COOKING WITH IGGY

"So you were invited too, aru?"

"Of course I was invited. Arthur's my brother, and who wouldn't want ME involved in something they're doing~?" China's question caught him only slightly off guard, but he didn't let it phase him one bit. Who on Earth could possibly question him, France, being invited to anything?

"Ah. If that is how you see it, aru…" Letting out a soft sigh, China tugged idly at his sleeve. He had been told this was going to be formal attire, and though he held a small basket housing a cake and a small gift, as he was uncertain as to whether this gathering was a celebration of something. He would have been beside himself if he had arrived to find out that it was a birthday celebration or something which he had forgotten and he had come with nothing.

The only other nation present thus far was the overwhelmingly self-centered Francis. His having nothing in hand still meant nothing. The blond rang the doorbell once more, calling out in his most seductive voice, "Mon frére~ come let your big brother in, and I'll let you climb ze Eiffel Tower~"

The door cracked open less than three inches, revealing stern eyes under thick, bushy eyebrows. "If you withdraw that comment, you may enter, mate." British eyes turned some. "Oi! China!" The door closed and a door chain was heard sliding in it's runner before the brilliant wooden door opened fully. "Please come in! You're always welcome, mate!"

"My sincerest gratitude, England, aru." The Chinaman bowed some before moving through the door once England stepped aside. France moved to follow him, and England stepped in his path. "Withdraw the comment, Francis."

Smirking, the Frenchman flipped his flowing, golden hair, then leaned forward, whispering something into Arthur's ear. Flushing madly, the Brit stepped aside and kept his face turned away. Francis stepped through the door and took one massive grope to Iggy's backside, just as an Italian car came barreling along the drive to England's house. "Oh bloody hell…" Shutting the door tightly, England braced himself against the wood in the inside of it, wincing at the screeching of tires and a crashing that sounded far too close for comfort to the door he was pressed against. He slid the door open again cautiously, coming face to face with a pair of twins and a blue car parked neatly inside the steps onto his front porch.

His look of horror and shock was interrupted by the hug he was attacked with almost immediately along with the question, "Are we having pasta, Iggy~?"

"Hu-what? Bloody hell, no we are not!" The man with the fuzzy brows pushed the Italian back away from him. "This entire thing is to show you lot that my food is perfectly edible, and here you come crashing into my walk and blithering about bloody pasta."

"Is that what this is about, aru?" China held his little basket behind him, feeling that it may now be in bad taste to have brought along food.

"Yes it right well is. I've heard enough of you lot blathering about my cooking. I've set up a four-course meal of all of my best dishes, and you are all going to eat them and like it."

"Sacré bleu, that is called chemical warfare, non?"

"You ruddy git!" A British fist sang down across the back of France's blond head, leading the two into yet another fistfight amongst brothers, a cloud of flying hands slapping and mouths biting, hair-pulling and-

"Paaaastaaaaaaa~" Feliciano had tears in his eyes, even after Romano bopped him on the head. "Shut up about pasta." "But I'm hungry, Romano…" Feliciano sniffled and rubbed his head while Romano crossed his arms. "This is stupid."

The disturbance stopped the Europeans dead in their feud, England leaned away from France, one hand pressed against his chest, the other drawn back in preparation to deck him in the face, who had him held with both arms around the waist, the collar of Iggy's shirt clutched in his teeth, both sets of eyes looking at the others. Shoving the other away from him, Iggy straightened his clothes, "This way, the lot of you." He headed off toward his dining room. "Everyone's here, so let's get this started."

China took a deep breath and sighed it out. "Sounds good, aru." He moved after England, skirting away from France who tried copping a feel as they walked, while the Italy brothers moved along after them all. "I hope he has-" "No pasta! As long as whatever it is has tomato, it won't be all bad."

A stubbly blond head appeared between the twins. "Mon Dieu, I don't think either of you have ever eaten Arthur's cooking."

"It can't be as bad as everyone says, right?"

"I don't really care. Idiot or not, he can't screw up tomato."

"He can take your favorite dish, and make you terrified to ever try it again~"

"N-not pasta!"

"He's lying. Don't listen to that fag."

"Believe what you will, mes amis~ I'm just happy I ate before leaving my house." The Frenchman moved along ahead of them.

"Romano! I don't want to be afraid of pasta! It's pasta!! I love pasta!!" Feliciano clung to his brother's arm, sobbing. Growling, Romano just dragged him along, still clinging to his arm.

"Alright, you lot, sit down and get ready for the best meal you've ever had a sit down to!" Arthur pulled the silver lids from the platters he had set around the table. He had several dishes that were not easily recognizable as anything. "Dash it all, I forgot the tea. Back in a tick lot, don't be afraid to start without me!"

The room was dead silent as the four nations seated around the table stared in horror and disgust at the platters on the table.

"….Did that just wink at me, aru?" Wang Yao swallowed hard. He didn't want to be rude, but just the sight of this stuff was making him a bit queasy, not to mention the notable lack of chopsticks. It was fine, he was certain he could work these utensils, but maybe it could be an excuse to not have to eat this… stuff.

"…Is he going to bring the food when he brings the tea?" Feliciano smiled brightly. This couldn't possibly be what he was serving.

"Shut up, Feliciano." Romano had gotten used to Spain's cooking, which was surprisingly good. "How is this cooking, I don't see any tomatoes."

Clearing his throat, Francis picked up one of the serving spoons, putting some of one of the dishes that looked as if it had eyes in it on his plate. "Someone has to be a man around here, non?"

"I-I'm a man!" Feliciano looked panicked as he dove for one of the platters to take a serving. Shortly, everyone had a helping of each dish staring up at them, and they each stared back, much less enthusiastic about their manliness.

Arthur returned unto this scene with a tray housing a teapot and cups. "You all didn't have to wait for me." He settled a cup of tea in front of each of them as he spoke. "If you wait too long, it'll get cold, and then it's just a ruddy mess to tidy up afterward. So no need to be shy, everyone dig in!" He sat himself down at the head of the table, looking around at them. "Eat!"

"Arthur, I'm afraid I've filled myself with escargots before leaving my house. I did not know this was what this was about."

"Eat it, Francis."

Well, so much for that tactic. Francis picked up his fork, as did everyone else. Each with their own inner turmoil over the horror on the ends of their forks, scooping up a bit of something and mustering up the courage to be polite enough to eat the nameless black slop.

Tears started rolling down Feliciano's cheeks. "I can't do it! Don't make me eat it please! Please, I didn't do anything wrong! I-I have relatives who live in Quebec!"

"That's Canada, you dolt."

"I meant Wales!"

"…Eat. You sodding. Git."

Feliciano's lip quivered as he got back into position. All four nations closed their eyes and simultaneously ingested the swill. It took barely seconds before all four of them lost consciousness and collapsed with their faces in their plates.

England smirked nice and wide, standing and leaning his palms on the table. "Chemical warfare? That batch was stronger than I'd expected." He started cleaning up the abandoned meal, humming his anthem as he did.