Author's note: Tumblr prompt (becauseicosplay): sugar. Slight FrUK with others. Going back to my roots here, and by "roots" I mean "I love everything French".


Tastes so sweet

Francis has dreamed for years now of owning a bakery. Not that he ever could, he's too much of a perfectionist, has too much work to do, could never let it run on its own without him.

When he gets seriously injured and his bad knee starts acting up again, his government tells him he should take some time off.

Years off.

They all know their countries don't need them the way they once did; hell, Francis was one of the last ones still doing intense work for his government, because nothing, nothing, will ever compare to his love for France and the French people.

Which all leaves him feeling depressed at suddenly having no purpose, no sense of helping his people. He lives for them and them alone but now? Now he is nothing to them, just another veteran lost in life.

Multiple nations try to coax him out of his apartment but it takes Matthew at the door and Ivan carrying him to get him out and onto the street. They walk around, take the métro, until they're in one of Francis's favorite neighborhoods where the inhabitants are young, most foreigners or students who are trying to live a French life. On the corner there's a little shop he's never seen before.

"Is that new?" he asks pointing to it and Matthew nods, smiling, as they cross the street to it. There are signs covering its name as if it hasn't finished opening, yet Ivan opens the door assuredly and they walk right in to find Alfred hanging frames on the wall, Arthur coming out from the back with his arms filled with flowers.

"Hey," the Brit breathes, placing the delicate flora down on the counter and coming to stand right in front of him. Matthew heads off into the back at that, Ivan walking away to help Alfred. Francis is confused.

"What's going on?"

Arthur shrugs. "You've spent years telling me you want to run your own bakery. And, well, we thought–" and he shrugs again, turning to stand beside the Frenchman and take it all in.

Francis feels tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, swallowing. "Is this mine?" His words are barely audible.

"Yup. We got all of the Europeans to chip in, and some of your former colonies even gave money too. We bought the space, set it all up the way you've been describing it to me. I hope I got it all right at least."

"What's the shop called?" Arthur smiles, taking Francis's hand and leading the man outside. He doesn't miss the way Alfred and Ivan smile back at him as they step out onto the sidewalks to stand beside one of the windows. The Englishman pulls the paper away slowly to reveal the shop's name: « Ma belle Jeanne ».

"Did we do good?" Arthur asks, still holding the French nation's hand. Francis squeezes it before throwing his arms around the Brit's shoulders and finally breaking down, crying into his neck.

"It's perfect," he gasps.


Francis has dreamed for years now of owning this bakery. The walls are a pale yellow, covered in pictures of his boyfriend, their boys, his sister, his girls, friends, neighbors, everyone. Where once there was empty space now new frames hang, pictures regular customers have brought in to hang as well. A man brings him flowers regularly that the French nation takes his time arranging while his little bakers follow his recipes. When the door opens and that bell chimes for the first time, signaling that a man in a suit with a cup of coffee is on his way to work, or a woman with a toddler in the stroller and a baby on the way wants something to eat in the park, or a group of students wants to try some new pastry they can barely pronounce the name of….

He has his stool to sit on when his knee hurts, and a glass of water to take with his medicine. Other than that, it's exactly how Francis always dreamed it would be.

"Monsieur, would you like the first one of the day?" One of the girls hands him something powered in sugar. He sighs as he takes his first bite because it tastes so sweet, just like perfection.