Summary: Matthew explains to Francis his zucchini. [Also known as the time Matthew comes out to Francis on his asexuality and queerplatonic friendship.] Mentions of platonic RusCan.

A/N: Cat has returned! I wish I had remembered Asexual Awareness Week, or else I would've written this sooner. Anyway, basically I have a head canon for an asexual Matthew. I have to apologize, I have not written a fan fiction with France before, so his characterization may be a bit wee off. Hopefully it is not too prominent. I am open to critiques in that area, but please be kind and not flame.

This fan fiction is based off of personal experience.

Not beta'd. Gradual corrections will be made if I find any mistakes I've overlooked.

Matthew's Zucchini

Written by,

Pawesome Kat/CatTasticLUv

"You're…what?"

Matthew's eyes, focused on the pieces of red fuzz peppering his jeans, only managed to hold Francis' confused look for a second before retreating to his lap again.

"I'm, I guess as they call it, asexual; I'm not like…" comparisons for other people ran dry; he could only think of his Papa "…like you, eh."

Francis, not offended, just grinned at his son's acknowledgement of his bedroom life.

"B-But, Papa, I'm not, you k-know, involved..." Losing confidence in the look that returned to his Papa's face, his words drifted off to faint utterances. He picked at the armrest of the wicker chair, biting his lip. In his head, he recited the script that he had mentally planned out for this encounter. Though as he continued to repeat it, like the nervousness of a quiz you're hurriedly trying to study for at last minute, nothing was staying. It was like his ears were openings, and the script was flowing out. As if that were really the case, he untucked his hair to cover his ears.

Francis shifted in his seat and crossed his legs "…Explain to me, mon petit." His eyes momentarily skirted the café with a careful look, though Matthew made sure he needn't worry of people eavesdropping. For their privacy, he had gotten a table in the back.

"W-Well, y-you know Ivan and me?"

Francis nodded.

"W-Well, we don't have that…t-type of relationship," he offered brokenly, and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. His words felt heavy, like stone blocks in his stomach, and were hard to get out of his mouth. "We're ace-positive?" He didn't say that with confidence; hours of researching mixed words from definition. Labels were confusing, their definitions blending together like marbleized clay – they belonged to the same piece, but we're evidently different from one another.

Francis nodded slowly, but still he held his furrowed eyebrows. Playing the words on his tongue like he was trying to digest it, he muttered to himself, "Not involved...not that type of relationship…ace-positive." He snapped his fingers, like it all suddenly clicked. "Ah, so celibacy."

"I-I guess…?" Matthew said, still unsure.

Francis placed his hand on his chest dramatically. "Though I cannot fathom why someone would not want sex in a relationship, I understand, Mattieu."

Matthew hid his face at that, and he thought over what he had said. It wasn't exactly what he had meant by 'we don't have that type of relationship.' Matthew marginally scooted his glasses up the bridge of his nose; he needed something to do with his fidgeting hands. Francis' conclusion on what he had said so far implied a romantic relationship that didn't involve sex, which was similar to the truth, but not quite. He quickly corrected him. "We're not in a relationship, though."

"Friends with benefits, then?" He supplied, but Matthew shook his head. Impatience entering his tone, he asked, "Then what is it then?"

The word he had forgotten and was trying to get to finally came to him, and in wide-eyed happiness, he whispered, "Ivan's my zucchini."

"You're what?" It was a comic relief, as Francis' cheeks flushed with the laugh that came forth. Matthew couldn't help but join in also; it sounded funny to say when one doesn't know what it meant.

"Uh, we're in a queerplatonic friendship, eh." The words sounded right on his tongue that time; the hesitance that had broken up his sentences before we're almost nonexistent then.

That too needed definition. Francis' laughs had stopped to be replaced by another look of confusion.

Matthew knew his Papa wasn't unfamiliar with the word 'queer', as his pansexual-like life elicited some late-night 'queer' escapades. Though haven grown up in a time where close male-to-male friendships were considered morally wrong, he was sure Francis had never been coined with the term 'queerplatonic friendship.' (Although his relationship with Arthur could be considered as such, Matthew was sure it hadn't remained platonic all this time.) In the late twentieth century, it was permissive to have such a thing. That's not to say people thought it was always okay. Several times, Matthew's public handholding or cuddling with Ivan had been called 'gay', though to them it was just friendly physical affection, like girls sometimes did.

Matthew filled in the gaps. "Queerplatonic friendship means Ivan and I don't have a romantic relationship." Although we consider each other partners, he silently added in his head.

"And Ivan…" Francis waved his hands "…is okay with that?"

Matthew remembered that time he had told his Papa that Ivan was bi (though his zucchini didn't go by any labels; he felt guilty for pinning that label on him, considering that) and understood his concern. He wanted to be sure it was mutual, and not something one-sided. "Yeah, he is, eh."

There was a time when they had been discussing it, in eighth grade when labeling yourself had been a big thing, and Matthew had read the definition of a queerplatonic friendship to Ivan. Then, he had been fascinated with the various types of relationships one could have with a friend or partner. And though it had been in the back of his mind, the description of a platonic relationship was something he knew he had with Ivan. So when he had said, "so like us, da?" It had made him incredibly happy.

And still now, Matthew thought wistfully at the memory.

Francis sighed, grinning. "I taught you well, mon petit." Matthew kept his lips locked; his Papa's relationships mostly consisted of too-soon "I love you"'s and then a foreseen break up in under a week. At thirty-four (as he had Matthew at eighteen), already his record was extensive. Did he mean he was glad I wasn't like him? He frowned at that, but didn't ask. That was a topic he should bring up for another day.

"So, you're o-okay with me?" Many people didn't believe in asexuality, contributing it to anxiety or self-consciousness (though not to deny that Matthew had those issues), or just didn't believe it to be okay. He had heard way too many stories of non-accepting parents and disownments in his time of self-discovery.

Francis looked appalled at the question. "Of course, mon petit, why wouldn't I be?"

Matthew's face flushed. "W-Well, it's just, not a lot of people, you know, agree with it, so I don't know, you could've possibly –"

"Oh Mattieu," Francis interrupted his son's nervous rambling. Ever affectionate, he got up and crossed the small table that separated them, and pulled Matthew into a hug. "I'll always love you, no matter what." His words were a promise, and though in the past his promises had been broken, Matthew was sure this was one he could keep.

Finally allowing a smile to grace his features, he relaxed, and returned his Papa's hug. Coming out can be terrifying – you can never truly predict whether a parent will be okay with who you are – but Matthew knew, rest assured, that his coming out story had a positive outcome.