I don't own Hetalia

There were two things in Francis's life that he loved more than anything: cooking and his precious son Matthew. Cooking had always been his passion, recreating recipe after recipe from his grandmother's French cookbook, but ever since he had adopted Matthew almost a year ago, he had to put his culinary work aside to attend to his son.

Matthew wasn't a bad child; in fact, Francis couldn't think of a better little boy. He was well behaved, had good manners, and rarely ever threw tantrums. Regardless, children were work, even if they weren't trying to be, and parents often had to put their hobbies to the side until their children didn't have to be looked after every minute of the day.

Francis was no exception. His cookbooks had been put away on a high shelf collecting dust for months now. Children didn't have the palette for French cuisine. No, chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese were much more child friendly and Matthew approved. And pancakes. Francis liked to joke that it was simply the Canadian blood that gave Matthew his utter obsession with the fluffy cakes, but it was always nice to see his face light up when Francis placed a large stack of them in front of him at breakfast.

He baked from time to time, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, gingerbread for the holidays, but never to the extent he had when he had been living by himself. He did tend to miss the fresh baked croissants and Soupe à L'oignon. He had made cheese soufflés and even ratatouille from time to time. But all of that took time. And time just wasn't something Francis had with Matthew.

None of it was Matthew's fault, and it wasn't like Francis blamed Matthew for his lost chance at cooking. He adored his little Matthew. Watching him grow up and discover new things gave Francis the greatest feeling of pride he had ever experienced. He had learned that nothing felt more accomplishing than seeing his child flourish. Matthew was a very quiet child, but he loved to create. He drew pictures all the time and put on little skits with his favorite stuffed polar bear. He was Francis's little pride and joy, and he wouldn't trade him for the world.

Matthew didn't ever act up; what Francis told him to do, he did. So when he found his little blond stuck on top of the kitchen counter, shouting for help, he was very confused as to why he was there in the middle of the night. "Mathieu?" he asked. "What in the world are you doing up this late, mon petit? I put you to bed hours ago."

"I can't get down, Papa. I'm stuck."

Shaking his head with a soft smile, Francis picked Matthew up, resting him on his hip. "What were you doing up there, hm? It is dangerous up there. I would not want you to get hurt." He brushed Matthew's bangs out of his violet eyes, carrying him back up the stairs to his bedroom.

"I wanted to get that book!" Matthew exclaimed, pointing to the top shelf of the cupboard, the shelf Francis hadn't touched in so long. "I saw a word you taught me on one of the books! It said nourriture. That means food, right? Am I right, Papa?"

"Oui," Francis said quietly. "You are correct. That is a cookbook, one all the way from Paris." He put Matthew back into his bed, tucking the covers around him snuggly.

Sitting up against his pillow, Matthew said, "I've never seen it before."

"That is because I have not used in quite some time."

"Why not?" Matthew asked, cocking his head to the side. He was so cute with his eyes wide with curiosity and his chubby cheeks puffed out just the smallest bit.

"Well," Francis said, sitting on the edge of Matthew's bed. "I just do not have the time anymore. I've had to start working more to earn more money, and I've had to look after you. I cannot fit cooking into my days anymore, I'm afraid."

Pouting his bottom lip, Matthew whispered, "I'm sorry." It was so like Matthew to feel for everyone else; he was such a kind spirit at such a young age. He never wanted to see anyone upset, and he must have figured that he had made Francis stop cooking.

"Oh, mon petit." Francis wrapped his arm around Matthew, pulling him close to his side. "It is not your fault, not at all. I love you so very much. Cooking is wonderful, but not as wonderful as you."

"Did you used to cook a lot?"

"All the time."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

Matthew clambered into Francis's lap, grinning up at his father. "What did you make? Was it yummy?"

Francis chatted away about all the kinds of things he'd used to make, pastries, breads, soups, all sorts of things until Matthew was lulled to sleep. Memories were nice to recollect, but in the morning, they would just be that, remembrances of the past.

Except when he walked into the kitchen the next morning, he found Matthew back on top of the kitchen corner, a stack of cookbooks next to him, as he flipped through one. "Papa!" he said excitedly, holding up the page he had opened to. "Can we make this?"

That had where it had begun really. Since then, Matthew would come up to him every other day asking to make a different dish out of the cookbook. When they had made everything out of one of the books, they moved onto another. And then another. Matthew was much more open to different foods than Francis had originally believed, and he tried everything with a completely open mind. It was kind of sweet, having a little taste tester who ran about the kitchen, retrieving ingredients for him.

He learned early on that Matthew's favorite thing for him to cook – or bake rather – were pastries. His son had quite the sweet tooth, not that Francis minded. He had never gotten around to try many of his grandmother's dessert recipes, and this was the perfect time. Plus, he got to spend hours upon hours with Matthew. It was pretty endearing how he would measure out ingredients, squint his eyes, stick his tongue in between his teeth, and make sure every last inch of it got into the mixing bowl. After they stuck their dish into the oven, they'd busy themselves with whatever game Matthew reached for, and when the timer clicked to zero, they'd race back into the kitchen to look at their masterpiece. Matthew had taken one of his notebooks that Francis had gotten him to draw in and transformed it into his own "cooking book," as he liked to call it. He wrote down how everything tasted and what he decided would have made each recipe better. It had become a part of their daily routine, and Francis had to say, it made him quite happy.

They were making one of the last recipes in the pastry book one day. Beignets had always been a classic in the Bonnefoy house when Francis was a child, and he was hoping Matthew would like them as well.

Laying a plate with one of the square pastries in front of him, Francis tied a bib around Matthew's neck. "Go ahead, mon petit, tell me what you think."

Matthew adjusted his white, floppy chef's hat that he had just begged Francis to get him after seeing one of the chef's in a book wearing one. He had even gotten an apron with his name embroidered on the pocket for him; anything that made Matthew happy was fair game in Francis's book. Perhaps he was a bit of a pushover.

"More powdered sugar, Papa!" he said after taking a bite, even though his entire mouth was coated in the white powder. Wiping his face with a cloth, he gave the pastry another light dusting before allowing Matthew to dig back in.

They kept this up for years, cooking and baking whenever they could. But children got older, and they grew out of young habits. Matthew had grown into a mature, respectable teenager, a young adult to some extent, and spending Saturday nights with his father was not really what a teenager did. Francis knew the day would come at some point, but when it did, it crept up on him and tugged at his heart so hard he thought it might burst. Letting go was hard, but it was all part of raising a child. So he did.

Matthew left for college before Francis could blink, and the house was empty. It was a bit depressing; he was always expecting to hear the pitter patter of socked feet running across the floor to greet him when he got home from work, but it never came. Dare say, he was becoming lonely. Sure, he did spend time with old friends, but it wasn't the same as Matthew. He almost decided to adopt another child, but he figured going through the process of his baby leaving the nest again was just going to be unbearable.

He went outside more, strolling around in local parks for hours on end, just thinking of the past and what the future held for him. One autumn day, while aimlessly walking, he ran face first into a blond man who immediately started yelling at him with a thick British accent. He was loud and rather irritating, but Francis was drawn to him right away. He apologized, held out his hand, and kissed the stranger's knuckles when given the chance. His name was Arthur, and he was absolutely beautiful. They exchanged phone numbers and kept in touch until Francis finally worked up the courage to ask him out on a date. After the first date, they planned a second. And then a third. And then a fourth. And then a fifth, a sixth, a seventh. They became absolutely infatuated with each other in the best kind of way. Francis introduced him to Matthew, and Arthur introduced Francis to his son Alfred. They all got on quite well, and they seemed to become a little family.

Francis hadn't intended on adopting alone, but after seeing Arthur for quite some time and discussing the matter with him, they both decided that perhaps a child would do them some good. They adopted a little Seychellois girl named Michelle, and she just brought all of them closer. Alfred and Matthew were excited to have a younger sibling, especially Matthew, who Alfred had deemed Matthew his little brother, even though Matthew was older by a few days. Of course Francis missed his little Matthew, but it overjoyed him to know that he was only a couple blocks away from him in his own apartment he had rented with his new boyfriend Gilbert.

One morning, as Francis was serving Michelle breakfast, the phone rang. Matthew was on the other end, begging his father to come to his apartment as soon as possible. He didn't want anyone else to come with him. Not Arthur, not Michelle, just him.

So, leaving Michelle in Arthur's care, he hopped in his car and drove to Matthew's apartment complex. His son was waiting for him outside and jumped in the car as soon as he saw Francis pull up into the drive. "Well, hello to you too," Francis said. "What was so urgent that I needed to come over here so quickly?"

"I have something to show you," Matthew said. "C'mon, I'll tell you which way to go."

They drove out of their neighborhood into a small town. The streets were lined with shops, family owned stores that were rarely appreciated in the modern day. "Pull into a parking spot over there," Matthew instructed, pointing towards a building situated in between a florist and a barbershop. The building was made of brick with large windows outlining the entire front. The awning was a light pink, the color of the sky just before it turned black at night. The door's paint was chipping, and inside, though mostly barren, there were glass display cases stacked on top of a long countertop. Boxes were scattered amongst the floor, and there appeared to be no lighting within the entire store. "What are we doing here?" Francis asked, raising an eyebrow. "It looks dreadful to me."

"It isn't completely put together yet but," Matthew smiled, spreading his arms out wide, "welcome to La Petit Pâtisserie. I bought it about a week ago. It isn't much, and it'll take a lot of work but…it's mine. It's ours if you wanted it to be."

Francis's jaw hung open in disbelief as he glanced back into the store. A pastry shop? For the both of them? "I always loved the pastries we'd make," Matthew said, rubbing the back of his neck. "And we had so many family recipes, I figured that we shouldn't just keep them to ourselves. They're way too good for that. But I didn't want to do it by myself. You're kinda the baking expert in the family; I always just sat back and added sugar when you told me to. I suppose it was a sort of rash decision. I wanted it to be a surprise, but looking back on it, I probably should've talked to you about it first."

"Non," Francis said. "It's beautiful. It's perfect." Pulling Matthew close to his chest, he rested his cheek against the top of his head. "I think that this will be wonderful. I am so glad you asked me to do this with you."

"I wouldn't do this with anyone else," Matthew murmured into Francis's shirt. "Gil asked me to let him work in the kitchen, but there was no way that was going to happen. The man burns cereal if he tries hard enough." He laughed, tightening his arms around his father's waist. "Thank you, Papa."

"Thank you, mon petit," Francis said, brushing Matthew's hair behind his ear. "Though, I suppose you aren't so petit anymore, hm?"

"There is that cheesy saying that 'I'll always be your baby,' y'know?"

"Oui. And as cheesy as it is, I believe that it may be true." Giggling, Matthew pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. It was a bit rundown and needed a harsh cleaning, but it was amazing nonetheless.

They began discussing the layout of the store, what would go where, and Francis couldn't help but feel his heart swell in his chest. Matthew may have been up to his shoulders and would one day grow to be taller than him, and he may have been in his early twenties. But he was still his little chef. The memories of him and Matthew cooking away in the kitchen weren't disappearing; they were only being built into bigger and better ones. And Francis couldn't wait to see what the future held.

A/N: With much battling with the fanficiton website, I have finally uploaded this! The site has been giving me lots of trouble with uploading, but here it is! I hope you enjoyed it!